Chapter 85 The Journey.

Monte Cristo uttered a joyful 
exclamation on seeing the young men 
together. "Ah, ha!" said he, "I hope 
all is over, explained and settled."

"Yes," said Beauchamp; "the absurd 
reports have died away, and should they 
be renewed, I would be the first to 
oppose them; so let us speak no more of 
it."

"Albert will tell you," replied the 
count "that I gave him the same advice. 
Look," added he. "I am finishing the 
most execrable morning's work."

"What is it?" said Albert; "arranging 
your papers, apparently."

"My papers, thank God, no, -- my papers 
are all in capital order, because I 
have none; but M. Cavalcanti's."

"M. Cavalcanti's?" asked Beauchamp.

"Yes; do you not know that this is a 
young man whom the count is 
introducing?" said Morcerf.

"Let us not misunderstand each other," 
replied Monte Cristo; "I introduce my 
one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti."

"And who," said Albert with a forced 
smile, "is to marry Mademoiselle 
Danglars instead of me, which grieves 
me cruelly."

"What? Cavalcanti is going to marry 
Mademoiselle Danglars?" asked Beauchamp.

"Certainly; do you come from the end of 
the world?" said Monte Cristo; "you, a 
journalist, the husband of renown? It 
is the talk of all Paris."

"And you, count, have made this match?" 
asked Beauchamp.

"I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not 
spread that report. I make a match? No, 
you do not know me; I have done all in 
my power to oppose it."

"Ah, I understand," said Beauchamp, "on 
our friend Albert's account."

"On my account?" said the young man; 
"oh, no, indeed, the count will do me 
the justice to assert that I have, on 
the contrary, always entreated him to 
break off my engagement, and happily it 
is ended. The count pretends I have not 
him to thank; -- so be it -- I will 
erect an altar Deo ignoto."

"Listen," said Monte Cristo; "I have 
had little to do with it, for I am at 
variance both with the father-in-law 
and the young man; there is only 
Mademoiselle Eugenie, who appears but 
little charmed with the thoughts of 
matrimony, and who, seeing how little I 
was disposed to persuade her to 
renounce her dear liberty, retains any 
affection for me."

"And do you say this wedding is at 
hand?"

"Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. 
I do not know the young man; he is said 
to be of good family and rich, but I 
never trust to vague assertions. I have 
warned M. Danglars of it till I am 
tired, but he is fascinated with his 
Luccanese. I have even informed him of 
a circumstance I consider very serious; 
the young man was either charmed by his 
nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by 
his tutor, I scarcely know which. But I 
do know his father lost sight of him 
for more than ten years; what he did 
during these ten years, God only knows. 
Well, all that was useless. They have 
commissioned me to write to the major 
to demand papers, and here they are. I 
send them, but like Pilate -- washing 
my hands."

"And what does Mademoiselle d'Armilly 
say to you for robbing her of her 
pupil?"

"Oh, well, I don't know; but I 
understand that she is going to Italy. 
Madame Danglars asked me for letters of 
recommendation for the impresari; I 
gave her a few lines for the director 
of the Valle Theatre, who is under some 
obligation to me. But what is the 
matter, Albert? you look dull; are you, 
after all, unconsciously in love with 
Mademoiselle Eugenie?"

"I am not aware of it," said Albert, 
smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp turned 
to look at some paintings. "But," 
continued Monte Cristo, "you are not in 
your usual spirits?"

"I have a dreadful headache," said 
Albert.

"Well, my dear viscount," said Monte 
Cristo, "I have an infallible remedy to 
propose to you."

"What is that?" asked the young man.

"A change."

"Indeed?" said Albert.

"Yes; and as I am just now excessively 
annoyed, I shall go from home. Shall we 
go together?"

"You annoyed, count?" said Beauchamp; 
"and by what?"

"Ah, you think very lightly of it; I 
should like to see you with a brief 
preparing in your house."

"What brief?"

"The one M. de Villefort is preparing 
against my amiable assassin -- some 
brigand escaped from the gallows 
apparently."

"True," said Beauchamp; "I saw it in 
the paper. Who is this Caderousse?"

"Some provincial, it appears. M. de 
Villefort heard of him at Marseilles, 
and M. Danglars recollects having seen 
him. Consequently, the procureur is 
very active in the affair, and the 
prefect of police very much interested; 
and, thanks to that interest, for which 
I am very grateful, they send me all 
the robbers of Paris and the 
neighborhood, under pretence of their 
being Caderousse's murderers, so that 
in three months, if this continue, 
every robber and assassin in France 
will have the plan of my house at his 
fingers' end. I am resolved to desert 
them and go to some remote corner of 
the earth, and shall be happy if you 
will accompany me, viscount."

"Willingly."

"Then it is settled?"

"Yes, but where?"

"I have told you, where the air is 
pure, where every sound soothes, where 
one is sure to be humbled, however 
proud may be his nature. I love that 
humiliation, I, who am master of the 
universe, as was Augustus."

"But where are you really going?"

"To sea, viscount; you know I am a 
sailor. I was rocked when an infant in 
the arms of old ocean, and on the bosom 
of the beautiful Amphitrite; I have 
sported with the green mantle of the 
one and the azure robe of the other; I 
love the sea as a mistress, and pine if 
I do not often see her."

"Let us go, count."

"To sea?"

"Yes."

"You accept my proposal?"

"I do."

"Well, Viscount, there will be in my 
court-yard this evening a good 
travelling britzka, with four 
post-horses, in which one may rest as 
in a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four 
very well, will you accompany us?"

"Thank you, I have just returned from 
sea."

"What? you have been to sea?"

"Yes; I have just made a little 
excursion to the Borromean Islands."*

* Lake Maggiore.

"What of that? come with us," said 
Albert.

"No, dear Morcerf; you know I only 
refuse when the thing is impossible. 
Besides, it is important," added he in 
a low tone, "that I should remain in 
Paris just now to watch the paper."

"Ah, you are a good and an excellent 
friend," said Albert; "yes, you are 
right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try 
to discover the enemy who made this 
disclosure." Albert and Beauchamp 
parted, the last pressure of their 
hands expressing what their tongues 
could not before a stranger.

"Beauchamp is a worthy fellow," said 
Monte Cristo, when the journalist was 
gone; "is he not, Albert?"

"Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him 
devotedly. But now we are alone, -- 
although it is immaterial to me, -- 
where are we going?"

"Into Normandy, if you like."

"Delightful; shall we be quite retired? 
have no society, no neighbors?"

"Our companions will be riding-horses, 
dogs to hunt with, and a fishing-boat."

"Exactly what I wish for; I will 
apprise my mother of my intention, and 
return to you."

"But shall you be allowed to go into 
Normandy?"

"I may go where I please."

"Yes, I am aware you may go alone, 
since I once met you in Italy -- but to 
accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?"

"You forget, count, that I have often 
told you of the deep interest my mother 
takes in you."

"`Woman is fickle.' said Francis I.; 
`woman is like a wave of the sea,' said 
Shakespeare; both the great king and 
the great poet ought to have known 
woman's nature well."

"Woman's, yes; my mother is not woman, 
but a woman."

"As I am only a humble foreigner, you 
must pardon me if I do not understand 
all the subtle refinements of your 
language."

"What I mean to say is, that my mother 
is not quick to give her confidence, 
but when she does she never changes."

"Ah, yes, indeed," said Monte Cristo 
with a sigh; "and do you think she is 
in the least interested in me?"

"I repeat it, you must really be a very 
strange and superior man, for my mother 
is so absorbed by the interest you have 
excited, that when I am with her she 
speaks of no one else."

"And does she try to make you dislike 
me?"

"On the contrary, she often says, 
`Morcerf, I believe the count has a 
noble nature; try to gain his esteem.'"

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, sighing.

"You see, then," said Albert, "that 
instead of opposing, she will encourage 
me."

"Adieu, then, until five o'clock; be 
punctual, and we shall arrive at twelve 
or one."

"At Treport?"

"Yes; or in the neighborhood."

"But can we travel forty-eight leagues 
in eight hours?"

"Easily," said Monte Cristo.

"You are certainly a prodigy; you will 
soon not only surpass the railway, 
which would not be very difficult in 
France, but even the telegraph."

"But, viscount, since we cannot perform 
the journey in less than seven or eight 
hours, do not keep me waiting."

"Do not fear, I have little to 
prepare." Monte Cristo smiled as he 
nodded to Albert, then remained a 
moment absorbed in deep meditation. But 
passing his hand across his forehead as 
if to dispel his revery, he rang the 
bell twice and Bertuccio entered. 
"Bertuccio," said he, "I intend going 
this evening to Normandy, instead of 
to-morrow or the next day. You will 
have sufficient time before five 
o'clock; despatch a messenger to 
apprise the grooms at the first 
station. M. de Morcerf will accompany 
me." Bertuccio obeyed and despatched a 
courier to Pontoise to say the 
travelling-carriage would arrive at six 
o'clock. From Pontoise another express 
was sent to the next stage, and in six 
hours all the horses stationed on the 
road were ready. Before his departure, 
the count went to Haidee's apartments, 
told her his intention, and resigned 
everything to her care. Albert was 
punctual. The journey soon became 
interesting from its rapidity, of which 
Morcerf had formed no previous idea. 
"Truly," said Monte Cristo, "with your 
posthorses going at the rate of two 
leagues an hour, and that absurd law 
that one traveller shall not pass 
another without permission, so that an 
invalid or ill-tempered traveller may 
detain those who are well and active, 
it is impossible to move; I escape this 
annoyance by travelling with my own 
postilion and horses; do I not, Ali?"

The count put his head out of the 
window and whistled, and the horses 
appeared to fly. The carriage rolled 
with a thundering noise over the 
pavement, and every one turned to 
notice the dazzling meteor. Ali, 
smiling, repeated the sound, grasped 
the reins with a firm hand, and spurred 
his horses, whose beautiful manes 
floated in the breeze. This child of 
the desert was in his element, and with 
his black face and sparkling eyes 
appeared, in the cloud of dust he 
raised, like the genius of the simoom 
and the god of the hurricane. "I never 
knew till now the delight of speed," 
said Morcerf, and the last cloud 
disappeared from his brow; "but where 
the devil do you get such horses? Are 
they made to order?"

"Precisely," said the count; "six years 
since I bought a horse in Hungary 
remarkable for its swiftness. The 
thirty-two that we shall use to-night 
are its progeny; they are all entirely 
black, with the exception of a star 
upon the forehead."

"That is perfectly admirable; but what 
do you do, count, with all these 
horses?"

"You see, I travel with them."

"But you are not always travelling."

"When I no longer require them, 
Bertuccio will sell them, and he 
expects to realize thirty or forty 
thousand francs by the sale."

"But no monarch in Europe will be 
wealthy enough to purchase them."

"Then he will sell them to some Eastern 
vizier, who will empty his coffers to 
purchase them, and refill them by 
applying the bastinado to his subjects."

"Count, may I suggest one idea to you?"

"Certainly."

"It is that, next to you, Bertuccio 
must be the richest gentleman in 
Europe."

"You are mistaken, viscount; I believe 
he has not a franc in his possession."

"Then he must be a wonder. My dear 
count, if you tell me many more 
marvellous things, I warn you I shall 
not believe them."

"I countenance nothing that is 
marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why 
does a steward rob his master?"

"Because, I suppose, it is his nature 
to do so, for the love of robbing."

"You are mistaken; it is because he has 
a wife and family, and ambitious 
desires for himself and them. Also 
because he is not sure of always 
retaining his situation, and wishes to 
provide for the future. Now, M. 
Bertuccio is alone in the world; he 
uses my property without accounting for 
the use he makes of it; he is sure 
never to leave my service."

"Why?"

"Because I should never get a better."

"Probabilities are deceptive."

"But I deal in certainties; he is the 
best servant over whom one has the 
power of life and death."

"Do you possess that right over 
Bertuccio?"

"Yes."

There are words which close a 
conversation with an iron door; such 
was the count's "yes." The whole 
journey was performed with equal 
rapidity; the thirty-two horses, 
dispersed over seven stages, brought 
them to their destination in eight 
hours. At midnight they arrived at the 
gate of a beautiful park. The porter 
was in attendance; he had been apprised 
by the groom of the last stage of the 
count's approach. At half past two in 
the morning Morcerf was conducted to 
his apartments, where a bath and supper 
were prepared. The servant who had 
travelled at the back of the carriage 
waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in 
front, attended the count. Albert 
bathed, took his supper, and went to 
bed. All night he was lulled by the 
melancholy noise of the surf. On 
rising, he went to his window, which 
opened on a terrace, having the sea in 
front, and at the back a pretty park 
bounded by a small forest. In a creek 
lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel 
and high masts, bearing on its flag the 
Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain 
on a sea azure, with a cross gules on 
the shield. Around the schooner lay a 
number of small fishing-boats belonging 
to the fishermen of the neighboring 
village, like humble subjects awaiting 
orders from their queen. There, as in 
every spot where Monte Cristo stopped, 
if but for two days, luxury abounded 
and life went on with the utmost ease.

Albert found in his anteroom two guns, 
with all the accoutrements for hunting; 
a lofty room on the ground-floor 
containing all the ingenious 
instruments the English -- eminent in 
piscatory pursuits, since they are 
patient and sluggish -- have invented 
for fishing. The day passed in pursuing 
those exercises in which Monte Cristo 
excelled. They killed a dozen pheasants 
in the park, as many trout in the 
stream, dined in a summer-house 
overlooking the ocean, and took tea in 
the library.

Towards the evening of the third day. 
Albert, completely exhausted with the 
exercise which invigorated Monte 
Cristo, was sleeping in an arm-chair 
near the window, while the count was 
designing with his architect the plan 
of a conservatory in his house, when 
the sound of a horse at full speed on 
the high road made Albert look up. He 
was disagreeably surprised to see his 
own valet de chambre, whom he had not 
brought, that he might not 
inconvenience Monte Cristo.

"Florentin here!" cried he, starting 
up; "is my mother ill?" And he hastened 
to the door. Monte Cristo watched and 
saw him approach the valet, who drew a 
small sealed parcel from his pocket, 
containing a newspaper and a letter. 
"From whom is this?" said he eagerly. 
"From M. Beauchamp," replied Florentin.

"Did he send you?"

"Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, 
gave me money for my journey, procured 
a horse, and made me promise not to 
stop till I had reached you, I have 
come in fifteen hours."

Albert opened the letter with fear, 
uttered a shriek on reading the first 
line, and seized the paper. His sight 
was dimmed, his legs sank under him, 
and he would have fallen had not 
Florentin supported him.

"Poor young man," said Monte Cristo in 
a low voice; "it is then true that the 
sin of the father shall fall on the 
children to the third and fourth 
generation." Meanwhile Albert had 
revived, and, continuing to read, he 
threw back his head, saying, 
"Florentin, is your horse fit to return 
immediately?"

"It is a poor lame post-horse."

"In what state was the house when you 
left?"

"All was quiet, but on returning from 
M. Beauchamp's, I found madame in 
tears: she had sent for me to know when 
you would return. I told her my orders 
from M. Beauchamp; she first extended 
her arms to prevent me, but after a 
moment's reflection, `Yes, go, 
Florentin,' said she, `and may he come 
quickly.'"

"Yes, my mother," said Albert, "I will 
return, and woe to the infamous wretch! 
But first of all I must get there."

He went back to the room where he had 
left Monte Cristo. Five minutes had 
sufficed to make a complete 
transformation in his appearance. His 
voice had become rough and hoarse; his 
face was furrowed with wrinkles; his 
eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, 
and he tottered like a drunken man. 
"Count," said he, "I thank you for your 
hospitality, which I would gladly have 
enjoyed longer; but I must return to 
Paris."

"What has happened?"

"A great misfortune, more important to 
me than life. Don't question me, I beg 
of you, but lend me a horse."

"My stables are at your command, 
viscount; but you will kill yourself by 
riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise 
or a carriage."

"No, it would delay me, and I need the 
fatigue you warn me of; it will do me 
good." Albert reeled as if he had been 
shot, and fell on a chair near the 
door. Monte Cristo did not see this 
second manifestation of physical 
exhaustion; he was at the window, 
calling, "Ali, a horse for M. de 
Morcerf -- quick! he is in a hurry!" 
These words restored Albert; he darted 
from the room, followed by the count. 
"Thank you!" cried he, throwing himself 
on his horse. "Return as soon as you 
can, Florentin. Must I use any password 
to procure a horse?"

"Only dismount; another will be 
immediately saddled." Albert hesitated 
a moment. "You may think my departure 
strange and foolish," said the young 
man; "you do not know how a paragraph 
in a newspaper may exasperate one. Read 
that," said he, "when I am gone, that 
you may not be witness of my anger."

While the count picked up the paper he 
put spurs to his horse, which leaped in 
astonishment at such an unusual 
stimulus, and shot away with the 
rapidity of an arrow. The count watched 
him with a feeling of compassion, and 
when he had completely disappeared, 
read as follows: --

"The French officer in the service of 
Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to three 
weeks since in the Impartial, who not 
only surrendered the castle of Yanina, 
but sold his benefactor to the Turks, 
styled himself truly at that time 
Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary 
states; but he has since added to his 
Christian name a title of nobility and 
a family name. He now calls himself the 
Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the 
peers."

Thus the terrible secret, which 
Beauchamp had so generously destroyed, 
appeared again like an armed phantom; 
and another paper, deriving its 
information from some malicious source, 
had published two days after Albert's 
departure for Normandy the few lines 
which had rendered the unfortunate 
young man almost crazy. 

 Chapter 86 The Trial.

At eight o'clock in the morning Albert 
had arrived at Beauchamp's door. The 
valet de chambre had received orders to 
usher him in at once. Beauchamp was in 
his bath. "Here I am," said Albert.

"Well, my poor friend," replied 
Beauchamp, "I expected you."

"I need not say I think you are too 
faithful and too kind to have spoken of 
that painful circumstance. Your having 
sent for me is another proof of your 
affection. So, without losing time, 
tell me, have you the slightest idea 
whence this terrible blow proceeds?"

"I think I have some clew."

"But first tell me all the particulars 
of this shameful plot." Beauchamp 
proceeded to relate to the young man, 
who was overwhelmed with shame and 
grief, the following facts. Two days 
previously, the article had appeared in 
another paper besides the Impartial, 
and, what was more serious, one that 
was well known as a government paper. 
Beauchamp was breakfasting when he read 
the paragraph. He sent immediately for 
a cabriolet, and hastened to the 
publisher's office. Although professing 
diametrically opposite principles from 
those of the editor of the other paper, 
Beauchamp -- as it sometimes, we may 
say often, happens -- was his intimate 
friend. The editor was reading, with 
apparent delight, a leading article in 
the same paper on beet-sugar, probably 
a composition of his own.

"Ah, pardieu," said Beauchamp, "with 
the paper in your hand, my friend, I 
need not tell you the cause of my 
visit."

"Are you interested in the sugar 
question?" asked the editor of the 
ministerial paper.

"No," replied Beauchamp, "I have not 
considered the question; a totally 
different subject interests me."

"What is it?"

"The article relative to Morcerf."

"Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?"

"So curious, that I think you are 
running a great risk of a prosecution 
for defamation of character."

"Not at all; we have received with the 
information all the requisite proofs, 
and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf 
will not raise his voice against us; 
besides, it is rendering a service to 
one's country to denounce these 
wretched criminals who are unworthy of 
the honor bestowed on them." Beauchamp 
was thunderstruck. "Who, then, has so 
correctly informed you?" asked he; "for 
my paper, which gave the first 
information on the subject, has been 
obliged to stop for want of proof; and 
yet we are more interested than you in 
exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer 
of France, and we are of the 
opposition."

"Oh, that is very simple; we have not 
sought to scandalize. This news was 
brought to us. A man arrived yesterday 
from Yanina, bringing a formidable 
array of documents; and when we 
hesitated to publish the accusatory 
article, he told us it should be 
inserted in some other paper."

Beauchamp understood that nothing 
remained but to submit, and left the 
office to despatch a courier to 
Morcerf. But he had been unable to send 
to Albert the following particulars, as 
the events had transpired after the 
messenger's departure; namely, that the 
same day a great agitation was manifest 
in the House of Peers among the usually 
calm members of that dignified 
assembly. Every one had arrived almost 
before the usual hour, and was 
conversing on the melancholy event 
which was to attract the attention of 
the public towards one of their most 
illustrious colleagues. Some were 
perusing the article, others making 
comments and recalling circumstances 
which substantiated the charges still 
more. The Count of Morcerf was no 
favorite with his colleagues. Like all 
upstarts, he had had recourse to a 
great deal of haughtiness to maintain 
his position. The true nobility laughed 
at him, the talented repelled him, and 
the honorable instinctively despised 
him. He was, in fact, in the unhappy 
position of the victim marked for 
sacrifice; the finger of God once 
pointed at him, every one was prepared 
to raise the hue and cry.

The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant 
of the news. He did not take in the 
paper containing the defamatory 
article, and had passed the morning in 
writing letters and in trying a horse. 
He arrived at his usual hour, with a 
proud look and insolent demeanor; he 
alighted, passed through the corridors, 
and entered the house without observing 
the hesitation of the door-keepers or 
the coolness of his colleagues. 
Business had already been going on for 
half an hour when he entered. Every one 
held the accusing paper, but, as usual, 
no one liked to take upon himself the 
responsibility of the attack. At length 
an honorable peer, Morcerf's 
acknowledged enemy, ascended the 
tribune with that solemnity which 
announced that the expected moment had 
arrived. There was an impressive 
silence; Morcerf alone knew not why 
such profound attention was given to an 
orator who was not always listened to 
with so much complacency. The count did 
not notice the introduction, in which 
the speaker announced that his 
communication would be of that vital 
importance that it demanded the 
undivided attention of the House; but 
at the mention of Yanina and Colonel 
Fernand, he turned so frightfully pale 
that every member shuddered and fixed 
his eyes upon him. Moral wounds have 
this peculiarity, -- they may be 
hidden, but they never close; always 
painful, always ready to bleed when 
touched, they remain fresh and open in 
the heart.

The article having been read during the 
painful hush that followed, a universal 
shudder pervaded the assembly. and 
immediately the closest attention was 
given to the orator as he resumed his 
remarks. He stated his scruples and the 
difficulties of the case; it was the 
honor of M. de Morcerf, and that of the 
whole House, he proposed to defend, by 
provoking a debate on personal 
questions, which are always such 
painful themes of discussion. He 
concluded by calling for an 
investigation, which might dispose of 
the calumnious report before it had 
time to spread, and restore M. de 
Morcerf to the position he had long 
held in public opinion. Morcerf was so 
completely overwhelmed by this great 
and unexpected calamity that he could 
scarcely stammer a few words as he 
looked around on the assembly. This 
timidity, which might proceed from the 
astonishment of innocence as well as 
the shame of guilt, conciliated some in 
his favor; for men who are truly 
generous are always ready to 
compassionate when the misfortune of 
their enemy surpasses the limits of 
their hatred.

The president put it to the vote, and 
it was decided that the investigation 
should take place. The count was asked 
what time he required to prepare his 
defence. Morcerf's courage had revived 
when he found himself alive after this 
horrible blow. "My lords," answered he, 
"it is not by time I could repel the 
attack made on me by enemies unknown to 
me, and, doubtless, hidden in 
obscurity; it is immediately, and by a 
thunderbolt, that I must repel the 
flash of lightning which, for a moment, 
startled me. Oh, that I could, instead 
of taking up this defence, shed my last 
drop of blood to prove to my noble 
colleagues that I am their equal in 
worth." These words made a favorable 
impression on behalf of the accused. "I 
demand, then, that the examination 
shall take place as soon as possible, 
and I will furnish the house with all 
necessary information."

"What day do you fix?" asked the 
president.

"To-day I am at your service," replied 
the count. The president rang the bell. 
"Does the House approve that the 
examination should take place to-day?"

"Yes," was the unanimous answer.

A committee of twelve members was 
chosen to examine the proofs brought 
forward by Morcerf. The investigation 
would begin at eight o'clock that 
evening in the committee-room, and if 
postponement were necessary, the 
proceedings would be resumed each 
evening at the same hour. Morcerf asked 
leave to retire; he had to collect the 
documents he had long been preparing 
against this storm, which his sagacity 
had foreseen.

Albert listened, trembling now with 
hope, then with anger, and then again 
with shame, for from Beauchamp's 
confidence he knew his father was 
guilty, and he asked himself how, since 
he was guilty, he could prove his 
innocence. Beauchamp hesitated to 
continue his narrative. "What next?" 
asked Albert.

"What next? My friend, you impose a 
painful task on me. Must you know all?"

"Absolutely; and rather from your lips 
than another's."

"Muster up all your courage, then, for 
never have you required it more." 
Albert passed his hand over his 
forehead, as if to try his strength, as 
a man who is preparing to defend his 
life proves his shield and bends his 
sword. He thought himself strong 
enough, for he mistook fever for 
energy. "Go on," said he.

"The evening arrived; all Paris was in 
expectation. Many said your father had 
only to show himself to crush the 
charge against him; many others said he 
would not appear; while some asserted 
that they had seen him start for 
Brussels; and others went to the 
police-office to inquire if he had 
taken out a passport. I used all my 
influence with one of the committee, a 
young peer of my acquaintance, to get 
admission to one of the galleries. He 
called for me at seven o'clock, and, 
before any one had arrived, asked one 
of the door-keepers to place me in a 
box. I was concealed by a column, and 
might witness the whole of the terrible 
scene which was about to take place. At 
eight o'clock all were in their places, 
and M. de Morcerf entered at the last 
stroke. He held some papers in his 
hand; his countenance was calm, and his 
step firm, and he was dressed with 
great care in his military uniform, 
which was buttoned completely up to the 
chin. His presence produced a good 
effect. The committee was made up of 
Liberals, several of whom came forward 
to shake hands with him."

Albert felt his heart bursting at these 
particulars, but gratitude mingled with 
his sorrow: he would gladly have 
embraced those who had given his father 
this proof of esteem at a moment when 
his honor was so powerfully attacked. 
"At this moment one of the door-keepers 
brought in a letter for the president. 
`You are at liberty to speak, M. de 
Morcerf,' said the president, as he 
unsealed the letter; and the count 
began his defence, I assure you, 
Albert, in a most eloquent and skilful 
manner. He produced documents proving 
that the Vizier of Yanina had up to the 
last moment honored him with his entire 
confidence, since he had interested him 
with a negotiation of life and death 
with the emperor. He produced the ring, 
his mark of authority, with which Ali 
Pasha generally sealed his letters, and 
which the latter had given him, that he 
might, on his return at any hour of the 
day or night, gain access to the 
presence, even in the harem. 
Unfortunately, the negotiation failed, 
and when he returned to defend his 
benefactor, he was dead. `But,' said 
the count, `so great was Ali Pasha's 
confidence, that on his death-bed he 
resigned his favorite mistress and her 
daughter to my care.'" Albert started 
on hearing these words; the history of 
Haidee recurred to him, and he 
remembered what she had said of that 
message and the ring, and the manner in 
which she had been sold and made a 
slave. "And what effect did this 
discourse produce?" anxiously inquired 
Albert. "I acknowledge it affected me, 
and, indeed, all the committee also," 
said Beauchamp.

"Meanwhile, the president carelessly 
opened the letter which had been 
brought to him; but the first lines 
aroused his attention; he read them 
again and again, and fixing his eyes on 
M. de Morcerf, `Count,' said he, `you 
have said that the Vizier of Yanina 
confided his wife and daughter to your 
care?' -- `Yes, sir,' replied Morcerf; 
`but in that, like all the rest, 
misfortune pursued me. On my return, 
Vasiliki and her daughter Haidee had 
disappeared.' -- `Did you know them?' 
-- `My intimacy with the pasha and his 
unlimited confidence had gained me an 
introduction to them, and I had seen 
them above twenty times.'

"`Have you any idea what became of 
them?' -- `Yes, sir; I heard they had 
fallen victims to their sorrow, and, 
perhaps, to their poverty. I was not 
rich; my life was in constant danger; I 
could not seek them, to my great 
regret.' The president frowned 
imperceptibly. `Gentlemen,' said he, 
`you have heard the Comte de Morcerf's 
defence. Can you, sir, produce any 
witnesses to the truth of what you have 
asserted?' -- `Alas, no, monsieur,' 
replied the count; `all those who 
surrounded the vizier, or who knew me 
at his court, are either dead or gone 
away, I know not where. I believe that 
I alone, of all my countrymen, survived 
that dreadful war. I have only the 
letters of Ali Tepelini, which I have 
placed before you; the ring, a token of 
his good-will, which is here; and, 
lastly, the most convincing proof I can 
offer, after an anonymous attack, and 
that is the absence of any witness 
against my veracity and the purity of 
my military life.' A murmur of 
approbation ran through the assembly; 
and at this moment, Albert, had nothing 
more transpired, your father's cause 
had been gained. It only remained to 
put it to the vote, when the president 
resumed: `Gentlemen and you, monsieur, 
-- you will not be displeased, I 
presume, to listen to one who calls 
himself a very important witness, and 
who has just presented himself. He is, 
doubtless, come to prove the perfect 
innocence of our colleague. Here is a 
letter I have just received on the 
subject; shall it be read, or shall it 
be passed over? and shall we take no 
notice of this incident?' M. de Morcerf 
turned pale, and clinched his hands on 
the papers he held. The committee 
decided to hear the letter; the count 
was thoughtful and silent. The 
president read: --

"`Mr. President, -- I can furnish the 
committee of inquiry into the conduct 
of the Lieutenant-General the Count of 
Morcerf in Epirus and in Macedonia with 
important particulars.'

"The president paused, and the count 
turned pale. The president looked at 
his auditors. `Proceed,' was heard on 
all sides. The president resumed: --

"`I was on the spot at the death of Ali 
Pasha. I was present during his last 
moments. I know what is become of 
Vasiliki and Haidee. I am at the 
command of the committee, and even 
claim the honor of being heard. I shall 
be in the lobby when this note is 
delivered to you.'

"`And who is this witness, or rather 
this enemy?' asked the count, in a tone 
in which there was a visible 
alteration. `We shall know, sir,' 
replied the president. `Is the 
committee willing to hear this 
witness?' -- `Yes, yes,' they all said 
at once. The door-keeper was called. 
`Is there any one in the lobby?' said 
the president.

"`Yes, sir.' -- `Who is it?' -- `A 
woman, accompanied by a servant.' Every 
one looked at his neighbor. `Bring her 
in,' said the president. Five minutes 
after the door-keeper again appeared; 
all eyes were fixed on the door, and 
I," said Beauchamp, "shared the general 
expectation and anxiety. Behind the 
door-keeper walked a woman enveloped in 
a large veil, which completely 
concealed her. It was evident, from her 
figure and the perfumes she had about 
her, that she was young and fastidious 
in her tastes, but that was all. The 
president requested her to throw aside 
her veil, and it was then seen that she 
was dressed in the Grecian costume, and 
was remarkably beautiful."

"Ah," said Albert, "it was she."

"Who?"

"Haidee."

"Who told you that?"

"Alas, I guess it. But go on, 
Beauchamp. You see I am calm and 
strong. And yet we must be drawing near 
the disclosure."

"M. de Morcerf," continued Beauchamp, 
"looked at this woman with surprise and 
terror. Her lips were about to pass his 
sentence of life or death. To the 
committee the adventure was so 
extraordinary and curious, that the 
interest they had felt for the count's 
safety became now quite a secondary 
matter. The president himself advanced 
to place a seat for the young lady; but 
she declined availing herself of it. As 
for the count, he had fallen on his 
chair; it was evident that his legs 
refused to support him.

"`Madame,' said the president, `you 
have engaged to furnish the committee 
with some important particulars 
respecting the affair at Yanina, and 
you have stated that you were an 
eyewitness of the event.' -- `I was, 
indeed,' said the stranger, with a tone 
of sweet melancholy, and with the 
sonorous voice peculiar to the East.

"`But allow me to say that you must 
have been very young then.' -- `I was 
four years old; but as those events 
deeply concerned me, not a single 
detail has escaped my memory.' -- `In 
what manner could these events concern 
you? and who are you, that they should 
have made so deep an impression on 
you?' -- `On them depended my father's 
life,' replied she. `I am Haidee, the 
daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of 
Yanina, and of Vasiliki, his beloved 
wife.'

"The blush of mingled pride and modesty 
which suddenly suffused the cheeks of 
the young woman, the brilliancy of her 
eye, and her highly important 
communication, produced an 
indescribable effect on the assembly. 
As for the count, he could not have 
been more overwhelmed if a thunderbolt 
had fallen at his feet and opened an 
immense gulf before him. `Madame,' 
replied the president, bowing with 
profound respect, `allow me to ask one 
question; it shall be the last: Can you 
prove the authenticity of what you have 
now stated?' -- `I can, sir,' said 
Haidee, drawing from under her veil a 
satin satchel highly perfumed; `for 
here is the register of my birth, 
signed by my father and his principal 
officers, and that of my baptism, my 
father having consented to my being 
brought up in my mother's faith, -- 
this latter has been sealed by the 
grand primate of Macedonia and Epirus; 
and lastly (and perhaps the most 
important), the record of the sale of 
my person and that of my mother to the 
Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by the 
French officer, who, in his infamous 
bargain with the Porte, had reserved as 
his part of the booty the wife and 
daughter of his benefactor, whom he 
sold for the sum of four hundred 
thousand francs.' A greenish pallor 
spread over the count's cheeks, and his 
eyes became bloodshot at these terrible 
imputations, which were listened to by 
the assembly with ominous silence.

"Haidee, still calm, but with a 
calmness more dreadful than the anger 
of another would have been, handed to 
the president the record of her sale, 
written in Arabic. It had been supposed 
some of the papers might be in the 
Arabian, Romaic, or Turkish language, 
and the interpreter of the House was in 
attendance. One of the noble peers, who 
was familiar with the Arabic language, 
having studied it during the famous 
Egyptian campaign, followed with his 
eye as the translator read aloud: --

"`I, El-Kobbir, a slave-merchant, and 
purveyor of the harem of his highness, 
acknowledge having received for 
transmission to the sublime emperor, 
from the French lord, the Count of 
Monte Cristo, an emerald valued at 
eight hundred thousand francs; as the 
ransom of a young Christian slave of 
eleven years of age, named Haidee, the 
acknowledged daughter of the late lord 
Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of 
Vasiliki, his favorite; she having been 
sold to me seven years previously, with 
her mother, who had died on arriving at 
Constantinople, by a French colonel in 
the service of the Vizier Ali Tepelini, 
named Fernand Mondego. The 
above-mentioned purchase was made on 
his highness's account, whose mandate I 
had, for the sum of four hundred 
thousand francs.

"`Given at Constantinople, by authority 
of his highness, in the year 1247 of 
the Hegira.

"`Signed El-Kobbir.'

"`That this record should have all due 
authority, it shall bear the imperial 
seal, which the vendor is bound to have 
affixed to it.'

"Near the merchant's signature there 
was, indeed, the seal of the sublime 
emperor. A dreadful silence followed 
the reading of this document; the count 
could only stare, and his gaze, fixed 
as if unconsciously on Haidee, seemed 
one of fire and blood. `Madame,' said 
the president, `may reference be made 
to the Count of Monte Cristo, who is 
now, I believe, in Paris?' -- `Sir,' 
replied Haidee, `the Count of Monte 
Cristo, my foster-father, has been in 
Normandy the last three days.'

"`Who, then, has counselled you to take 
this step, one for which the court is 
deeply indebted to you, and which is 
perfectly natural, considering your 
birth and your misfortunes?' -- `Sir,' 
replied Haidee, `I have been led to 
take this step from a feeling of 
respect and grief. Although a 
Christian, may God forgive me, I have 
always sought to revenge my illustrious 
father. Since I set my foot in France, 
and knew the traitor lived in Paris, I 
have watched carefully. I live retired 
in the house of my noble protector, but 
I do it from choice. I love retirement 
and silence, because I can live with my 
thoughts and recollections of past 
days. But the Count of Monte Cristo 
surrounds me with every paternal care, 
and I am ignorant of nothing which 
passes in the world. I learn all in the 
silence of my apartments, -- for 
instance, I see all the newspapers, 
every periodical, as well as every new 
piece of music; and by thus watching 
the course of the life of others, I 
learned what had transpired this 
morning in the House of Peers, and what 
was to take place this evening; then I 
wrote.'

"`Then,' remarked the president, `the 
Count of Monte Cristo knows nothing of 
your present proceedings?' -- `He is 
quite unaware of them, and I have but 
one fear, which is that he should 
disapprove of what I have done. But it 
is a glorious day for me,' continued 
the young girl, raising her ardent gaze 
to heaven, `that on which I find at 
last an opportunity of avenging my 
father!'

"The count had not uttered one word the 
whole of this time. His colleagues 
looked at him, and doubtless pitied his 
prospects, blighted under the perfumed 
breath of a woman. His misery was 
depicted in sinister lines on his 
countenance. `M. de Morcerf,' said the 
president, `do you recognize this lady 
as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha 
of Yanina?' -- `No,' said Morcerf, 
attempting to rise, `it is a base plot, 
contrived by my enemies.' Haidee, whose 
eyes had been fixed on the door, as if 
expecting some one, turned hastily, 
and, seeing the count standing, 
shrieked, `You do not know me?' said 
she. `Well, I fortunately recognize 
you! You are Fernand Mondego, the 
French officer who led the troops of my 
noble father! It is you who surrendered 
the castle of Yanina! It is you who, 
sent by him to Constantinople, to treat 
with the emperor for the life or death 
of your benefactor, brought back a 
false mandate granting full pardon! It 
is you who, with that mandate, obtained 
the pasha's ring, which gave you 
authority over Selim, the fire-keeper! 
It is you who stabbed Selim. It is you 
who sold us, my mother and me, to the 
merchant, El-Kobbir! Assassin, 
assassin, assassin, you have still on 
your brow your master's blood! Look, 
gentlemen, all!'

"These words had been pronounced with 
such enthusiasm and evident truth, that 
every eye was fixed on the count's 
forehead, and he himself passed his 
hand across it, as if he felt Ali's 
blood still lingering there. `You 
positively recognize M. de Morcerf as 
the officer, Fernand Mondego?' -- 
`Indeed I do!' cried Haidee. `Oh, my 
mother, it was you who said, "You were 
free, you had a beloved father, you 
were destined to be almost a queen. 
Look well at that man; it is he who 
raised your father's head on the point 
of a spear; it is he who sold us; it is 
he who forsook us! Look well at his 
right hand, on which he has a large 
wound; if you forgot his features, you 
would know him by that hand, into which 
fell, one by one, the gold pieces of 
the merchant El-Kobbir!" I know him! 
Ah, let him say now if he does not 
recognize me!' Each word fell like a 
dagger on Morcerf, and deprived him of 
a portion of his energy; as she uttered 
the last, he hid his mutilated hand 
hastily in his bosom, and fell back on 
his seat, overwhelmed by wretchedness 
and despair. This scene completely 
changed the opinion of the assembly 
respecting the accused count.

"`Count of Morcerf,' said the 
president, `do not allow yourself to be 
cast down; answer. The justice of the 
court is supreme and impartial as that 
of God; it will not suffer you to be 
trampled on by your enemies without 
giving you an opportunity of defending 
yourself. Shall further inquiries be 
made? Shall two members of the House be 
sent to Yanina? Speak!' Morcerf did not 
reply. Then all the members looked at 
each other with terror. They knew the 
count's energetic and violent temper; 
it must be, indeed, a dreadful blow 
which would deprive him of courage to 
defend himself. They expected that his 
stupefied silence would be followed by 
a fiery outburst. `Well,' asked the 
president, `what is your decision?'

"`I have no reply to make,' said the 
count in a low tone.

"`Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini 
spoken the truth?' said the president. 
`Is she, then, the terrible witness to 
whose charge you dare not plead "Not 
guilty"? Have you really committed the 
crimes of which you are accused?' The 
count looked around him with an 
expression which might have softened 
tigers, but which could not disarm his 
judges. Then he raised his eyes towards 
the ceiling, but withdrew then, 
immediately, as if he feared the roof 
would open and reveal to his distressed 
view that second tribunal called 
heaven, and that other judge named God. 
Then, with a hasty movement, he tore 
open his coat, which seemed to stifle 
him, and flew from the room like a 
madman; his footstep was heard one 
moment in the corridor, then the 
rattling of his carriage-wheels as he 
was driven rapidly away. `Gentlemen,' 
said the president, when silence was 
restored, `is the Count of Morcerf 
convicted of felony, treason, and 
conduct unbecoming a member of this 
House?' -- `Yes,' replied all the 
members of the committee of inquiry 
with a unanimous voice.

"Haidee had remained until the close of 
the meeting. She heard the count's 
sentence pronounced without betraying 
an expression of joy or pity; then 
drawing her veil over her face she 
bowed majestically to the councillors, 
and left with that dignified step which 
Virgil attributes to his goddesses." 

 Chapter 87 The Challenge.

"Then," continued Beauchamp, "I took 
advantage of the silence and the 
darkness to leave the house without 
being seen. The usher who had 
introduced me was waiting for me at the 
door, and he conducted me through the 
corridors to a private entrance opening 
into the Rue de Vaugirard. I left with 
mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. 
Excuse me, Albert, -- sorrow on your 
account, and delight with that noble 
girl, thus pursuing paternal vengeance. 
Yes, Albert, from whatever source the 
blow may have proceeded -- it may be 
from an enemy, but that enemy is only 
the agent of providence." Albert held 
his head between his hands; he raised 
his face, red with shame and bathed in 
tears, and seizing Beauchamp's arm, "My 
friend," said he, "my life is ended. I 
cannot calmly say with you, `Providence 
has struck the blow;' but I must 
discover who pursues me with this 
hatred, and when I have found him I 
shall kill him, or he will kill me. I 
rely on your friendship to assist me, 
Beauchamp, if contempt has not banished 
it from your heart."

"Contempt, my friend? How does this 
misfortune affect you? No, happily that 
unjust prejudice is forgotten which 
made the son responsible for the 
father's actions. Review your life, 
Albert; although it is only just 
beginning, did a lovely summer's day 
ever dawn with greater purity than has 
marked the commencement of your career? 
No, Albert, take my advice. You are 
young and rich -- leave Paris -- all is 
soon forgotten in this great Babylon of 
excitement and changing tastes. You 
will return after three or four years 
with a Russian princess for a bride, 
and no one will think more of what 
occurred yesterday than if it had 
happened sixteen years ago."

"Thank you, my dear Beauchamp, thank 
you for the excellent feeling which 
prompts your advice; but it cannot be. 
I have told you my wish, or rather my 
determination. You understand that, 
interested as I am in this affair, I 
cannot see it in the same light as you 
do. What appears to you to emanate from 
a celestial source, seems to me to 
proceed from one far less pure. 
Providence appears to me to have no 
share in this affair; and happily so, 
for instead of the invisible, 
impalpable agent of celestial rewards 
and punishments, I shall find one both 
palpable and visible, on whom I shall 
revenge myself, I assure you, for all I 
have suffered during the last month. 
Now, I repeat, Beauchamp, I wish to 
return to human and material existence, 
and if you are still the friend you 
profess to be, help me to discover the 
hand that struck the blow."

"Be it so," said Beauchamp; "if you 
must have me descend to earth, I 
submit; and if you will seek your 
enemy, I will assist you, and I will 
engage to find him, my honor being 
almost as deeply interested as yours."

"Well, then, you understand, Beauchamp, 
that we begin our search immediately. 
Each moment's delay is an eternity for 
me. The calumniator is not yet 
punished, and he may hope that he will 
not be; but, on my honor, it he thinks 
so, he deceives himself."

"Well, listen, Morcerf."

"Ah, Beauchamp, I see you know 
something already; you will restore me 
to life."

"I do not say there is any truth in 
what I am going to tell you, but it is, 
at least, a ray of light in a dark 
night; by following it we may, perhaps, 
discover something more certain."

"Tell me; satisfy my impatience."

"Well, I will tell you what I did not 
like to mention on my return from 
Yanina."

"Say on."

"I went, of course, to the chief banker 
of the town to make inquiries. At the 
first word, before I had even mentioned 
your father's name" --

"`Ah,' said he. `I guess what brings 
you here.'

"`How, and why?'

"`Because a fortnight since I was 
questioned on the same subject.'

"`By whom?' -- `By a Paris banker, my 
correspondent.'

"`Whose name is' --

"`Danglars.'"

"He!" cried Albert; "yes, it is indeed 
he who has so long pursued my father 
with jealous hatred. He, the man who 
would be popular, cannot forgive the 
Count of Morcerf for being created a 
peer; and this marriage broken off 
without a reason being assigned -- yes, 
it is all from the same cause."

"Make inquiries, Albert, but do not be 
angry without reason; make inquiries, 
and if it be true" --

"Oh, yes, if it be true," cried the 
young man, "he shall pay me all I have 
suffered."

"Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old 
man."

"I will respect his age as he has 
respected the honor of my family; if my 
father had offended him, why did he not 
attack him personally? Oh, no, he was 
afraid to encounter him face to face."

"I do not condemn you, Albert; I only 
restrain you. Act prudently."

"Oh, do not fear; besides, you will 
accompany me. Beauchamp, solemn 
transactions should be sanctioned by a 
witness. Before this day closes, if M. 
Danglars is guilty, he shall cease to 
live, or I shall die. Pardieu, 
Beauchamp, mine shall be a splendid 
funeral!"

"When such resolutions are made, 
Albert, they should be promptly 
executed. Do you wish to go to M. 
Danglars? Let us go immediately." They 
sent for a cabriolet. On entering the 
banker's mansion, they perceived the 
phaeton and servant of M. Andrea 
Cavalcanti. "Ah, parbleu, that's good," 
said Albert, with a gloomy tone. "If M. 
Danglars will not fight with me, I will 
kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti will 
certainly fight." The servant announced 
the young man; but the banker, 
recollecting what had transpired the 
day before, did not wish him admitted. 
It was, however, too late; Albert had 
followed the footman, and, hearing the 
order given, forced the door open, and 
followed by Beauchamp found himself in 
the banker's study. "Sir," cried the 
latter, "am I no longer at liberty to 
receive whom I choose in my house? You 
appear to forget yourself sadly."

"No, sir," said Albert, coldly; "there 
are circumstances in which one cannot, 
except through cowardice, -- I offer 
you that refuge, -- refuse to admit 
certain persons at least."

"What is your errand, then, with me, 
sir?"

"I mean," said Albert, drawing near, 
and without apparently noticing 
Cavalcanti, who stood with his back 
towards the fireplace -- "I mean to 
propose a meeting in some retired 
corner where no one will interrupt us 
for ten minutes; that will be 
sufficient -- where two men having met, 
one of them will remain on the ground." 
Danglars turned pale; Cavalcanti moved 
a step forward, and Albert turned 
towards him. "And you, too," said he, 
"come, if you like, monsieur; you have 
a claim, being almost one of the 
family, and I will give as many 
rendezvous of that kind as I can find 
persons willing to accept them." 
Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a 
stupefied air, and the latter, making 
an effort, arose and stepped between 
the two young men. Albert's attack on 
Andrea had placed him on a different 
footing, and he hoped this visit had 
another cause than that he had at first 
supposed.

"Indeed, sir," said he to Albert, "if 
you are come to quarrel with this 
gentleman because I have preferred him 
to you, I shall resign the case to the 
king's attorney."

"You mistake, sir," said Morcerf with a 
gloomy smile; "I am not referring in 
the least to matrimony, and I only 
addressed myself to M. Cavalcanti 
because he appeared disposed to 
interfere between us. In one respect 
you are right, for I am ready to 
quarrel with every one to-day; but you 
have the first claim, M. Danglars."

"Sir," replied Danglars, pale with 
anger and fear, "I warn you, when I 
have the misfortune to meet with a mad 
dog, I kill it; and far from thinking 
myself guilty of a crime, I believe I 
do society a kindness. Now, if you are 
mad and try to bite me, I will kill you 
without pity. Is it my fault that your 
father has dishonored himself?"

"Yes, miserable wretch!" cried Morcerf, 
"it is your fault." Danglars retreated 
a few steps. "My fault?" said he; "you 
must be mad! What do I know of the 
Grecian affair? Have I travelled in 
that country? Did I advise your father 
to sell the castle of Yanina -- to 
betray" --

"Silence!" said Albert, with a 
thundering voice. "No; it is not you 
who have directly made this exposure 
and brought this sorrow on us, but you 
hypocritically provoked it."

"I?"

"Yes; you! How came it known?"

"I suppose you read it in the paper in 
the account from Yanina?"

"Who wrote to Yanina?"

"To Yanina?"

"Yes. Who wrote for particulars 
concerning my father?"

"I imagine any one may write to Yanina."

"But one person only wrote!"

"One only?"

"Yes; and that was you!"

"I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me 
that when about to marry your daughter 
to a young man, it is right to make 
some inquiries respecting his family; 
it is not only a right, but a duty."

"You wrote, sir, knowing what answer 
you would receive."

"I, indeed? I assure you," cried 
Danglars, with a confidence and 
security proceeding less from fear than 
from the interest he really felt for 
the young man, "I solemnly declare to 
you, that I should never have thought 
of writing to Yanina, did I know 
anything of Ali Pasha's misfortunes."

"Who, then, urged you to write? Tell 
me."

"Pardieu, it was the most simple thing 
in the world. I was speaking of your 
father's past history. I said the 
origin of his fortune remained obscure. 
The person to whom I addressed my 
scruples asked me where your father had 
acquired his property? I answered, `In 
Greece.' -- `Then,' said he, `write to 
Yanina.'"

"And who thus advised you?"

"No other than your friend, Monte 
Cristo."

"The Count of Monte Cristo told you to 
write to Yanina?"

"Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my 
correspondence, if you like." Albert 
and Beauchamp looked at each other. 
"Sir," said Beauchamp, who had not yet 
spoken, "you appear to accuse the 
count, who is absent from Paris at this 
moment, and cannot justify himself."

"I accuse no one, sir," said Danglars; 
"I relate, and I will repeat before the 
count what I have said to you."

"Does the count know what answer you 
received?"

"Yes; I showed it to him."

"Did he know my father's Christian name 
was Fernand, and his family name 
Mondego?"

"Yes, I had told him that long since, 
and I did only what any other would 
have done in my circumstances, and 
perhaps less. When, the day after the 
arrival of this answer, your father 
came by the advice of Monte Cristo to 
ask my daughter's hand for you, I 
decidedly refused him, but without any 
explanation or exposure. In short, why 
should I have any more to do with the 
affair? How did the honor or disgrace 
of M. de Morcerf affect me? It neither 
increased nor decreased my income."

Albert felt the blood mounting to his 
brow; there was no doubt upon the 
subject. Danglars defended himself with 
the baseness, but at the same time with 
the assurance, of a man who speaks the 
truth, at least in part, if not wholly 
-- not for conscience' sake, but 
through fear. Besides, what was Morcerf 
seeking? It was not whether Danglars or 
Monte Cristo was more or less guilty; 
it was a man who would answer for the 
offence, whether trifling or serious; 
it was a man who would fight, and it 
was evident Danglars's would not fight. 
And, in addition to this, everything 
forgotten or unperceived before 
presented itself now to his 
recollection. Monte Cristo knew 
everything, as he had bought the 
daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing 
everything, he had advised Danglars to 
write to Yanina. The answer known, he 
had yielded to Albert's wish to be 
introduced to Haidee, and allowed the 
conversation to turn on the death of 
Ali, and had not opposed Haidee's 
recital (but having, doubtless, warned 
the young girl, in the few Romaic words 
he spoke to her, not to implicate 
Morcerf's father). Besides, had he not 
begged of Morcerf not to mention his 
father's name before Haidee? Lastly, he 
had taken Albert to Normandy when he 
knew the final blow was near. There 
could be no doubt that all had been 
calculated and previously arranged; 
Monte Cristo then was in league with 
his father's enemies. Albert took 
Beauchamp aside, and communicated these 
ideas to him.

"You are right," said the latter; "M. 
Danglars has only been a secondary 
agent in this sad affair, and it is of 
M. de Monte Cristo that you must demand 
an explanation." Albert turned. "Sir," 
said he to Danglars, "understand that I 
do not take a final leave of you; I 
must ascertain if your insinuations are 
just, and am going now to inquire of 
the Count of Monte Cristo." He bowed to 
the banker, and went out with 
Beauchamp, without appearing to notice 
Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied him to 
the door, where he again assured Albert 
that no motive of personal hatred had 
influenced him against the Count of 
Morcerf. 

 Chapter 88 The Insult.

At the banker's door Beauchamp stopped 
Morcerf. "Listen," said he; "just now I 
told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo 
you must demand an explanation."

"Yes; and we are going to his house."

"Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before 
you go."

"On what shall I reflect?"

"On the importance of the step you are 
taking."

"Is it more serious than going to M. 
Danglars?"

"Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and 
those who love money, you know, think 
too much of what they risk to be easily 
induced to fight a duel. The other is, 
on the contrary, to all appearance a 
true nobleman; but do you not fear to 
find him a bully?"

"I only fear one thing; namely, to find 
a man who will not fight."

"Do not be alarmed," said Beauchamp; 
"he will meet you. My only fear is that 
he will be too strong for you."

"My friend," said Morcerf, with a sweet 
smile, "that is what I wish. The 
happiest thing that could occur to me, 
would be to die in my father's stead; 
that would save us all."

"Your mother would die of grief."

"My poor mother!" said Albert, passing 
his hand across his eyes, "I know she 
would; but better so than die of shame."

"Are you quite decided, Albert?"

"Yes; let us go."

"But do you think we shall find the 
count at home?"

"He intended returning some hours after 
me, and doubtless he is now at home." 
They ordered the driver to take them to 
No. 30 Champs-Elysees. Beauchamp wished 
to go in alone, but Albert observed 
that as this was an unusual 
circumstance he might be allowed to 
deviate from the usual etiquette in 
affairs of honor. The cause which the 
young man espoused was one so sacred 
that Beauchamp had only to comply with 
all his wishes; he yielded and 
contented himself with following 
Morcerf. Albert sprang from the 
porter's lodge to the steps. He was 
received by Baptistin. The count had, 
indeed, just arrived, but he was in his 
bath, and had forbidden that any one 
should be admitted. "But after his 
bath?" asked Morcerf.

"My master will go to dinner."

"And after dinner?"

"He will sleep an hour."

"Then?"

"He is going to the opera."

"Are you sure of it?" asked Albert.

"Quite, sir; my master has ordered his 
horses at eight o'clock precisely."

"Very good," replied Albert; "that is 
all I wished to know." Then, turning 
towards Beauchamp, "If you have 
anything to attend to, Beauchamp, do it 
directly; if you have any appointment 
for this evening, defer it till 
tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany 
me to the opera; and if you can, bring 
Chateau-Renaud with you."

Beauchamp availed himself of Albert's 
permission, and left him, promising to 
call for him at a quarter before eight. 
On his return home, Albert expressed 
his wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, 
to see them at the opera that evening. 
Then he went to see his mother, who 
since the events of the day before had 
refused to see any one, and had kept 
her room. He found her in bed, 
overwhelmed with grief at this public 
humiliation. The sight of Albert 
produced the effect which might 
naturally be expected on Mercedes; she 
pressed her son's hand and sobbed 
aloud, but her tears relieved her. 
Albert stood one moment speechless by 
the side of his mother's bed. It was 
evident from his pale face and knit 
brows that his resolution to revenge 
himself was growing weaker. "My dear 
mother," said he, "do you know if M. de 
Morcerf has any enemy?" Mercedes 
started; she noticed that the young man 
did not say "my father." "My son," she 
said, "persons in the count's situation 
have many secret enemies. Those who are 
known are not the most dangerous."

"I know it, and appeal to your 
penetration. You are of so superior a 
mind, nothing escapes you."

"Why do you say so?"

"Because, for instance, you noticed on 
the evening of the ball we gave, that 
M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in 
our house." Mercedes raised herself on 
her feverish arm. "M. de Monte Cristo!" 
she exclaimed; "and how is he connected 
with the question you asked me?"

"You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo 
is almost an Oriental, and it is 
customary with the Orientals to secure 
full liberty for revenge by not eating 
or drinking in the houses of their 
enemies."

"Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our 
enemy?" replied Mercedes, becoming 
paler than the sheet which covered her. 
"Who told you so? Why, you are mad, 
Albert! M. de Monte Cristo has only 
shown us kindness. M. de Monte Cristo 
saved your life; you yourself presented 
him to us. Oh, I entreat you, my son, 
if you had entertained such an idea, 
dispel it; and my counsel to you -- 
nay, my prayer -- is to retain his 
friendship."

"Mother," replied the young man, "you 
have especial reasons for telling me to 
conciliate that man."

"I?" said Mercedes, blushing as rapidly 
as she had turned pale, and again 
becoming paler than ever.

"Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he 
may never do us any harm?" Mercedes 
shuddered, and, fixing on her son a 
scrutinizing gaze, "You speak 
strangely," said she to Albert, "and 
you appear to have some singular 
prejudices. What has the count done? 
Three days since you were with him in 
Normandy; only three days since we 
looked on him as our best friend."

An ironical smile passed over Albert's 
lips. Mercedes saw it and with the 
double instinct of woman and mother 
guessed all; but as she was prudent and 
strong-minded she concealed both her 
sorrows and her fears. Albert was 
silent; an instant after, the countess 
resumed: "You came to inquire after my 
health; I will candidly acknowledge 
that I am not well. You should install 
yourself here, and cheer my solitude. I 
do not wish to be left alone."

"Mother," said the young man, "you know 
how gladly I would obey your wish, but 
an urgent and important affair obliges 
me to leave you for the whole evening."

"Well," replied Mercedes, sighing, "go, 
Albert; I will not make you a slave to 
your filial piety." Albert pretended he 
did not hear, bowed to his mother, and 
quitted her. Scarcely had he shut her 
door, when Mercedes called a 
confidential servant, and ordered him 
to follow Albert wherever he should go 
that evening, and to come and tell her 
immediately what he observed. Then she 
rang for her lady's maid, and, weak as 
she was, she dressed, in order to be 
ready for whatever might happen. The 
footman's mission was an easy one. 
Albert went to his room, and dressed 
with unusual care. At ten minutes to 
eight Beauchamp arrived; he had seen 
Chateau-Renaud, who had promised to be 
in the orchestra before the curtain was 
raised. Both got into Albert's coupe; 
and, as the young man had no reason to 
conceal where he was going, he called 
aloud, "To the opera." In his 
impatience he arrived before the 
beginning of the performance.

Chateau-Renaud was at his post; 
apprised by Beauchamp of the 
circumstances, he required no 
explanation from Albert. The conduct of 
the son in seeking to avenge his father 
was so natural that Chateau-Renaud did 
not seek to dissuade him, and was 
content with renewing his assurances of 
devotion. Debray was not yet come, but 
Albert knew that he seldom lost a scene 
at the opera. Albert wandered about the 
theatre until the curtain was drawn up. 
He hoped to meet with M. de Monte 
Cristo either in the lobby or on the 
stairs. The bell summoned him to his 
seat, and he entered the orchestra with 
Chateau-Renaud and Beauchamp. But his 
eyes scarcely quitted the box between 
the columns, which remained obstinately 
closed during the whole of the first 
act. At last, as Albert was looking at 
his watch for about the hundredth time, 
at the beginning of the second act the 
door opened, and Monte Cristo entered, 
dressed in black, and, leaning over the 
front of the box, looked around the 
pit. Morrel followed him, and looked 
also for his sister and brother in-law; 
he soon discovered them in another box, 
and kissed his hand to them.

The count, in his survey of the pit, 
encountered a pale face and threatening 
eyes, which evidently sought to gain 
his attention. He recognized Albert, 
but thought it better not to notice 
him, as he looked so angry and 
discomposed. Without communicating his 
thoughts to his companion, he sat down, 
drew out his opera-glass, and looked 
another way. Although apparently not 
noticing Albert, he did not, however, 
lose sight of him, and when the curtain 
fell at the end of the second act, he 
saw him leave the orchestra with his 
two friends. Then his head was seen 
passing at the back of the boxes, and 
the count knew that the approaching 
storm was intended to fall on him. He 
was at the moment conversing cheerfully 
with Morrel, but he was well prepared 
for what might happen. The door opened, 
and Monte Cristo, turning round, saw 
Albert, pale and trembling, followed by 
Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud.

"Well," cried he, with that benevolent 
politeness which distinguished his 
salutation from the common civilities 
of the world, "my cavalier has attained 
his object. Good-evening, M. de 
Morcerf." The countenance of this man, 
who possessed such extraordinary 
control over his feelings, expressed 
the most perfect cordiality. Morrel 
only then recollected the letter he had 
received from the viscount, in which, 
without assigning any reason, he begged 
him to go to the opera, but he 
understood that something terrible was 
brooding.

"We are not come here, sir, to exchange 
hypocritical expressions of politeness, 
or false professions of friendship," 
said Albert, "but to demand an 
explanation." The young man's trembling 
voice was scarcely audible. "An 
explanation at the opera?" said the 
count, with that calm tone and 
penetrating eye which characterize the 
man who knows his cause is good. 
"Little acquainted as I am with the 
habits of Parisians, I should not have 
thought this the place for such a 
demand."

"Still, if people will shut themselves 
up," said Albert, "and cannot be seen 
because they are bathing, dining, or 
asleep, we must avail ourselves of the 
opportunity whenever they are to be 
seen."

"I am not difficult of access, sir; for 
yesterday, if my memory does not 
deceive me, you were at my house."

"Yesterday I was at your house, sir," 
said the young man; "because then I 
knew not who you were." In pronouncing 
these words Albert had raised his voice 
so as to be heard by those in the 
adjoining boxes and in the lobby. Thus 
the attention of many was attracted by 
this altercation. "Where are you come 
from, sir? You do not appear to be in 
the possession of your senses."

"Provided I understand your perfidy, 
sir, and succeed in making you 
understand that I will be revenged, I 
shall be reasonable enough," said 
Albert furiously.

"I do not understand you, sir," replied 
Monte Cristo; "and if I did, your tone 
is too high. I am at home here, and I 
alone have a right to raise my voice 
above another's. Leave the box, sir!" 
Monte Cristo pointed towards the door 
with the most commanding dignity. "Ah, 
I shall know how to make you leave your 
home!" replied Albert, clasping in his 
convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte 
Cristo did not lose sight of.

"Well, well," said Monte Cristo 
quietly, "I see you wish to quarrel 
with me; but I would give you one piece 
of advice, which you will do well to 
keep in mind. It is in poor taste to 
make a display of a challenge. Display 
is not becoming to every one, M. de 
Morcerf."

At this name a murmur of astonishment 
passed around the group of spectators 
of this scene. They had talked of no 
one but Morcerf the whole day. Albert 
understood the allusion in a moment, 
and was about to throw his glove at the 
count, when Morrel seized his hand, 
while Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud, 
fearing the scene would surpass the 
limits of a challenge, held him back. 
But Monte Cristo, without rising, and 
leaning forward in his chair, merely 
stretched out his arm and, taking the 
damp, crushed glove from the clinched 
hand of the young man, "Sir," said he 
in a solemn tone, "I consider your 
glove thrown, and will return it to you 
wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me 
or I will summon my servants to throw 
you out at the door."

Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes 
inflamed, Albert stepped back, and 
Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo 
took up his glass again as if nothing 
had happened; his face was like marble, 
and his heart was like bronze. Morrel 
whispered, "What have you done to him?"

"I? Nothing -- at least personally," 
said Monte Cristo.

"But there must be some cause for this 
strange scene."

"The Count of Morcerf's adventure 
exasperates the young man."

"Have you anything to do with it?"

"It was through Haidee that the Chamber 
was informed of his father's treason."

"Indeed?" said Morrel. "I had been 
told, but would not credit it, that the 
Grecian slave I have seen with you here 
in this very box was the daughter of 
Ali Pasha."

"It is true, nevertheless."

"Then," said Morrel, "I understand it 
all, and this scene was premeditated."

"How so?"

"Yes. Albert wrote to request me to 
come to the opera, doubtless that I 
might be a witness to the insult he 
meant to offer you."

"Probably," said Monte Cristo with his 
imperturbable tranquillity.

"But what shall you do with him?"

"With whom?"

"With Albert."

"What shall I do with Albert? As 
certainly, Maximilian, as I now press 
your hand, I shall kill him before ten 
o'clock to-morrow morning." Morrel, in 
his turn, took Monte Cristo's hand in 
both of his, and he shuddered to feel 
how cold and steady it was.

"Ah, Count," said he, "his father loves 
him so much!"

"Do not speak to me of that," said 
Monte Cristo, with the first movement 
of anger he had betrayed; "I will make 
him suffer." Morrel, amazed, let fall 
Monte Cristo's hand. "Count, count!" 
said he.

"Dear Maximilian," interrupted the 
count, "listen how adorably Duprez is 
singing that line, --

`O Mathilde! idole de mon ame!'

"I was the first to discover Duprez at 
Naples, and the first to applaud him. 
Bravo, bravo!" Morrel saw it was 
useless to say more, and refrained. The 
curtain, which had risen at the close 
of the scene with Albert, again fell, 
and a rap was heard at the door.

"Come in," said Monte Cristo with a 
voice that betrayed not the least 
emotion; and immediately Beauchamp 
appeared. "Good-evening, M. Beauchamp," 
said Monte Cristo, as if this was the 
first time he had seen the journalist 
that evening; "be seated."

Beauchamp bowed, and, sitting down, 
"Sir," said he, "I just now accompanied 
M. de Morcerf, as you saw."

"And that means," replied Monte Cristo, 
laughing, "that you had, probably, just 
dined together. I am happy to see, M. 
Beauchamp, that you are more sober than 
he was."

"Sir," said M. Beauchamp, "Albert was 
wrong, I acknowledge, to betray so much 
anger, and I come, on my own account, 
to apologize for him. And having done 
so, entirely on my own account, be it 
understood, I would add that I believe 
you too gentlemanly to refuse giving 
him some explanation concerning your 
connection with Yanina. Then I will add 
two words about the young Greek girl." 
Monte Cristo motioned him to be silent. 
"Come," said he, laughing, "there are 
all my hopes about to be destroyed."

"How so?" asked Beauchamp.

"Doubtless you wish to make me appear a 
very eccentric character. I am, in your 
opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord 
Ruthven; then, just as I am arriving at 
the climax, you defeat your own end, 
and seek to make an ordinary man of me. 
You bring me down to your own level, 
and demand explanations! Indeed, M. 
Beauchamp, it is quite laughable."

"Yet," replied Beauchamp haughtily, 
"there are occasions when probity 
commands" --

"M. Beauchamp," interposed this strange 
man, "the Count of Monte Cristo bows to 
none but the Count of Monte Cristo 
himself. Say no more, I entreat you. I 
do what I please, M. Beauchamp, and it 
is always well done."

"Sir," replied the young man, "honest 
men are not to be paid with such coin. 
I require honorable guaranties."

"I am, sir, a living guaranty," replied 
Monte Cristo, motionless, but with a 
threatening look; "we have both blood 
in our veins which we wish to shed -- 
that is our mutual guaranty. Tell the 
viscount so, and that to-morrow, before 
ten o'clock, I shall see what color his 
is."

"Then I have only to make arrangements 
for the duel," said Beauchamp.

"It is quite immaterial to me," said 
Monte Cristo, "and it was very 
unnecessary to disturb me at the opera 
for such a trifle. In France people 
fight with the sword or pistol, in the 
colonies with the carbine, in Arabia 
with the dagger. Tell your client that, 
although I am the insulted party, in 
order to carry out my eccentricity, I 
leave him the choice of arms, and will 
accept without discussion, without 
dispute, anything, even combat by 
drawing lots, which is always stupid, 
but with me different from other 
people, as I am sure to gain."

"Sure to gain!" repeated Beauchamp, 
looking with amazement at the count.

"Certainly," said Monte Cristo, 
slightly shrugging his shoulders; 
"otherwise I would not fight with M. de 
Morcerf. I shall kill him -- I cannot 
help it. Only by a single line this 
evening at my house let me know the 
arms and the hour; I do not like to be 
kept waiting."

"Pistols, then, at eight o'clock, in 
the Bois de Vincennes," said Beauchamp, 
quite disconcerted, not knowing if he 
was dealing with an arrogant 
braggadocio or a supernatural being.

"Very well, sir," said Monte Cristo. 
"Now all that is settled, do let me see 
the performance, and tell your friend 
Albert not to come any more this 
evening; he will hurt himself with all 
his ill-chosen barbarisms: let him go 
home and go to sleep." Beauchamp left 
the box, perfectly amazed. "Now," said 
Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel, 
"I may depend upon you, may I not?"

"Certainly," said Morrel, "I am at your 
service, count; still" --

"What?"

"It is desirable I should know the real 
cause."

"That is to say, you would rather not?"

"No."

"The young man himself is acting 
blindfolded, and knows not the true 
cause, which is known only to God and 
to me; but I give you my word, Morrel, 
that God, who does know it, will be on 
our side."

"Enough," said Morrel; "who is your 
second witness?"

"I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on 
whom I could confer that honor besides 
you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you 
think Emmanuel would oblige me?"

"I will answer for him, count."

"Well? that is all I require. To-morrow 
morning, at seven o'clock, you will be 
with me, will you not?"

"We will."

"Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I 
never lose a note of this opera if I 
can avoid it; the music of William Tell 
is so sweet." 

 Chapter 89 A Nocturnal Interview.

Monte Cristo waited, according to his 
usual custom, until Duprez had sung his 
famous "Suivez-moi;" then he rose and 
went out. Morrel took leave of him at 
the door, renewing his promise to be 
with him the next morning at seven 
o'clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he 
stepped into his coupe, calm and 
smiling, and was at home in five 
minutes. No one who knew the count 
could mistake his expression when, on 
entering, he said, "Ali, bring me my 
pistols with the ivory cross."

Ali brought the box to his master, who 
examined the weapons with a solicitude 
very natural to a man who is about to 
intrust his life to a little powder and 
shot. These were pistols of an especial 
pattern, which Monte Cristo had had 
made for target practice in his own 
room. A cap was sufficient to drive out 
the bullet, and from the adjoining room 
no one would have suspected that the 
count was, as sportsmen would say, 
keeping his hand in. He was just taking 
one up and looking for the point to aim 
at on a little iron plate which served 
him as a target, when his study door 
opened, and Baptistin entered. Before 
he had spoken a word, the count saw in 
the next room a veiled woman, who had 
followed closely after Baptistin, and 
now, seeing the count with a pistol in 
his hand and swords on the table, 
rushed in. Baptistin looked at his 
master, who made a sign to him, and he 
went out, closing the door after him. 
"Who are you, madame?" said the count 
to the veiled woman.

The stranger cast one look around her, 
to be certain that they were quite 
alone; then bending as if she would 
have knelt, and joining her hands, she 
said with an accent of despair, 
"Edmond, you will not kill my son?" The 
count retreated a step, uttered a 
slight exclamation, and let fall the 
pistol he held. "What name did you 
pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?" 
said he. "Yours!" cried she, throwing 
back her veil, -- "yours, which I 
alone, perhaps, have not forgotten. 
Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who 
is come to you, it is Mercedes."

"Mercedes is dead, madame," said Monte 
Cristo; "I know no one now of that 
name."

"Mercedes lives, sir, and she 
remembers, for she alone recognized you 
when she saw you, and even before she 
saw you, by your voice, Edmond, -- by 
the simple sound of your voice; and 
from that moment she has followed your 
steps, watched you, feared you, and she 
needs not to inquire what hand has 
dealt the blow which now strikes M. de 
Morcerf."

"Fernand, do you mean?" replied Monte 
Cristo, with bitter irony; "since we 
are recalling names, let us remember 
them all." Monte Cristo had pronounced 
the name of Fernand with such an 
expression of hatred that Mercedes felt 
a thrill of horror run through every 
vein. "You see, Edmond, I am not 
mistaken, and have cause to say, `Spare 
my son!'"

"And who told you, madame, that I have 
any hostile intentions against your 
son?"

"No one, in truth; but a mother has 
twofold sight. I guessed all; I 
followed him this evening to the opera, 
and, concealed in a parquet box, have 
seen all."

"If you have seen all, madame, you know 
that the son of Fernand has publicly 
insulted me," said Monte Cristo with 
awful calmness.

"Oh, for pity's sake!"

"You have seen that he would have 
thrown his glove in my face if Morrel, 
one of my friends, had not stopped him."

"Listen to me, my son has also guessed 
who you are, -- he attributes his 
father's misfortunes to you."

"Madame, you are mistaken, they are not 
misfortunes, -- it is a punishment. It 
is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it 
is providence which punishes him."

"And why do you represent providence?" 
cried Mercedes. "Why do you remember 
when it forgets? What are Yanina and 
its vizier to you, Edmond? What injury 
his Fernand Mondego done you in 
betraying Ali Tepelini?"

"Ah, madame," replied Monte Cristo, 
"all this is an affair between the 
French captain and the daughter of 
Vasiliki. It does not concern me, you 
are right; and if I have sworn to 
revenge myself, it is not on the French 
captain, or the Count of Morcerf, but 
on the fisherman Fernand, the husband 
of Mercedes the Catalane."

"Ah, sir!" cried the countess, "how 
terrible a vengeance for a fault which 
fatality made me commit! -- for I am 
the only culprit, Edmond, and if you 
owe revenge to any one, it is to me, 
who had not fortitude to bear your 
absence and my solitude."

"But," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "why was 
I absent? And why were you alone?"

"Because you had been arrested, Edmond, 
and were a prisoner."

"And why was I arrested? Why was I a 
prisoner?"

"I do not know," said Mercedes. "You do 
not, madame; at least, I hope not. But 
I will tell you. I was arrested and 
became a prisoner because, under the 
arbor of La Reserve, the day before I 
was to marry you, a man named Danglars 
wrote this letter, which the fisherman 
Fernand himself posted." Monte Cristo 
went to a secretary, opened a drawer by 
a spring, from which he took a paper 
which had lost its original color, and 
the ink of which had become of a rusty 
hue -- this he placed in the hands of 
Mercedes. It was Danglars' letter to 
the king's attorney, which the Count of 
Monte Cristo, disguised as a clerk from 
the house of Thomson & French, had 
taken from the file against Edmond 
Dantes, on the day he had paid the two 
hundred thousand francs to M. de 
Boville. Mercedes read with terror the 
following lines: --

"The king's attorney is informed by a 
friend to the throne and religion that 
one Edmond Dantes, second in command on 
board the Pharaon, this day arrived 
from Smyrna, after having touched at 
Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, is the bearer 
of a letter from Murat to the usurper, 
and of another letter from the usurper 
to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample 
corroboration of this statement may be 
obtained by arresting the 
above-mentioned Edmond Dantes, who 
either carries the letter for Paris 
about with him, or has it at his 
father's abode. Should it not be found 
in possession of either father or son, 
then it will assuredly be discovered in 
the cabin belonging to the said Dantes 
on board the Pharaon."

"How dreadful!" said Mercedes, passing 
her hand across her brow, moist with 
perspiration; "and that letter" --

"I bought it for two hundred thousand 
francs, madame," said Monte Cristo; 
"but that is a trifle, since it enables 
me to justify myself to you."

"And the result of that letter" --

"You well know, madame, was my arrest; 
but you do not know how long that 
arrest lasted. You do not know that I 
remained for fourteen years within a 
quarter of a league of you, in a 
dungeon in the Chateau d'If. You do not 
know that every day of those fourteen 
years I renewed the vow of vengeance 
which I had made the first day; and yet 
I was not aware that you had married 
Fernand, my calumniator, and that my 
father had died of hunger!"

"Can it be?" cried Mercedes, shuddering.

"That is what I heard on leaving my 
prison fourteen years after I had 
entered it; and that is why, on account 
of the living Mercedes and my deceased 
father, I have sworn to revenge myself 
on Fernand, and -- I have revenged 
myself."

"And you are sure the unhappy Fernand 
did that?"

"I am satisfied, madame, that he did 
what I have told you; besides, that is 
not much more odious than that a 
Frenchman by adoption should pass over 
to the English; that a Spaniard by 
birth should have fought against the 
Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali 
should have betrayed and murdered Ali. 
Compared with such things, what is the 
letter you have just read? -- a lover's 
deception, which the woman who has 
married that man ought certainly to 
forgive; but not so the lover who was 
to have married her. Well, the French 
did not avenge themselves on the 
traitor, the Spaniards did not shoot 
the traitor, Ali in his tomb left the 
traitor unpunished; but I, betrayed, 
sacrificed, buried, have risen from my 
tomb, by the grace of God, to punish 
that man. He sends me for that purpose, 
and here I am." The poor woman's head 
and arms fell; her legs bent under her, 
and she fell on her knees. "Forgive, 
Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love 
you still!"

The dignity of the wife checked the 
fervor of the lover and the mother. Her 
forehead almost touched the carpet, 
when the count sprang forward and 
raised her. Then seated on a chair, she 
looked at the manly countenance of 
Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred 
still impressed a threatening 
expression. "Not crush that accursed 
race?" murmured he; "abandon my purpose 
at the moment of its accomplishment? 
Impossible, madame, impossible!"

"Edmond," said the poor mother, who 
tried every means, "when I call you 
Edmond, why do you not call me 
Mercedes?"

"Mercedes!" repeated Monte Cristo; 
"Mercedes! Well yes, you are right; 
that name has still its charms, and 
this is the first time for a long 
period that I have pronounced it so 
distinctly. Oh, Mercedes, I have 
uttered your name with the sigh of 
melancholy, with the groan of sorrow, 
with the last effort of despair; I have 
uttered it when frozen with cold, 
crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I 
have uttered it, consumed with heat, 
rolling on the stone floor of my 
prison. Mercedes, I must revenge 
myself, for I suffered fourteen years, 
-- fourteen years I wept, I cursed; now 
I tell you, Mercedes, I must revenge 
myself."

The count, fearing to yield to the 
entreaties of her he had so ardently 
loved, called his sufferings to the 
assistance of his hatred. "Revenge 
yourself, then, Edmond," cried the poor 
mother; "but let your vengeance fall on 
the culprits, -- on him, on me, but not 
on my son!"

"It is written in the good book," said 
Monte Cristo, "that the sins of the 
fathers shall fall upon their children 
to the third and fourth generation. 
Since God himself dictated those words 
to his prophet, why should I seek to 
make myself better than God?"

"Edmond," continued Mercedes, with her 
arms extended towards the count, "since 
I first knew you, I have adored your 
name, have respected your memory. 
Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to 
tarnish that noble and pure image 
reflected incessantly on the mirror of 
my heart. Edmond, if you knew all the 
prayers I have addressed to God for you 
while I thought you were living and 
since I have thought you must be dead! 
Yes, dead, alas! I imagined your dead 
body buried at the foot of some gloomy 
tower, or cast to the bottom of a pit 
by hateful jailers, and I wept! What 
could I do for you, Edmond, besides 
pray and weep? Listen; for ten years I 
dreamed each night the same dream. I 
had been told that you had endeavored 
to escape; that you had taken the place 
of another prisoner; that you had 
slipped into the winding sheet of a 
dead body; that you had been thrown 
alive from the top of the Chateau d'If, 
and that the cry you uttered as you 
dashed upon the rocks first revealed to 
your jailers that they were your 
murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to 
you, by the head of that son for whom I 
entreat your pity, -- Edmond, for ten 
years I saw every night every detail of 
that frightful tragedy, and for ten 
years I heard every night the cry which 
awoke me, shuddering and cold. And I, 
too, Edmond -- oh! believe me -- guilty 
as I was -- oh, yes, I, too, have 
suffered much!"

"Have you known what it is to have your 
father starve to death in your 
absence?" cried Monte Cristo, thrusting 
his hands into his hair; "have you seen 
the woman you loved giving her hand to 
your rival, while you were perishing at 
the bottom of a dungeon?"

"No," interrupted Mercedes, "but I have 
seen him whom I loved on the point of 
murdering my son." Mercedes uttered 
these words with such deep anguish, 
with an accent of such intense despair, 
that Monte Cristo could not restrain a 
sob. The lion was daunted; the avenger 
was conquered. "What do you ask of me?" 
said he, -- "your son's life? Well, he 
shall live!" Mercedes uttered a cry 
which made the tears start from Monte 
Cristo's eyes; but these tears 
disappeared almost instantaneously, 
for, doubtless, God had sent some angel 
to collect them -- far more precious 
were they in his eyes than the richest 
pearls of Guzerat and Ophir.

"Oh," said she, seizing the count's 
hand and raising it to her lips; "oh, 
thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you 
are exactly what I dreamt you were, -- 
the man I always loved. Oh, now I may 
say so!"

"So much the better," replied Monte 
Cristo; "as that poor Edmond will not 
have long to be loved by you. Death is 
about to return to the tomb, the 
phantom to retire in darkness."

"What do you say, Edmond?"

"I say, since you command me, Mercedes, 
I must die."

"Die? and why so? Who talks of dying? 
Whence have you these ideas of death?"

"You do not suppose that, publicly 
outraged in the face of a whole 
theatre, in the presence of your 
friends and those of your son -- 
challenged by a boy who will glory in 
my forgiveness as if it were a victory 
-- you do not suppose that I can for 
one moment wish to live. What I most 
loved after you, Mercedes, was myself, 
my dignity, and that strength which 
rendered me superior to other men; that 
strength was my life. With one word you 
have crushed it, and I die."

"But the duel will not take place, 
Edmond, since you forgive?"

"It will take place," said Monte 
Cristo, in a most solemn tone; "but 
instead of your son's blood to stain 
the ground, mine will flow." Mercedes 
shrieked, and sprang towards Monte 
Cristo, but, suddenly stopping, 
"Edmond," said she, "there is a God 
above us, since you live and since I 
have seen you again; I trust to him 
from my heart. While waiting his 
assistance I trust to your word; you 
have said that my son should live, have 
you not?"

"Yes, madame, he shall live," said 
Monte Cristo, surprised that without 
more emotion Mercedes had accepted the 
heroic sacrifice he made for her. 
Mercedes extended her hand to the count.

"Edmond," said she, and her eyes were 
wet with tears while looking at him to 
whom she spoke, "how noble it is of 
you, how great the action you have just 
performed, how sublime to have taken 
pity on a poor woman who appealed to 
you with every chance against her, 
Alas, I am grown old with grief more 
than with years, and cannot now remind 
my Edmond by a smile, or by a look, of 
that Mercedes whom he once spent so 
many hours in contemplating. Ah, 
believe me, Edmond, as I told you, I 
too have suffered much; I repeat, it is 
melancholy to pass one's life without 
having one joy to recall, without 
preserving a single hope; but that 
proves that all is not yet over. No, it 
is not finished; I feel it by what 
remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it, 
Edmond; what you have just done is 
beautiful -- it is grand; it is 
sublime."

"Do you say so now, Mercedes? -- then 
what would you say if you knew the 
extent of the sacrifice I make to you? 
Suppose that the Supreme Being, after 
having created the world and fertilized 
chaos, had paused in the work to spare 
an angel the tears that might one day 
flow for mortal sins from her immortal 
eyes; suppose that when everything was 
in readiness and the moment had come 
for God to look upon his work and see 
that it was good -- suppose he had 
snuffed out the sun and tossed the 
world back into eternal night -- then 
-- even then, Mercedes, you could not 
imagine what I lose in sacrificing my 
life at this moment." Mercedes looked 
at the count in a way which expressed 
at the same time her astonishment, her 
admiration, and her gratitude. Monte 
Cristo pressed his forehead on his 
burning hands, as if his brain could no 
longer bear alone the weight of its 
thoughts. "Edmond," said Mercedes, "I 
have but one word more to say to you." 
The count smiled bitterly. "Edmond," 
continued she, "you will see that if my 
face is pale, if my eyes are dull, if 
my beauty is gone; if Mercedes, in 
short, no longer resembles her former 
self in her features, you will see that 
her heart is still the same. Adieu, 
then, Edmond; I have nothing more to 
ask of heaven -- I have seen you again, 
and have found you as noble and as 
great as formerly you were. Adieu, 
Edmond, adieu, and thank you."

But the count did not answer. Mercedes 
opened the door of the study and had 
disappeared before he had recovered 
from the painful and profound revery 
into which his thwarted vengeance had 
plunged him. The clock of the Invalides 
struck one when the carriage which 
conveyed Madame de Morcerf away rolled 
on the pavement of the Champs-Elysees, 
and made Monte Cristo raise his head. 
"What a fool I was," said he, "not to 
tear my heart out on the day when I 
resolved to avenge myself!" 

 Chapter 90 The Meeting.

After Mercedes had left Monte Cristo, 
he fell into profound gloom. Around him 
and within him the flight of thought 
seemed to have stopped; his energetic 
mind slumbered, as the body does after 
extreme fatigue. "What?" said he to 
himself, while the lamp and the wax 
lights were nearly burnt out, and the 
servants were waiting impatiently in 
the anteroom; "what? this edifice which 
I have been so long preparing, which I 
have reared with so much care and toil, 
is to be crushed by a single touch, a 
word, a breath! Yes, this self, of whom 
I thought so much, of whom I was so 
proud, who had appeared so worthless in 
the dungeons of the Chateau d'If, and 
whom I had succeeded in making so 
great, will be but a lump of clay 
to-morrow. Alas, it is not the death of 
the body I regret; for is not the 
destruction of the vital principle, the 
repose to which everything is tending, 
to which every unhappy being aspires, 
-- is not this the repose of matter 
after which I so long sighed, and which 
I was seeking to attain by the painful 
process of starvation when Faria 
appeared in my dungeon? What is death 
for me? One step farther into rest, -- 
two, perhaps, into silence.

"No, it is not existence, then, that I 
regret, but the ruin of projects so 
slowly carried out, so laboriously 
framed. Providence is now opposed to 
them, when I most thought it would be 
propitious. It is not God's will that 
they should be accomplished. This 
burden, almost as heavy as a world, 
which I had raised, and I had thought 
to bear to the end, was too great for 
my strength, and I was compelled to lay 
it down in the middle of my career. Oh, 
shall I then, again become a fatalist, 
whom fourteen years of despair and ten 
of hope had rendered a believer in 
providence? And all this -- all this, 
because my heart, which I thought dead, 
was only sleeping; because it has 
awakened and has begun to beat again, 
because I have yielded to the pain of 
the emotion excited in my breast by a 
woman's voice. Yet," continued the 
count, becoming each moment more 
absorbed in the anticipation of the 
dreadful sacrifice for the morrow, 
which Mercedes had accepted, "yet, it 
is impossible that so noble-minded a 
woman should thus through selfishness 
consent to my death when I am in the 
prime of life and strength; it is 
impossible that she can carry to such a 
point maternal love, or rather 
delirium. There are virtues which 
become crimes by exaggeration. No, she 
must have conceived some pathetic 
scene; she will come and throw herself 
between us; and what would be sublime 
here will there appear ridiculous." The 
blush of pride mounted to the count's 
forehead as this thought passed through 
his mind. "Ridiculous?" repeated he; 
"and the ridicule will fall on me. I 
ridiculous? No, I would rather die."

By thus exaggerating to his own mind 
the anticipated ill-fortune of the next 
day, to which he had condemned himself 
by promising Mercedes to spare her son, 
the count at last exclaimed, "Folly, 
folly, folly! -- to carry generosity so 
far as to put myself up as a mark for 
that young man to aim at. He will never 
believe that my death was suicide; and 
yet it is important for the honor of my 
memory, -- and this surely is not 
vanity, but a justifiable pride, -- it 
is important the world should know that 
I have consented, by my free will, to 
stop my arm, already raised to strike, 
and that with the arm which has been so 
powerful against others I have struck 
myself. It must be; it shall be."

Seizing a pen, he drew a paper from a 
secret drawer in his desk, and wrote at 
the bottom of the document (which was 
no other than his will, made since his 
arrival in Paris) a sort of codicil, 
clearly explaining the nature of his 
death. "I do this, O my God," said he, 
with his eyes raised to heaven, "as 
much for thy honor as for mine. I have 
during ten years considered myself the 
agent of thy vengeance, and other 
wretches, like Morcerf, Danglars, 
Villefort, even Morcerf himself, must 
not imagine that chance has freed them 
from their enemy. Let them know, on the 
contrary, that their punishment, which 
had been decreed by providence, is only 
delayed by my present determination, 
and although they escape it in this 
world, it awaits them in another, and 
that they are only exchanging time for 
eternity."

While he was thus agitated by gloomy 
uncertainties, -- wretched waking 
dreams of grief, -- the first rays of 
morning pierced his windows, and shone 
upon the pale blue paper on which he 
had just inscribed his justification of 
providence. It was just five o'clock in 
the morning when a slight noise like a 
stifled sigh reached his ear. He turned 
his head, looked around him, and saw no 
one; but the sound was repeated 
distinctly enough to convince him of 
its reality.

He arose, and quietly opening the door 
of the drawing-room, saw Haidee, who 
had fallen on a chair, with her arms 
hanging down and her beautiful head 
thrown back. She had been standing at 
the door, to prevent his going out 
without seeing her, until sleep, which 
the young cannot resist, had 
overpowered her frame, wearied as she 
was with watching. The noise of the 
door did not awaken her, and Monte 
Cristo gazed at her with affectionate 
regret. "She remembered that she had a 
son," said he; "and I forgot I had a 
daughter." Then, shaking his head 
sorrowfully, "Poor Haidee," said he; 
"she wished to see me, to speak to me; 
she has feared or guessed something. 
Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of 
her; I cannot die without confiding her 
to some one." He quietly regained his 
seat, and wrote under the other lines: 
--

"I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel, 
captain of Spahis, -- and son of my 
former patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner 
at Marseilles, -- the sum of twenty 
millions, a part of which may be 
offered to his sister Julia and 
brother-in-law Emmanuel, if he does not 
fear this increase of fortune may mar 
their happiness. These twenty millions 
are concealed in my grotto at Monte 
Cristo, of which Bertuccio knows the 
secret. If his heart is free, and he 
will marry Haidee, the daughter of Ali 
Pasha of Yanina, whom I have brought up 
with the love of a father, and who has 
shown the love and tenderness of a 
daughter for me, he will thus 
accomplish my last wish. This will has 
already constituted Haidee heiress of 
the rest of my fortune, consisting of 
lands, funds in England, Austria, and 
Holland, furniture in my different 
palaces and houses, and which without 
the twenty millions and the legacies to 
my servants, may still amount to sixty 
millions."

He was finishing the last line when a 
cry behind him made him start, and the 
pen fell from his hand. "Haidee," said 
he. "did you read it?"

"Oh, my lord," said she, "why are you 
writing thus at such an hour? Why are 
you bequeathing all your fortune to me? 
Are you going to leave me?"

"I am going on a journey, dear child," 
said Monte Cristo, with an expression 
of infinite tenderness and melancholy; 
"and if any misfortune should happen to 
me"

The count stopped. "Well?" asked the 
young girl, with an authoritative tone 
the count had never observed before, 
and which startled him. "Well, if any 
misfortune happen to me," replied Monte 
Cristo, "I wish my daughter to be 
happy." Haidee smiled sorrowfully, and 
shook her head. "Do you think of dying, 
my lord?" said she.

"The wise man, my child, has said, `It 
is good to think of death.'"

"Well, if you die," said she, "bequeath 
your fortune to others, for if you die 
I shall require nothing;" and, taking 
the paper, she tore it in four pieces, 
and threw it into the middle of the 
room. Then, the effort having exhausted 
her strength, she fell not asleep this 
time, but fainting on the floor. The 
count leaned over her and raised her in 
his arms; and seeing that sweet pale 
face, those lovely eyes closed, that 
beautiful form motionless and to all 
appearance lifeless, the idea occurred 
to him for the first time, that perhaps 
she loved him otherwise than as a 
daughter loves a father.

"Alas," murmured he, with intense 
suffering, "I might, then, have been 
happy yet." Then he carried Haidee to 
her room, resigned her to the care of 
her attendants, and returning to his 
study, which he shut quickly this time, 
he again copied the destroyed will. As 
he was finishing, the sound of a 
cabriolet entering the yard was heard. 
Monte Cristo approached the window, and 
saw Maximilian and Emmanuel alight. 
"Good," said he; "it was time," -- and 
he sealed his will with three seals. A 
moment afterwards he heard a noise in 
the drawing-room, and went to open the 
door himself. Morrel was there; he had 
come twenty minutes before the time 
appointed. "I am perhaps come too soon, 
count," said he, "but I frankly 
acknowledge that I have not closed my 
eyes all night, nor has any one in my 
house. I need to see you strong in your 
courageous assurance, to recover 
myself." Monte Cristo could not resist 
this proof of affection; he not only 
extended his hand to the young man, but 
flew to him with open arms. "Morrel," 
said he, "it is a happy day for me, to 
feel that I am beloved by such a man as 
you. Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will 
come with me then, Maximilian?"

"Did you doubt it?" said the young 
captain.

"But if I were wrong" --

"I watched you during the whole scene 
of that challenge yesterday; I have 
been thinking of your firmness all 
night, and I said to myself that 
justice must be on your side, or man's 
countenance is no longer to be relied 
on."

"But, Morrel, Albert is your friend?"

"Simply an acquaintance, sir."

"You met on the same day you first saw 
me?"

"Yes, that is true; but I should not 
have recollected it if you had not 
reminded me."

"Thank you, Morrel." Then ringing the 
bell once, "Look." said he to Ali, who 
came immediately, "take that to my 
solicitor. It is my will, Morrel. When 
I am dead, you will go and examine it."

"What?" said Morrel, "you dead?"

"Yes; must I not be prepared for 
everything, dear friend? But what did 
you do yesterday after you left me?"

"I went to Tortoni's, where, as I 
expected, I found Beauchamp and 
Chateau-Renaud. I own I was seeking 
them."

"Why, when all was arranged?"

"Listen, count; the affair is serious 
and unavoidable."

"Did you doubt it!"

"No; the offence was public, and every 
one is already talking of it."

"Well?"

"Well, I hoped to get an exchange of 
arms, -- to substitute the sword for 
the pistol; the pistol is blind."

"Have you succeeded?" asked Monte 
Cristo quickly, with an imperceptible 
gleam of hope.

"No; for your skill with the sword is 
so well known."

"Ah? -- who has betrayed me?"

"The skilful swordsman whom you have 
conquered."

"And you failed?"

"They positively refused."

"Morrel," said the count, "have you 
ever seen me fire a pistol?"

"Never."

"Well, we have time; look." Monte 
Cristo took the pistols he held in his 
hand when Mercedes entered, and fixing 
an ace of clubs against the iron plate, 
with four shots he successively shot 
off the four sides of the club. At each 
shot Morrel turned pale. He examined 
the bullets with which Monte Cristo 
performed this dexterous feat, and saw 
that they were no larger than buckshot. 
"It is astonishing," said he. "Look, 
Emmanuel." Then turning towards Monte 
Cristo, "Count," said he, "in the name 
of all that is dear to you, I entreat 
you not to kill Albert! -- the unhappy 
youth has a mother."

"You are right," said Monte Cristo; 
"and I have none." These words were 
uttered in a tone which made Morrel 
shudder. "You are the offended party, 
count."

"Doubtless; what does that imply?"

"That you will fire first."

"I fire first?"

"Oh, I obtained, or rather claimed 
that; we had conceded enough for them 
to yield us that."

"And at what distance?"

"Twenty paces." A smile of terrible 
import passed over the count's lips. 
"Morrel," said he, "do not forget what 
you have just seen."

"The only chance for Albert's safety, 
then, will arise from your emotion."

"I suffer from emotion?" said Monte 
Cristo.

"Or from your generosity, my friend; to 
so good a marksman as you are, I may 
say what would appear absurd to 
another."

"What is that?"

"Break his arm -- wound him -- but do 
not kill him."

"I will tell you, Morrel," said the 
count, "that I do not need entreating 
to spare the life of M. de Morcerf; he 
shall be so well spared, that he will 
return quietly with his two friends, 
while I" --

"And you?"

"That will be another thing; I shall be 
brought home."

"No, no," cried Maximilian, quite 
unable to restrain his feelings.

"As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de 
Morcerf will kill me." Morrel looked at 
him in utter amazement. "But what has 
happened, then, since last evening, 
count?"

"The same thing that happened to Brutus 
the night before the battle of 
Philippi; I have seen a ghost."

"And that ghost" --

"Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long 
enough." Maximilian and Emmanuel looked 
at each other. Monte Cristo drew out 
his watch. "Let us go," said he; "it is 
five minutes past seven, and the 
appointment was for eight o'clock." A 
carriage was in readiness at the door. 
Monte Cristo stepped into it with his 
two friends. He had stopped a moment in 
the passage to listen at a door, and 
Maximilian and Emmanuel, who had 
considerately passed forward a few 
steps, thought they heard him answer by 
a sigh to a sob from within. As the 
clock struck eight they drove up to the 
place of meeting. "We are first," said 
Morrel, looking out of the window. 
"Excuse me, sir," said Baptistin, who 
had followed his master with 
indescribable terror, "but I think I 
see a carriage down there under the 
trees."

Monte Cristo sprang lightly from the 
carriage, and offered his hand to 
assist Emmanuel and Maximilian. The 
latter retained the count's hand 
between his. "I like," said he, "to 
feel a hand like this, when its owner 
relies on the goodness of his cause."

"It seems to me," said Emmanuel, "that 
I see two young men down there, who are 
evidently, waiting." Monte Cristo drew 
Morrel a step or two behind his 
brother-in-law. "Maximilian," said he, 
"are your affections disengaged?" 
Morrel looked at Monte Cristo with 
astonishment. "I do not seek your 
confidence, my dear friend. I only ask 
you a simple question; answer it; -- 
that is all I require."

"I love a young girl, count."

"Do you love her much?"

"More than my life."

"Another hope defeated!" said the 
count. Then, with a sigh, "Poor 
Haidee!" murmured he.

"To tell the truth, count, if I knew 
less of you, I should think that you 
were less brave than you are."

"Because I sigh when thinking of some 
one I am leaving? Come, Morrel, it is 
not like a soldier to be so bad a judge 
of courage. Do I regret life? What is 
it to me, who have passed twenty years 
between life and death? Moreover, do 
not alarm yourself, Morrel; this 
weakness, if it is such, is betrayed to 
you alone. I know the world is a 
drawing-room, from which we must retire 
politely and honestly; that is, with a 
bow, and our debts of honor paid."

"That is to the purpose. Have you 
brought your arms?"

"I? -- what for? I hope these gentlemen 
have theirs."

"I will inquire," said Morrel.

"Do; but make no treaty -- you 
understand me?"

"You need not fear." Morrel advanced 
towards Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud, 
who, seeing his intention, came to meet 
him. The three young men bowed to each 
other courteously, if not affably.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Morrel, 
"but I do not see M. de Morcerf."

"He sent us word this morning," replied 
Chateau-Renaud, "that he would meet us 
on the ground."

"Ah," said Morrel. Beauchamp pulled out 
his watch. "It is only five minutes 
past eight," said he to Morrel; "there 
is not much time lost yet."

"Oh, I made no allusion of that kind," 
replied Morrel.

"There is a carriage coming," said 
Chateau-Renaud. It advanced rapidly 
along one of the avenues leading 
towards the open space where they were 
assembled. "You are doubtless provided 
with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte 
Cristo yields his right of using his."

"We had anticipated this kindness on 
the part of the count," said Beauchamp, 
"and I have brought some weapons which 
I bought eight or ten days since, 
thinking to want them on a similar 
occasion. They are quite new, and have 
not yet been used. Will you examine 
them."

"Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me 
that M. de Morcerf does not know these 
pistols, you may readily believe that 
your word will be quite sufficient."

"Gentlemen," said Chateau-Renaud, "it 
is not Morcerf coming in that carriage; 
-- faith, it is Franz and Debray!" The 
two young men he announced were indeed 
approaching. "What chance brings you 
here, gentlemen?" said Chateau-Renaud, 
shaking hands with each of them. 
"Because," said Debray, "Albert sent 
this morning to request us to come." 
Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud exchanged 
looks of astonishment. "I think I 
understand his reason," said Morrel.

"What is it?"

"Yesterday afternoon I received a 
letter from M. de Morcerf, begging me 
to attend the opera."

"And I," said Debray.

"And I also," said Franz.

"And we, too," added Beauchamp and 
Chateau-Renaud.

"Having wished you all to witness the 
challenge, he now wishes you to be 
present at the combat."

"Exactly so," said the young men; "you 
have probably guessed right."

"But, after all these arrangements, he 
does not come himself," said 
Chateau-Renaud. "Albert is ten minutes 
after time."

"There he comes," said Beauchamp, "on 
horseback, at full gallop, followed by 
a servant."

"How imprudent," said Chateau-Renaud, 
"to come on horseback to fight a duel 
with pistols, after all the 
instructions I had given him."

"And besides," said Beauchamp, "with a 
collar above his cravat, an open coat 
and white waistcoat! Why has he not 
painted a spot upon his heart? -- it 
would have been more simple." Meanwhile 
Albert had arrived within ten paces of 
the group formed by the five young men. 
He jumped from his horse, threw the 
bridle on his servant's arms, and 
joined them. He was pale, and his eyes 
were red and swollen; it was evident 
that he had not slept. A shade of 
melancholy gravity overspread his 
countenance, which was not natural to 
him. "I thank you, gentlemen," said he, 
"for having complied with my request; I 
feel extremely grateful for this mark 
of friendship." Morrel had stepped back 
as Morcerf approached, and remained at 
a short distance. "And to you also, M. 
Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there 
cannot be too many."

"Sir," said Maximilian, "you are not 
perhaps aware that I am M. de Monte 
Cristo's friend?"

"I was not sure, but I thought it might 
be so. So much the better; the more 
honorable men there are here the better 
I shall be satisfied."

"M. Morrel," said Chateau-Renaud, "will 
you apprise the Count of Monte Cristo 
that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we 
are at his disposal?" Morrel was 
preparing to fulfil his commission. 
Beauchamp had meanwhile drawn the box 
of pistols from the carriage. "Stop, 
gentlemen," said Albert; "I have two 
words to say to the Count of Monte 
Cristo."

"In private?" asked Morrel.

"No, sir; before all who are here."

Albert's witnesses looked at each 
other. Franz and Debray exchanged some 
words in a whisper, and Morrel, 
rejoiced at this unexpected incident, 
went to fetch the count, who was 
walking in a retired path with 
Emmanuel. "What does he want with me?" 
said Monte Cristo.

"I do not know, but he wishes to speak 
to you."

"Ah?" said Monte Cristo, "I trust he is 
not going to tempt me by some fresh 
insult!"

"I do not think that such is his 
intention," said Morrel.

The count advanced, accompanied by 
Maximilian and Emmanuel. His calm and 
serene look formed a singular contrast 
to Albert's grief-stricken face, who 
approached also, followed by the other 
four young men. When at three paces 
distant from each other, Albert and the 
count stopped.

"Approach, gentlemen," said Albert; "I 
wish you not to lose one word of what I 
am about to have the honor of saying to 
the Count of Monte Cristo, for it must 
be repeated by you to all who will 
listen to it, strange as it may appear 
to you."

"Proceed, sir," said the count.

"Sir," said Albert, at first with a 
tremulous voice, but which gradually 
because firmer, "I reproached you with 
exposing the conduct of M. de Morcerf 
in Epirus, for guilty as I knew he was, 
I thought you had no right to punish 
him; but I have since learned that you 
had that right. It is not Fernand 
Mondego's treachery towards Ali Pasha 
which induces me so readily to excuse 
you, but the treachery of the fisherman 
Fernand towards you, and the almost 
unheard-of miseries which were its 
consequences; and I say, and proclaim 
it publicly, that you were justified in 
revenging yourself on my father, and I, 
his son, thank you for not using 
greater severity."

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst 
of the spectators of this unexpected 
scene, it would not have surprised them 
more than did Albert's declaration. As 
for Monte Cristo, his eyes slowly rose 
towards heaven with an expression of 
infinite gratitude. He could not 
understand how Albert's fiery nature, 
of which he had seen so much among the 
Roman bandits, had suddenly stooped to 
this humiliation. He recognized the 
influence of Mercedes, and saw why her 
noble heart had not opposed the 
sacrifice she knew beforehand would be 
useless. "Now, sir," said Albert, "if 
you think my apology sufficient, pray 
give me your hand. Next to the merit of 
infallibility which you appear to 
possess, I rank that of candidly 
acknowledging a fault. But this 
confession concerns me only. I acted 
well as a man, but you have acted 
better than man. An angel alone could 
have saved one of us from death -- that 
angel came from heaven, if not to make 
us friends (which, alas, fatality 
renders impossible), at least to make 
us esteem each other."

Monte Cristo, with moistened eye, 
heaving breast, and lips half open, 
extended to Albert a hand which the 
latter pressed with a sentiment 
resembling respectful fear. 
"Gentlemen," said he, "M. de Monte 
Cristo receives my apology. I had acted 
hastily towards him. Hasty actions are 
generally bad ones. Now my fault is 
repaired. I hope the world will not 
call me cowardly for acting as my 
conscience dictated. But if any one 
should entertain a false opinion of 
me," added he, drawing himself up as if 
he would challenge both friends and 
enemies, "I shall endeavor to correct 
his mistake."

"What happened during the night?" asked 
Beauchamp of Chateau-Renaud; "we appear 
to make a very sorry figure here."

"In truth, what Albert has just done is 
either very despicable or very noble," 
replied the baron.

"What can it mean?" said Debray to 
Franz. "The Count of Monte Cristo acts 
dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is 
justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas 
in my family, I should only consider 
myself the more bound to fight ten 
times." As for Monte Cristo, his head 
was bent down, his arms were powerless. 
Bowing under the weight of twenty-four 
years' reminiscences, he thought not of 
Albert, of Beauchamp, of 
Chateau-Renaud, or of any of that 
group; but he thought of that 
courageous woman who had come to plead 
for her son's life, to whom he had 
offered his, and who had now saved it 
by the revelation of a dreadful family 
secret, capable of destroying forever 
in that young man's heart every feeling 
of filial piety.

"Providence still," murmured he; "now 
only am I fully convinced of being the 
emissary of God!" 

 Chapter 91 Mother and Son.

The Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the 
five young men with a melancholy and 
dignified smile, and got into his 
carriage with Maximilian and Emmanuel. 
Albert, Beauchamp, and Chateau-Renaud 
remained alone. Albert looked at his 
two friends, not timidly, but in a way 
that appeared to ask their opinion of 
what he had just done.

"Indeed, my dear friend," said 
Beauchamp first, who had either the 
most feeling or the least 
dissimulation, "allow me to 
congratulate you; this is a very 
unhoped-for conclusion of a very 
disagreeable affair."

Albert remained silent and wrapped in 
thought. Chateau-Renaud contented 
himself with tapping his boot with his 
flexible cane. "Are we not going?" said 
he, after this embarrassing silence. 
"When you please," replied Beauchamp; 
"allow me only to compliment M. de 
Morcerf, who has given proof to-day of 
rare chivalric generosity."

"Oh, yes," said Chateau-Renaud.

"It is magnificent," continued 
Beauchamp, "to be able to exercise so 
much self-control!"

"Assuredly; as for me, I should have 
been incapable of it," said 
Chateau-Renaud, with most significant 
coolness.

"Gentlemen," interrupted Albert, "I 
think you did not understand that 
something very serious had passed 
between M. de Monte Cristo and myself."

"Possibly, possibly," said Beauchamp 
immediately; "but every simpleton would 
not be able to understand your heroism, 
and sooner or later you will find 
yourself compelled to explain it to 
them more energetically than would be 
convenient to your bodily health and 
the duration of your life. May I give 
you a friendly counsel? Set out for 
Naples, the Hague, or St. Petersburg -- 
calm countries, where the point of 
honor is better understood than among 
our hot-headed Parisians. Seek quietude 
and oblivion, so that you may return 
peaceably to France after a few years. 
Am I not right, M. de Chateau-Renaud?"

"That is quite my opinion," said the 
gentleman; "nothing induces serious 
duels so much as a duel forsworn."

"Thank you, gentlemen," replied Albert, 
with a smile of indifference; "I shall 
follow your advice -- not because you 
give it, but because I had before 
intended to quit France. I thank you 
equally for the service you have 
rendered me in being my seconds. It is 
deeply engraved on my heart, and, after 
what you have just said, I remember 
that only." Chateau-Renaud and 
Beauchamp looked at each other; the 
impression was the same on both of 
them, and the tone in which Morcerf had 
just expressed his thanks was so 
determined that the position would have 
become embarrassing for all if the 
conversation had continued.

"Good-by, Albert," said Beauchamp 
suddenly, carelessly extending his hand 
to the young man. The latter did not 
appear to arouse from his lethargy; in 
fact, he did not notice the offered 
hand. "Good-by," said Chateau-Renaud in 
his turn, keeping his little cane in 
his left hand, and saluting with his 
right. Albert's lips scarcely whispered 
"Good-by," but his look was more 
explicit; it expressed a whole poem of 
restrained anger, proud disdain, and 
generous indignation. He preserved his 
melancholy and motionless position for 
some time after his two friends had 
regained their carriage; then suddenly 
unfastening his horse from the little 
tree to which his servant had tied it, 
he mounted and galloped off in the 
direction of Paris.

In a quarter of an hour he was entering 
the house in the Rue du Helder. As he 
alighted, he thought he saw his 
father's pale face behind the curtain 
of the count's bedroom. Albert turned 
away his head with a sigh, and went to 
his own apartments. He cast one 
lingering look on all the luxuries 
which had rendered life so easy and so 
happy since his infancy; he looked at 
the pictures, whose faces seemed to 
smile, and the landscapes, which 
appeared painted in brighter colors. 
Then he took away his mother's 
portrait, with its oaken frame, leaving 
the gilt frame from which he took it 
black and empty. Then he arranged all 
his beautiful Turkish arms, his fine 
English guns, his Japanese china, his 
cups mounted in silver, his artistic 
bronzes by Feucheres and Barye; 
examined the cupboards, and placed the 
key in each; threw into a drawer of his 
secretary, which he left open, all the 
pocket-money he had about him, and with 
it the thousand fancy jewels from his 
vases and his jewel-boxes; then he made 
an exact inventory of everything, and 
placed it in the most conspicuous part 
of the table, after putting aside the 
books and papers which had collected 
there.

At the beginning of this work, his 
servant, notwithstanding orders to the 
contrary, came to his room. "What do 
you want?" asked he, with a more 
sorrowful than angry tone. "Pardon me, 
sir," replied the valet; "you had 
forbidden me to disturb you, but the 
Count of Morcerf has called me."

"Well!" said Albert.

"I did not like to go to him without 
first seeing you."

"Why?"

"Because the count is doubtless aware 
that I accompanied you to the meeting 
this morning."

"It is probable," said Albert.

"And since he has sent for me, it is 
doubtless to question me on what 
happened there. What must I answer?"

"The truth."

"Then I shall say the duel did not take 
place?"

"You will say I apologized to the Count 
of Monte Cristo. Go."

The valet bowed and retired, and Albert 
returned to his inventory. As he was 
finishing this work, the sound of 
horses prancing in the yard, and the 
wheels of a carriage shaking his 
window, attracted his attention. He 
approached the window, and saw his 
father get into it, and drive away. The 
door was scarcely closed when Albert 
bent his steps to his mother's room; 
and, no one being there to announce 
him, he advanced to her bed-chamber, 
and distressed by what he saw and 
guessed, stopped for one moment at the 
door. As if the same idea had animated 
these two beings, Mercedes was doing 
the same in her apartments that he had 
just done in his. Everything was in 
order, -- laces, dresses, jewels, 
linen, money, all were arranged in the 
drawers, and the countess was carefully 
collecting the keys. Albert saw all 
these preparations and understood them, 
and exclaiming, "My mother!" he threw 
his arms around her neck.

The artist who could have depicted the 
expression of these two countenances 
would certainly have made of them a 
beautiful picture. All these proofs of 
an energetic resolution, which Albert 
did not fear on his own account, 
alarmed him for his mother. "What are 
you doing?" asked he.

"What were you doing?" replied she.

"Oh, my mother!" exclaimed Albert, so 
overcome he could scarcely speak; "it 
is not the same with you and me -- you 
cannot have made the same resolution I 
have, for I have come to warn you that 
I bid adieu to your house, and -- and 
to you."

"I also," replied Mercedes, "am going, 
and I acknowledge I had depended on 
your accompanying me; have I deceived 
myself?"

"Mother," said Albert with firmness. "I 
cannot make you share the fate I have 
planned for myself. I must live 
henceforth without rank and fortune, 
and to begin this hard apprenticeship I 
must borrow from a friend the loaf I 
shall eat until I have earned one. So, 
my dear mother, I am going at once to 
ask Franz to lend me the small sum I 
shall require to supply my present 
wants."

"You, my poor child, suffer poverty and 
hunger? Oh, do not say so; it will 
break my resolutions."

"But not mine, mother," replied Albert. 
"I am young and strong; I believe I am 
courageous, and since yesterday I have 
learned the power of will. Alas, my 
dear mother, some have suffered so 
much, and yet live, and have raised a 
new fortune on the ruin of all the 
promises of happiness which heaven had 
made them -- on the fragments of all 
the hope which God had given them! I 
have seen that, mother; I know that 
from the gulf in which their enemies 
have plunged them they have risen with 
so much vigor and glory that in their 
turn they have ruled their former 
conquerors, and have punished them. No. 
mother; from this moment I have done 
with the past, and accept nothing from 
it -- not even a name, because you can 
understand that your son cannot bear 
the name of a man who ought to blush 
for it before another."

"Albert, my child," said Mercedes, "if 
I had a stronger heart that is the 
counsel I would have given you; your 
conscience has spoken when my voice 
became too weak; listen to its 
dictates. You had friends, Albert; 
break off their acquaintance. But do 
not despair; you have life before you, 
my dear Albert, for you are yet 
scarcely twenty-two years old; and as a 
pure heart like yours wants a spotless 
name, take my father's -- it was 
Herrera. I am sure, my dear Albert, 
whatever may be your career, you will 
soon render that name illustrious. 
Then, my son, return to the world still 
more brilliant because of your former 
sorrows; and if I am wrong, still let 
me cherish these hopes, for I have no 
future to look forward to. For me the 
grave opens when I pass the threshold 
of this house."

"I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear 
mother," said the young man. "Yes, I 
share your hopes; the anger of heaven 
will not pursue us, since you are pure 
and I am innocent. But, since our 
resolution is formed, let us act 
promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about 
half an hour ago; the opportunity in 
favorable to avoid an explanation."

"I am ready, my son," said Mercedes. 
Albert ran to fetch a carriage. He 
recollected that there was a small 
furnished house to let in the Rue de 
Saints Peres, where his mother would 
find a humble but decent lodging, and 
thither he intended conducting the 
countess. As the carriage stopped at 
the door, and Albert was alighting, a 
man approached and gave him a letter. 
Albert recognized the bearer. "From the 
count," said Bertuccio. Albert took the 
letter, opened, and read it, then 
looked round for Bertuccio, but he was 
gone. He returned to Mercedes with 
tears in his eyes and heaving breast, 
and without uttering a word he gave her 
the letter. Mercedes read: --

Albert, -- While showing you that I 
have discovered your plans, I hope also 
to convince you of my delicacy. You are 
free, you leave the count's house, and 
you take your mother to your home; but 
reflect, Albert, you owe her more than 
your poor noble heart can pay her. Keep 
the struggle for yourself, bear all the 
suffering, but spare her the trial of 
poverty which must accompany your first 
efforts; for she deserves not even the 
shadow of the misfortune which has this 
day fallen on her, and providence is 
not willing that the innocent should 
suffer for the guilty. I know you are 
going to leave the Rue du Helder 
without taking anything with you. Do 
not seek to know how I discovered it; I 
know it -- that is sufficient.

Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years 
ago I returned, proud and joyful, to my 
country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a 
lovely girl whom I adored, and I was 
bringing to my betrothed a hundred and 
fifty louis, painfully amassed by 
ceaseless toil. This money was for her; 
I destined it for her, and, knowing the 
treachery of the sea I buried our 
treasure in the little garden of the 
house my father lived in at Marseilles, 
on the Allees de Meillan. Your mother, 
Albert, knows that poor house well. A 
short time since I passed through 
Marseilles, and went to see the old 
place, which revived so many painful 
recollections; and in the evening I 
took a spade and dug in the corner of 
the garden where I had concealed my 
treasure. The iron box was there -- no 
one had touched it -- under a beautiful 
fig-tree my father had planted the day 
I was born, which overshadowed the 
spot. Well, Albert, this money, which 
was formerly designed to promote the 
comfort and tranquillity of the woman I 
adored, may now, through strange and 
painful circumstances, be devoted to 
the same purpose. Oh, feel for me, who 
could offer millions to that poor 
woman, but who return her only the 
piece of black bread forgotten under my 
poor roof since the day I was torn from 
her I loved. You are a generous man, 
Albert, but perhaps you may be blinded 
by pride or resentment; if you refuse 
me, if you ask another for what I have 
a right to offer you, I will say it is 
ungenerous of you to refuse the life of 
your mother at the hands of a man whose 
father was allowed by your father to 
die in all the horrors of poverty and 
despair.

Albert stood pale and motionless to 
hear what his mother would decide after 
she had finished reading this letter. 
Mercedes turned her eyes with an 
ineffable look towards heaven. "I 
accept it," said she; "he has a right 
to pay the dowry, which I shall take 
with me to some convent!" Putting the 
letter in her bosom, she took her son's 
arm, and with a firmer step than she 
even herself expected she went 
down-stairs. 

 Chapter 92 The Suicide.

Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also 
returned to town with Emmanuel and 
Maximilian. Their return was cheerful. 
Emmanuel did not conceal his joy at the 
peaceful termination of the affair, and 
was loud in his expressions of delight. 
Morrel, in a corner of the carriage, 
allowed his brother-in-law's gayety to 
expend itself in words, while he felt 
equal inward joy, which, however, 
betrayed itself only in his 
countenance. At the Barriere du Trone 
they met Bertuccio, who was waiting 
there, motionless as a sentinel at his 
post. Monte Cristo put his head out of 
the window, exchanged a few words with 
him in a low tone, and the steward 
disappeared. "Count," said Emmanuel, 
when they were at the end of the Place 
Royale, "put me down at my door, that 
my wife may not have a single moment of 
needless anxiety on my account or 
yours."

"If it were not ridiculous to make a 
display of our triumph, I would invite 
the count to our house; besides that, 
he doubtless has some trembling heart 
to comfort. So we will take leave of 
our friend, and let him hasten home."

"Stop a moment," said Monte Cristo; "do 
not let me lose both my companions. 
Return, Emmanuel, to your charming 
wife, and present my best compliments 
to her; and do you, Morrel, accompany 
me to the Champs Elysees."

"Willingly," said Maximilian; 
"particularly as I have business in 
that quarter."

"Shall we wait breakfast for you?" 
asked Emmanuel.

"No," replied the young man. The door 
was closed, and the carriage proceeded. 
"See what good fortune I brought you!" 
said Morrel, when he was alone with the 
count. "Have you not thought so?"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "for that 
reason I wished to keep you near me."

"It is miraculous!" continued Morrel, 
answering his own thoughts.

"What?" said Monte Cristo.

"What has just happened."

"Yes," said the Count, "you are right 
-- it is miraculous."

"For Albert is brave," resumed Morrel.

"Very brave," said Monte Cristo; "I 
have seen him sleep with a sword 
suspended over his head."

"And I know he has fought two duels," 
said Morrel. "How can you reconcile 
that with his conduct this morning?"

"All owing to your influence," replied 
Monte Cristo, smiling.

"It is well for Albert he is not in the 
army," said Morrel.

"Why?"

"An apology on the ground!" said the 
young captain, shaking his head.

"Come," said the count mildly, "do not 
entertain the prejudices of ordinary 
men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if 
Albert is brave, he cannot be a coward; 
he must then have had some reason for 
acting as he did this morning, and 
confess that his conduct is more heroic 
than otherwise."

"Doubtless, doubtless," said Morrel; 
"but I shall say, like the Spaniard, 
`He has not been so brave to-day as he 
was yesterday.'"

"You will breakfast with me, will you 
not, Morrel?" said the count, to turn 
the conversation.

"No; I must leave you at ten o'clock."

"Your engagement was for breakfast, 
then?" said the count.

Morrel smiled, and shook his head. 
"Still you must breakfast somewhere."

"But if I am not hungry?" said the 
young man.

"Oh," said the count, "I only know two 
things which destroy the appetite, -- 
grief -- and as I am happy to see you 
very cheerful, it is not that -- and 
love. Now after what you told me this 
morning of your heart, I may believe" --

"Well, count," replied Morrel gayly, "I 
will not dispute it."

"But you will not make me your 
confidant, Maximilian?" said the count, 
in a tone which showed how gladly he 
would have been admitted to the secret.

"I showed you this morning that I had a 
heart, did I not, count?" Monte Cristo 
only answered by extending his hand to 
the young man. "Well," continued the 
latter, "since that heart is no longer 
with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it 
is elsewhere, and I must go and find 
it."

"Go," said the count deliberately; "go, 
dear friend, but promise me if you meet 
with any obstacle to remember that I 
have some power in this world, that I 
am happy to use that power in the 
behalf of those I love, and that I love 
you, Morrel."

"I will remember it," said the young 
man, "as selfish children recollect 
their parents when they want their aid. 
When I need your assistance, and the 
moment arrives, I will come to you, 
count."

"Well, I rely upon your promise. 
Good-by, then."

"Good-by, till we meet again." They had 
arrived in the Champs Elysees. Monte 
Cristo opened the carriage-door, Morrel 
sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio 
was waiting on the steps. Morrel 
disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny, 
and Monte Cristo hastened to join 
Bertuccio.

"Well?" asked he.

"She is going to leave her house," said 
the steward.

"And her son?"

"Florentin, his valet, thinks he is 
going to do the same."

"Come this way." Monte Cristo took 
Bertuccio into his study, wrote the 
letter we have seen, and gave it to the 
steward. "Go," said he quickly. "But 
first, let Haidee be informed that I 
have returned."

"Here I am," said the young girl, who 
at the sound of the carriage had run 
down-stairs and whose face was radiant 
with joy at seeing the count return 
safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport 
of a daughter finding a father, all the 
delight of a mistress seeing an adored 
lover, were felt by Haidee during the 
first moments of this meeting, which 
she had so eagerly expected. Doubtless, 
although less evident, Monte Cristo's 
joy was not less intense. Joy to hearts 
which have suffered long is like the 
dew on the ground after a long drought; 
both the heart and the ground absorb 
that benificent moisture falling on 
them, and nothing is outwardly apparent.

Monte Cristo was beginning to think, 
what he had not for a long time dared 
to believe, that there were two 
Mercedes in the world, and he might yet 
be happy. His eye, elate with 
happiness, was reading eagerly the 
tearful gaze of Haidee, when suddenly 
the door opened. The count knit his 
brow. "M. de Morcerf!" said Baptistin, 
as if that name sufficed for his 
excuse. In fact, the count's face 
brightened.

"Which," asked he, "the viscount or the 
count?"

"The count."

"Oh," exclaimed Haidee, "is it not yet 
over?"

"I know not if it is finished, my 
beloved child," said Monte Cristo, 
taking the young girl's hands; "but I 
do know you have nothing more to fear."

"But it is the wretched" --

"That man cannot injure me, Haidee," 
said Monte Cristo; "it was his son 
alone that there was cause to fear."

"And what I have suffered," said the 
young girl, "you shall never know, my 
lord." Monte Cristo smiled. "By my 
father's tomb," said he, extending his 
hand over the head of the young girl, 
"I swear to you, Haidee, that if any 
misfortune happens, it will not be to 
me."

"I believe you, my lord, as implicitly 
as if God had spoken to me," said the 
young girl, presenting her forehead to 
him. Monte Cristo pressed on that pure 
beautiful forehead a kiss which made 
two hearts throb at once, the one 
violently, the other heavily. "Oh," 
murmured the count, "shall I then be 
permitted to love again? Ask M. de 
Morcerf into the drawing-room," said he 
to Baptistin, while he led the 
beautiful Greek girl to a private 
staircase.

We must explain this visit, which 
although expected by Monte Cristo, is 
unexpected to our readers. While 
Mercedes, as we have said, was making a 
similar inventory of her property to 
Albert's, while she was arranging her 
jewels, shutting her drawers, 
collecting her keys, to leave 
everything in perfect order, she did 
not perceive a pale and sinister face 
at a glass door which threw light into 
the passage, from which everything 
could be both seen and heard. He who 
was thus looking, without being heard 
or seen, probably heard and saw all 
that passed in Madame de Morcerf's 
apartments. From that glass door the 
pale-faced man went to the count's 
bedroom and raised with a constricted 
hand the curtain of a window 
overlooking the court-yard. He remained 
there ten minutes, motionless and dumb, 
listening to the beating of his own 
heart. For him those ten minutes were 
very long. It was then Albert, 
returning from his meeting with the 
count, perceived his father watching 
for his arrival behind a curtain, and 
turned aside. The count's eye expanded; 
he knew Albert had insulted the count 
dreadfully, and that in every country 
in the world such an insult would lead 
to a deadly duel. Albert returned 
safely -- then the count was revenged.

An indescribable ray of joy illumined 
that wretched countenance like the last 
ray of the sun before it disappears 
behind the clouds which bear the 
aspect, not of a downy couch, but of a 
tomb. But as we have said, he waited in 
vain for his son to come to his 
apartment with the account of his 
triumph. He easily understood why his 
son did not come to see him before he 
went to avenge his father's honor; but 
when that was done, why did not his son 
come and throw himself into his arms?

It was then, when the count could not 
see Albert, that he sent for his 
servant, who he knew was authorized not 
to conceal anything from him. Ten 
minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was 
seen on the steps in a black coat with 
a military collar, black pantaloons, 
and black gloves. He had apparently 
given previous orders, for as he 
reached the bottom step his carriage 
came from the coach-house ready for 
him. The valet threw into the carriage 
his military cloak, in which two swords 
were wrapped, and, shutting the door, 
he took his seat by the side of the 
coachman. The coachman stooped down for 
his orders.

"To the Champs Elysees," said the 
general; "the Count of Monte Cristo's. 
Hurry!" The horses bounded beneath the 
whip; and in five minutes they stopped 
before the count's door. M. de Morcerf 
opened the door himself, and as the 
carriage rolled away he passed up the 
walk, rang, and entered the open door 
with his servant.

A moment afterwards, Baptistin 
announced the Count of Morcerf to Monte 
Cristo, and the latter, leading Haidee 
aside, ordered that Morcerf be asked 
into the drawing-room. The general was 
pacing the room the third time when, in 
turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at 
the door. "Ah, it is M. de Morcerf," 
said Monte Cristo quietly; "I thought I 
had not heard aright."

"Yes, it is I," said the count, whom a 
frightful contraction of the lips 
prevented from articulating freely.

"May I know the cause which procures me 
the pleasure of seeing M. de Morcerf so 
early?"

"Had you not a meeting with my son this 
morning?" asked the general.

"I had," replied the count.

"And I know my son had good reasons to 
wish to fight with you, and to endeavor 
to kill you."

"Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but 
you see that in spite of them he has 
not killed me, and did not even fight."

"Yet he considered you the cause of his 
father's dishonor, the cause of the 
fearful ruin which has fallen on my 
house."

"It is true, sir," said Monte Cristo 
with his dreadful calmness; "a 
secondary cause, but not the principal."

"Doubtless you made, then, some apology 
or explanation?"

"I explained nothing, and it is he who 
apologized to me."

"But to what do you attribute this 
conduct?"

"To the conviction, probably, that 
there was one more guilty than I."

"And who was that?"

"His father."

"That may be," said the count, turning 
pale; "but you know the guilty do not 
like to find themselves convicted."

"I know it, and I expected this result."

"You expected my son would be a 
coward?" cried the count.

"M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!" 
said Monte Cristo.

"A man who holds a sword in his hand, 
and sees a mortal enemy within reach of 
that sword, and does not fight, is a 
coward! Why is he not here that I may 
tell him so?"

"Sir." replied Monte Cristo coldly, "I 
did not expect that you had come here 
to relate to me your little family 
affairs. Go and tell M. Albert that, 
and he may know what to answer you."

"Oh, no, no," said the general, smiling 
faintly, "I did not come for that 
purpose; you are right. I came to tell 
you that I also look upon you as my 
enemy. I came to tell you that I hate 
you instinctively; that it seems as if 
I had always known you, and always 
hated you; and, in short, since the 
young people of the present day will 
not fight, it remains for us to do so. 
Do you think so, sir?"

"Certainly. And when I told you I had 
foreseen the result, it is the honor of 
your visit I alluded to."

"So much the better. Are you prepared?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know that we shall fight till one 
of us is dead," said the general, whose 
teeth were clinched with rage. "Until 
one of us dies," repeated Monte Cristo, 
moving his head slightly up and down.

"Let us start, then; we need no 
witnesses."

"Very true," said Monte Cristo; "it is 
unnecessary, we know each other so 
well!"

"On the contrary," said the count, "we 
know so little of each other."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, with the 
same indomitable coolness; "let us see. 
Are you not the soldier Fernand who 
deserted on the eve of the battle of 
Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant 
Fernand who served as guide and spy to 
the French army in Spain? Are you not 
the Captain Fernand who betrayed, sold, 
and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And 
have not all these Fernands, united, 
made Lieutenant-General, the Count of 
Morcerf, peer of France?"

"Oh," cried the general, as it branded 
with a hot iron, "wretch, -- to 
reproach me with my shame when about, 
perhaps, to kill me! No, I did not say 
I was a stranger to you. I know well, 
demon, that you have penetrated into 
the darkness of the past, and that you 
have read, by the light of what torch I 
know not, every page of my life; but 
perhaps I may be more honorable in my 
shame than you under your pompous 
coverings. No -- no, I am aware you 
know me; but I know you only as an 
adventurer sewn up in gold and 
jewellery. You call yourself in Paris 
the Count of Monte Cristo; in Italy, 
Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I forget 
what. But it is your real name I want 
to know, in the midst of your hundred 
names, that I may pronounce it when we 
meet to fight, at the moment when I 
plunge my sword through your heart."

The Count of Monte Cristo turned 
dreadfully pale; his eye seemed to burn 
with a devouring fire. He leaped 
towards a dressing-room near his 
bedroom, and in less than a moment, 
tearing off his cravat, his coat and 
waistcoat, he put on a sailor's jacket 
and hat, from beneath which rolled his 
long black hair. He returned thus, 
formidable and implacable, advancing 
with his arms crossed on his breast, 
towards the general, who could not 
understand why he had disappeared, but 
who on seeing him again, and feeling 
his teeth chatter and his legs sink 
under him, drew back, and only stopped 
when he found a table to support his 
clinched hand. "Fernand," cried he, "of 
my hundred names I need only tell you 
one, to overwhelm you! But you guess it 
now, do you not? -- or, rather, you 
remember it? For, notwithstanding all 
my sorrows and my tortures, I show you 
to-day a face which the happiness of 
revenge makes young again -- a face you 
must often have seen in your dreams 
since your marriage with Mercedes, my 
betrothed!"

The general, with his head thrown back, 
hands extended, gaze fixed, looked 
silently at this dreadful apparition; 
then seeking the wall to support him, 
he glided along close to it until he 
reached the door, through which he went 
out backwards, uttering this single 
mournful, lamentable, distressing cry, 
-- "Edmond Dantes!" Then, with sighs 
which were unlike any human sound, he 
dragged himself to the door, reeled 
across the court-yard, and falling into 
the arms of his valet, he said in a 
voice scarcely intelligible, -- "Home, 
home." The fresh air and the shame he 
felt at having exposed himself before 
his servants, partly recalled his 
senses, but the ride was short, and as 
he drew near his house all his 
wretchedness revived. He stopped at a 
short distance from the house and 
alighted.

The door was wide open, a hackney-coach 
was standing in the middle of the yard 
-- a strange sight before so noble a 
mansion; the count looked at it with 
terror, but without daring to inquire 
its meaning, he rushed towards his 
apartment. Two persons were coming down 
the stairs; he had only time to creep 
into an alcove to avoid them. It was 
Mercedes leaning on her son's arm and 
leaving the house. They passed close by 
the unhappy being, who, concealed 
behind the damask curtain, almost felt 
Mercedes dress brush past him, and his 
son's warm breath, pronouncing these 
words, -- "Courage, mother! Come, this 
is no longer our home!" The words died 
away, the steps were lost in the 
distance. The general drew himself up, 
clinging to the curtain; he uttered the 
most dreadful sob which ever escaped 
from the bosom of a father abandoned at 
the same time by his wife and son. He 
soon heard the clatter of the iron step 
of the hackney-coach, then the 
coachman's voice, and then the rolling 
of the heavy vehicle shook the windows. 
He darted to his bedroom to see once 
more all he had loved in the world; but 
the hackney-coach drove on and the head 
of neither Mercedes nor her son 
appeared at the window to take a last 
look at the house or the deserted 
father and husband. And at the very 
moment when the wheels of that coach 
crossed the gateway a report was heard, 
and a thick smoke escaped through one 
of the panes of the window, which was 
broken by the explosion. 

 Chapter 93 Valentine.

We may easily conceive where Morrel's 
appointment was. On leaving Monte 
Cristo he walked slowly towards 
Villefort's; we say slowly, for Morrel 
had more than half an hour to spare to 
go five hundred steps, but he had 
hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo 
because he wished to be alone with his 
thoughts. He knew his time well -- the 
hour when Valentine was giving Noirtier 
his breakfast, and was sure not to be 
disturbed in the performance of this 
pious duty. Noirtier and Valentine had 
given him leave to go twice a week, and 
he was now availing himself of that 
permission. He had arrived; Valentine 
was expecting him. Uneasy and almost 
crazed, she seized his hand and led him 
to her grandfather. This uneasiness, 
amounting almost to frenzy, arose from 
the report Morcerf's adventure had made 
in the world, for the affair at the 
opera was generally known. No one at 
Villefort's doubted that a duel would 
ensue from it. Valentine, with her 
woman's instinct, guessed that Morrel 
would be Monte Cristo's second, and 
from the young man's well-known courage 
and his great affection for the count, 
she feared that he would not content 
himself with the passive part assigned 
to him. We may easily understand how 
eagerly the particulars were asked for, 
given, and received; and Morrel could 
read an indescribable joy in the eyes 
of his beloved, when she knew that the 
termination of this affair was as happy 
as it was unexpected.

"Now," said Valentine, motioning to 
Morrel to sit down near her 
grandfather, while she took her seat on 
his footstool, -- "now let us talk 
about our own affairs. You know, 
Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of 
leaving this house, and taking an 
apartment away from M. de Villefort's."

"Yes," said Maximilian, "I recollect 
the project, of which I highly 
approved."

"Well," said Valentine, "you may 
approve again, for grandpapa is again 
thinking of it."

"Bravo," said Maximilian.

"And do you know," said Valentine, 
"what reason grandpapa gives for 
leaving this house." Noirtier looked at 
Valentine to impose silence, but she 
did not notice him; her looks, her 
eyes, her smile, were all for Morrel.

"Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier's 
reason," answered Morrel, "I can 
readily believe it to be a good one."

"An excellent one," said Valentine. "He 
pretends the air of the Faubourg St. 
Honore is not good for me."

"Indeed?" said Morrel; "in that M. 
Noirtier may be right; you have not 
seemed to be well for the last 
fortnight."

"Not very," said Valentine. "And 
grandpapa has become my physician, and 
I have the greatest confidence in him, 
because he knows everything."

"Do you then really suffer?" asked 
Morrel quickly.

"Oh, it must not be called suffering; I 
feel a general uneasiness, that is all. 
I have lost my appetite, and my stomach 
feels as if it were struggling to get 
accustomed to something." Noirtier did 
not lose a word of what Valentine said. 
"And what treatment do you adopt for 
this singular complaint?"

"A very simple one," said Valentine. "I 
swallow every morning a spoonful of the 
mixture prepared for my grandfather. 
When I say one spoonful, I began by one 
-- now I take four. Grandpapa says it 
is a panacea." Valentine smiled, but it 
was evident that she suffered.

Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed 
silently at her. She was very 
beautiful, but her usual pallor had 
increased; her eyes were more brilliant 
than ever, and her hands, which were 
generally white like mother-of-pearl, 
now more resembled wax, to which time 
was adding a yellowish hue. From 
Valentine the young man looked towards 
Noirtier. The latter watched with 
strange and deep interest the young 
girl, absorbed by her affection, and he 
also, like Morrel, followed those 
traces of inward suffering which was so 
little perceptible to a common observer 
that they escaped the notice of every 
one but the grandfather and the lover.

"But," said Morrel, "I thought this 
mixture, of which you now take four 
spoonfuls, was prepared for M. 
Noirtier?"

"I know it is very bitter," said 
Valentine; "so bitter, that all I drink 
afterwards appears to have the same 
taste." Noirtier looked inquiringly at 
his granddaughter. "Yes, grandpapa," 
said Valentine; "it is so. Just now, 
before I came down to you, I drank a 
glass of sugared water; I left half, 
because it seemed so bitter." Noirtier 
turned pale, and made a sign that he 
wished to speak. Valentine rose to 
fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched 
her with evident anguish. In fact, the 
blood was rushing to the young girl's 
head already, her cheeks were becoming 
red. "Oh," cried she, without losing 
any of her cheerfulness, "this is 
singular! I can't see! Did the sun 
shine in my eyes?" And she leaned 
against the window.

"The sun is not shining," said Morrel, 
more alarmed by Noirtier's expression 
than by Valentine's indisposition. He 
ran towards her. The young girl smiled. 
"Cheer up," said she to Noirtier. "Do 
not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is 
nothing, and has already passed away. 
But listen! Do I not hear a carriage in 
the court-yard?" She opened Noirtier's 
door, ran to a window in the passage, 
and returned hastily. "Yes," said she, 
"it is Madame Danglars and her 
daughter, who have come to call on us. 
Good-by; -- I must run away, for they 
would send here for me, or, rather, 
farewell till I see you again. Stay 
with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise 
you not to persuade them to stay."

Morrel watched her as she left the 
room; he heard her ascend the little 
staircase which led both to Madame de 
Villefort's apartments and to hers. As 
soon as she was gone, Noirtier made a 
sign to Morrel to take the dictionary. 
Morrel obeyed; guided by Valentine, he 
had learned how to understand the old 
man quickly. Accustomed, however, as he 
was to the work, he had to repeat most 
of the letters of the alphabet and to 
find every word in the dictionary, so 
that it was ten minutes before the 
thought of the old man was translated 
by these words, "Fetch the glass of 
water and the decanter from Valentine's 
room."

Morrel rang immediately for the servant 
who had taken Barrois's situation, and 
in Noirtier's name gave that order. The 
servant soon returned. The decanter and 
the glass were completely empty. 
Noirtier made a sign that he wished to 
speak. "Why are the glass and decanter 
empty?" asked he; "Valentine said she 
only drank half the glassful." The 
translation of this new question 
occupied another five minutes. "I do 
not know," said the servant, "but the 
housemaid is in Mademoiselle 
Valentine's room: perhaps she has 
emptied them."

"Ask her," said Morrel, translating 
Noirtier's thought this time by his 
look. The servant went out, but 
returned almost immediately. 
"Mademoiselle Valentine passed through 
the room to go to Madame de 
Villefort's," said he; "and in passing, 
as she was thirsty, she drank what 
remained in the glass; as for the 
decanter, Master Edward had emptied 
that to make a pond for his ducks." 
Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as 
a gambler does who stakes his all on 
one stroke. From that moment the old 
man's eyes were fixed on the door, and 
did not quit it.

It was indeed Madame Danglars and her 
daughter whom Valentine had seen; they 
had been ushered into Madame de 
Villefort's room, who had said she 
would receive them there. That is why 
Valentine passed through her room, 
which was on a level with Valentine's, 
and only separated from it by Edward's. 
The two ladies entered the drawing-room 
with that sort of official stiffness 
which preludes a formal communication. 
Among worldly people manner is 
contagious. Madame de Villefort 
received them with equal solemnity. 
Valentine entered at this moment, and 
the formalities were resumed. "My dear 
friend," said the baroness, while the 
two young people were shaking hands, "I 
and Eugenie are come to be the first to 
announce to you the approaching 
marriage of my daughter with Prince 
Cavalcanti." Danglars kept up the title 
of prince. The popular banker found 
that it answered better than count. 
"Allow me to present you my sincere 
congratulations," replied Madame de 
Villefort. "Prince Cavalcanti appears 
to be a young man of rare qualities."

"Listen," said the baroness, smiling; 
"speaking to you as a friend I can say 
that the prince does not yet appear all 
he will be. He has about him a little 
of that foreign manner by which French 
persons recognize, at first sight, the 
Italian or German nobleman. Besides, he 
gives evidence of great kindness of 
disposition, much keenness of wit, and 
as to suitability, M. Danglars assures 
me that his fortune is majestic -- that 
is his word."

"And then," said Eugenie, while turning 
over the leaves of Madame de 
Villefort's album, "add that you have 
taken a great fancy to the young man."

"And," said Madame de Villefort, "I 
need not ask you if you share that 
fancy."

"I?" replied Eugenie with her usual 
candor. "Oh, not the least in the 
world, madame! My wish was not to 
confine myself to domestic cares, or 
the caprices of any man, but to be an 
artist, and consequently free in heart, 
in person, and in thought." Eugenie 
pronounced these words with so firm a 
tone that the color mounted to 
Valentine's cheeks. The timid girl 
could not understand that vigorous 
nature which appeared to have none of 
the timidities of woman.

"At any rate," said she, "since I am to 
be married whether I will or not, I 
ought to be thankful to providence for 
having released me from my engagement 
with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should 
this day have been the wife of a 
dishonored man."

"It is true," said the baroness, with 
that strange simplicity sometimes met 
with among fashionable ladies, and of 
which plebeian intercourse can never 
entirely deprive them, -- "it is very 
true that had not the Morcerfs 
hesitated, my daughter would have 
married Monsieur Albert. The general 
depended much on it; he even came to 
force M. Danglars. We have had a narrow 
escape."

"But," said Valentine, timidly, "does 
all the father's shame revert upon the 
son? Monsieur Albert appears to me 
quite innocent of the treason charged 
against the general."

"Excuse me," said the implacable young 
girl, "Monsieur Albert claims and well 
deserves his share. It appears that 
after having challenged M. de Monte 
Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he 
apologized on the ground to-day."

"Impossible," said Madame de Villefort.

"Ah, my dear friend," said Madame 
Danglars, with the same simplicity we 
before noticed, "it is a fact. I heard 
it from M. Debray, who was present at 
the explanation." Valentine also knew 
the truth, but she did not answer. A 
single word had reminded her that 
Morrel was expecting her in M. 
Noirtier's room. Deeply engaged with a 
sort of inward contemplation, Valentine 
had ceased for a moment to join in the 
conversation. She would, indeed, have 
found it impossible to repeat what had 
been said the last few minutes, when 
suddenly Madame Danglars' hand, pressed 
on her arm, aroused her from her 
lethargy.

"What is it?" said she, starting at 
Madame Danglars, touch as she would 
have done from an electric shock. "It 
is, my dear Valentine," said the 
baroness, "that you are, doubtless, 
suffering."

"I?" said the young girl, passing her 
hand across her burning forehead.

"Yes, look at yourself in that glass; 
you have turned pale and then red 
successively, three or four times in 
one minute."

"Indeed," cried Eugenie, "you are very 
pale!"

"Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so 
for many days." Artless as she was, the 
young girl knew that this was an 
opportunity to leave, and besides, 
Madame de Villefort came to her 
assistance. "Retire, Valentine," said 
she; "you are really suffering, and 
these ladies will excuse you; drink a 
glass of pure water, it will restore 
you." Valentine kissed Eugenie, bowed 
to Madame Danglars, who had already 
risen to take her leave, and went out. 
"That poor child," said Madame de 
Villefort when Valentine was gone, "she 
makes me very uneasy, and I should not 
be astonished if she had some serious 
illness."

Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of 
excitement which she could not quite 
understand, had crossed Edward's room 
without noticing some trick of the 
child, and through her own had reached 
the little staircase. She was within 
three steps of the bottom; she already 
heard Morrel's voice, when suddenly a 
cloud passed over her eyes, her 
stiffened foot missed the step, her 
hands had no power to hold the 
baluster, and falling against the wall 
she lost her balance wholly and toppled 
to the floor. Morrel bounded to the 
door, opened it, and found Valentine 
stretched out at the bottom of the 
stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised her 
in his arms and placed her in a chair. 
Valentine opened her eyes.

"Oh, what a clumsy thing I am," said 
she with feverish volubility; "I don't 
know my way. I forgot there were three 
more steps before the landing."

"You have hurt yourself, perhaps," said 
Morrel. "What can I do for you, 
Valentine?" Valentine looked around 
her; she saw the deepest terror 
depicted in Noirtier's eyes. "Don't 
worry, dear grandpapa," said she, 
endeavoring to smile; "it is nothing -- 
it is nothing; I was giddy, that is 
all."

"Another attack of giddiness," said 
Morrel, clasping his hands. "Oh, attend 
to it, Valentine, I entreat you."

"But no," said Valentine, -- "no, I 
tell you it is all past, and it was 
nothing. Now, let me tell you some 
news; Eugenie is to be married in a 
week, and in three days there is to be 
a grand feast, a betrothal festival. We 
are all invited, my father, Madame de 
Villefort, and I -- at least, I 
understood it so."

"When will it be our turn to think of 
these things? Oh, Valentine, you who 
have so much influence over your 
grandpapa, try to make him answer -- 
Soon."

"And do you," said Valentine, "depend 
on me to stimulate the tardiness and 
arouse the memory of grandpapa?"

"Yes," cried Morrel, "make haste. So 
long as you are not mine, Valentine, I 
shall always think I may lose you."

"Oh," replied Valentine with a 
convulsive movement, "oh, indeed, 
Maximilian, you are too timid for an 
officer, for a soldier who, they say, 
never knows fear. Ah, ha, ha!" she 
burst into a forced and melancholy 
laugh, her arms stiffened and twisted, 
her head fell back on her chair, and 
she remained motionless. The cry of 
terror which was stopped on Noirtier's 
lips, seemed to start from his eyes. 
Morrel understood it; he knew he must 
call assistance. The young man rang the 
bell violently; the housemaid who had 
been in Mademoiselle Valentine's room, 
and the servant who had replaced 
Barrois, ran in at the same moment. 
Valentine was so pale, so cold, so 
inanimate that without listening to 
what was said to them they were seized 
with the fear which pervaded that 
house, and they flew into the passage 
crying for help. Madame Danglars and 
Eugenie were going out at that moment; 
they heard the cause of the 
disturbance. "I told you so!" exclaimed 
Madame de Villefort. "Poor child!" 

 Chapter 94 Maximilian's Avowal.

At the same moment M. de Villefort's 
voice was heard calling from his study, 
"What is the matter?" Morrel looked at 
Noirtier who had recovered his 
self-command, and with a glance 
indicated the closet where once before 
under somewhat similar circumstances, 
he had taken refuge. He had only time 
to get his hat and throw himself 
breathless into the closet when the 
procureur's footstep was heard in the 
passage. Villefort sprang into the 
room, ran to Valentine, and took her in 
his arms. "A physician, a physician, -- 
M. d'Avrigny!" cried Villefort; "or 
rather I will go for him myself." He 
flew from the apartment, and Morrel at 
the same moment darted out at the other 
door. He had been struck to the heart 
by a frightful recollection -- the 
conversation he had heard between the 
doctor and Villefort the night of 
Madame de Saint-Meran's death, recurred 
to him; these symptoms, to a less 
alarming extent, were the same which 
had preceded the death of Barrois. At 
the same time Monte Cristo's voice 
seemed to resound in his ear with the 
words he had heard only two hours 
before, "Whatever you want, Morrel, 
come to me; I have great power." More 
rapidly than thought, he darted down 
the Rue Matignon, and thence to the 
Avenue des Champs Elysees.

Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a 
hired cabriolet at M. d'Avrigny's door. 
He rang so violently that the porter 
was alarmed. Villefort ran up-stairs 
without saying a word. The porter knew 
him, and let him pass, only calling to 
him, "In his study, Monsieur Procureur 
-- in his study!" Villefort pushed, or 
rather forced, the door open. "Ah," 
said the doctor, "is it you?"

"Yes," said Villefort, closing the door 
after him, "it is I, who am come in my 
turn to ask you if we are quite alone. 
Doctor, my house is accursed!"

"What?" said the latter with apparent 
coolness, but with deep emotion, "have 
you another invalid?"

"Yes, doctor," cried Villefort, 
clutching his hair, "yes!"

D'Avrigny's look implied, "I told you 
it would be so." Then he slowly uttered 
these words, "Who is now dying in your 
house? What new victim is going to 
accuse you of weakness before God?" A 
mournful sob burst from Villefort's 
heart; he approached the doctor, and 
seizing his arm, -- "Valentine," said 
he, "it is Valentine's turn!"

"Your daughter?" cried d'Avrigny with 
grief and surprise.

"You see you were deceived," murmured 
the magistrate; "come and see her, and 
on her bed of agony entreat her pardon 
for having suspected her."

"Each time you have applied to me," 
said the doctor, "it has been too late; 
still I will go. But let us make haste, 
sir; with the enemies you have to do 
with there is no time to be lost."

"Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not 
have to reproach me with weakness. This 
time I will know the assassin, and will 
pursue him."

"Let us try first to save the victim 
before we think of revenging her," said 
d'Avrigny. "Come." The same cabriolet 
which had brought Villefort took them 
back at full speed, and at this moment 
Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo's door. 
The count was in his study and was 
reading with an angry look something 
which Bertuccio had brought in haste. 
Hearing the name of Morrel, who had 
left him only two hours before, the 
count raised his head, arose, and 
sprang to meet him. "What is the 
matter, Maximilian?" asked he; "you are 
pale, and the perspiration rolls from 
your forehead." Morrel fell into a 
chair. "Yes," said he, "I came quickly; 
I wanted to speak to you."

"Are all your family well?" asked the 
count, with an affectionate 
benevolence, whose sincerity no one 
could for a moment doubt.

"Thank you, count -- thank you," said 
the young man, evidently embarrassed 
how to begin the conversation; "yes, 
every one in my family is well."

"So much the better; yet you have 
something to tell me?" replied the 
count with increased anxiety.

"Yes," said Morrel, "it is true; I have 
but now left a house where death has 
just entered, to run to you."

"Are you then come from M. de 
Morcerf's?" asked Monte Cristo.

"No," said Morrel; "is some one dead in 
his house?"

"The general has just blown his brains 
out," replied Monte Cristo with great 
coolness.

"Oh, what a dreadful event!" cried 
Maximilian.

"Not for the countess, or for Albert," 
said Monte Cristo; "a dead father or 
husband is better than a dishonored 
one, -- blood washes out shame."

"Poor countess," said Maximilian, "I 
pity her very much; she is so noble a 
woman!"

"Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for 
believe me he is the worthy son of the 
countess. But let us return to 
yourself. You have hastened to me -- 
can I have the happiness of being 
useful to you?"

"Yes, I need your help: that is I 
thought like a madman that you could 
lend me your assistance in a case where 
God alone can succor me."

"Tell me what it is," replied Monte 
Cristo.

"Oh," said Morrel, "I know not, indeed, 
if I may reveal this secret to mortal 
ears, but fatality impels me, necessity 
constrains me, count" -- Morrel 
hesitated. "Do you think I love you?" 
said Monte Cristo, taking the young 
man's hand affectionately in his.

"Oh, you encourage me, and something 
tells me there," placing his hand on 
his heart, "that I ought to have no 
secret from you."

"You are right, Morrel; God is speaking 
to your heart, and your heart speaks to 
you. Tell me what it says."

"Count, will you allow me to send 
Baptistin to inquire after some one you 
know?"

"I am at your service, and still more 
my servants."

"Oh, I cannot live if she is not 
better."

"Shall I ring for Baptistin?"

"No, I will go and speak to him 
myself." Morrel went out, called 
Baptistin, and whispered a few words to 
him. The valet ran directly. "Well, 
have you sent?" asked Monte Cristo, 
seeing Morrel return.

"Yes, and now I shall be more calm."

"You know I am waiting," said Monte 
Cristo, smiling.

"Yes, and I will tell you. One evening 
I was in a garden; a clump of trees 
concealed me; no one suspected I was 
there. Two persons passed near me -- 
allow me to conceal their names for the 
present; they were speaking in an 
undertone, and yet I was so interested 
in what they said that I did not lose a 
single word."

"This is a gloomy introduction, if I 
may judge from your pallor and 
shuddering, Morrel."

"Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Some 
one had just died in the house to which 
that garden belonged. One of the 
persons whose conversation I overheard 
was the master of the house; the other, 
the physician. The former was confiding 
to the latter his grief and fear, for 
it was the second time within a month 
that death had suddenly and 
unexpectedly entered that house which 
was apparently destined to destruction 
by some exterminating angel, as an 
object of God's anger."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo, 
looking earnestly at the young man, and 
by an imperceptible movement turning 
his chair, so that he remained in the 
shade while the light fell full on 
Maximilian's face. "Yes," continued 
Morrel, "death had entered that house 
twice within one month."

"And what did the doctor answer?" asked 
Monte Cristo.

"He replied -- he replied, that the 
death was not a natural one, and must 
be attributed" --

"To what?"

"To poison."

"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo with a 
slight cough which in moments of 
extreme emotion helped him to disguise 
a blush, or his pallor, or the intense 
interest with which he listened; 
"indeed, Maximilian, did you hear that?"

"Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and 
the doctor added that if another death 
occurred in a similar way he must 
appeal to justice." Monte Cristo 
listened, or appeared to do so, with 
the greatest calmness. "Well," said 
Maximilian, "death came a third time, 
and neither the master of the house nor 
the doctor said a word. Death is now, 
perhaps, striking a fourth blow. Count, 
what am I bound to do, being in 
possession of this secret?"

"My dear friend," said Monte Cristo, 
"you appear to be relating an adventure 
which we all know by heart. I know the 
house where you heard it, or one very 
similar to it; a house with a garden, a 
master, a physician, and where there 
have been three unexpected and sudden 
deaths. Well, I have not intercepted 
your confidence, and yet I know all 
that as well as you, and I have no 
conscientious scruples. No, it does not 
concern me. You say an exterminating 
angel appears to have devoted that 
house to God's anger -- well, who says 
your supposition is not reality? Do not 
notice things which those whose 
interest it is to see them pass over. 
If it is God's justice, instead of his 
anger, which is walking through that 
house, Maximilian, turn away your face 
and let his justice accomplish its 
purpose." Morrel shuddered. There was 
something mournful, solemn, and 
terrible in the count's manner. 
"Besides," continued he, in so changed 
a tone that no one would have supposed 
it was the same person speaking -- 
"besides, who says that it will begin 
again?"

"It has returned, count," exclaimed 
Morrel; "that is why I hastened to you."

"Well, what do you wish me to do? Do 
you wish me, for instance, to give 
information to the procureur?" Monte 
Cristo uttered the last words with so 
much meaning that Morrel, starting up, 
cried out, "You know of whom I speak, 
count, do you not?"

"Perfectly well, my good friend; and I 
will prove it to you by putting the 
dots to the `i,' or rather by naming 
the persons. You were walking one 
evening in M. de Villefort's garden; 
from what you relate, I suppose it to 
have been the evening of Madame de 
Saint-Meran's death. You heard M. de 
Villefort talking to M. d'Avrigny about 
the death of M. de Saint-Meran, and 
that no less surprising, of the 
countess. M. d'Avrigny said he believed 
they both proceeded from poison; and 
you, honest man, have ever since been 
asking your heart and sounding your 
conscience to know if you ought to 
expose or conceal this secret. Why do 
you torment them? `Conscience, what 
hast thou to do with me?' as Sterne 
said. My dear fellow, let them sleep 
on, if they are asleep; let them grow 
pale in their drowsiness, if they are 
disposed to do so, and pray do you 
remain in peace, who have no remorse to 
disturb you." Deep grief was depicted 
on Morrel's features; he seized Monte 
Cristo's hand. "But it is beginning 
again, I say!"

"Well," said the Count, astonished at 
his perseverance, which he could not 
understand, and looking still more 
earnestly at Maximilian, "let it begin 
again, -- it is like the house of the 
Atreidae;* God has condemned them, and 
they must submit to their punishment. 
They will all disappear, like the 
fabrics children build with cards, and 
which fall, one by one, under the 
breath of their builder, even if there 
are two hundred of them. Three months 
since it was M. de Saint-Meran; Madame 
de Saint-Meran two months since; the 
other day it was Barrois; to-day, the 
old Noirtier, or young Valentine."

* In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, 
or children of Atreus, were doomed to 
punishment because of the abominable 
crime of their father. The Agamemnon of 
Aeschylus is based on this legend.

"You knew it?" cried Morrel, in such a 
paroxysm of terror that Monte Cristo 
started, -- he whom the falling heavens 
would have found unmoved; "you knew it, 
and said nothing?"

"And what is it to me?" replied Monte 
Cristo, shrugging his shoulders; "do I 
know those people? and must I lose the 
one to save the other? Faith, no, for 
between the culprit and the victim I 
have no choice."

"But I," cried Morrel, groaning with 
sorrow, "I love her!"

"You love? -- whom?" cried Monte 
Cristo, starting to his feet, and 
seizing the two hands which Morrel was 
raising towards heaven.

"I love most fondly -- I love madly -- 
I love as a man who would give his 
life-blood to spare her a tear -- I 
love Valentine de Villefort, who is 
being murdered at this moment! Do you 
understand me? I love her; and I ask 
God and you how I can save her?" Monte 
Cristo uttered a cry which those only 
can conceive who have heard the roar of 
a wounded lion. "Unhappy man," cried 
he, wringing his hands in his turn; 
"you love Valentine, -- that daughter 
of an accursed race!" Never had Morrel 
witnessed such an expression -- never 
had so terrible an eye flashed before 
his face -- never had the genius of 
terror he had so often seen, either on 
the battle-field or in the murderous 
nights of Algeria, shaken around him 
more dreadful fire. He drew back 
terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this 
ebullition he closed his eyes as if 
dazzled by internal light. In a moment 
he restrained himself so powerfully 
that the tempestuous heaving of his 
breast subsided, as turbulent and 
foaming waves yield to the sun's genial 
influence when the cloud has passed. 
This silence, self-control, and 
struggle lasted about twenty seconds, 
then the count raised his pallid face. 
"See," said he, "my dear friend, how 
God punishes the most thoughtless and 
unfeeling men for their indifference, 
by presenting dreadful scenes to their 
view. I, who was looking on, an eager 
and curious spectator, -- I, who was 
watching the working of this mournful 
tragedy, -- I, who like a wicked angel 
was laughing at the evil men committed 
protected by secrecy (a secret is 
easily kept by the rich and powerful), 
I am in my turn bitten by the serpent 
whose tortuous course I was watching, 
and bitten to the heart!"

Morrel groaned. "Come, come," continued 
the count, "complaints are unavailing, 
be a man, be strong, be full of hope, 
for I am here and will watch over you." 
Morrel shook his head sorrowfully. "I 
tell you to hope. Do you understand 
me?" cried Monte Cristo. "Remember that 
I never uttered a falsehood and am 
never deceived. It is twelve o'clock, 
Maximilian; thank heaven that you came 
at noon rather than in the evening, or 
to-morrow morning. Listen, Morrel -- it 
is noon; if Valentine is not now dead, 
she will not die."

"How so?" cried Morrel, "when I left 
her dying?" Monte Cristo pressed his 
hands to his forehead. What was passing 
in that brain, so loaded with dreadful 
secrets? What does the angel of light 
or the angel of darkness say to that 
mind, at once implacable and generous? 
God only knows.

Monte Cristo raised his head once more, 
and this time he was calm as a child 
awaking from its sleep. "Maximilian," 
said he, "return home. I command you 
not to stir -- attempt nothing, not to 
let your countenance betray a thought, 
and I will send you tidings. Go."

"Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that 
coolness. Have you, then, power against 
death? Are you superhuman? Are you an 
angel?" And the young man, who had 
never shrunk from danger, shrank before 
Monte Cristo with indescribable terror. 
But Monte Cristo looked at him with so 
melancholy and sweet a smile, that 
Maximilian felt the tears filling his 
eyes. "I can do much for you, my 
friend," replied the count. "Go; I must 
be alone." Morrel, subdued by the 
extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo 
exercised over everything around him, 
did not endeavor to resist it. He 
pressed the count's hand and left. He 
stopped one moment at the door for 
Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue 
Matignon, and who was running.

Meanwhile, Villefort and d'Avrigny had 
made all possible haste, Valentine had 
not revived from her fainting fit on 
their arrival, and the doctor examined 
the invalid with all the care the 
circumstances demanded, and with an 
interest which the knowledge of the 
secret intensified twofold. Villefort, 
closely watching his countenance and 
his lips, awaited the result of the 
examination. Noirtier, paler than even 
the young girl, more eager than 
Villefort for the decision, was 
watching also intently and 
affectionately. At last d'Avrigny 
slowly uttered these words: -- "she is 
still alive!"

"Still?" cried Villefort; "oh, doctor, 
what a dreadful word is that."

"Yes," said the physician, "I repeat 
it; she is still alive, and I am 
astonished at it."

"But is she safe?" asked the father.

"Yes, since she lives." At that moment 
d'Avrigny's glance met Noirtier's eye. 
It glistened with such extraordinary 
joy, so rich and full of thought, that 
the physician was struck. He placed the 
young girl again on the chair, -- her 
lips were scarcely discernible, they 
were so pale and white, as well as her 
whole face, -- and remained motionless, 
looking at Noirtier, who appeared to 
anticipate and commend all he did. 
"Sir," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, 
"call Mademoiselle Valentine's maid, if 
you please." Villefort went himself to 
find her; and d'Avrigny approached 
Noirtier. "Have you something to tell 
me?" asked he. The old man winked his 
eyes expressively, which we may 
remember was his only way of expressing 
his approval.

"Privately?"

"Yes."

"Well, I will remain with you." At this 
moment Villefort returned, followed by 
the lady's maid; and after her came 
Madame de Villefort.

"What is the matter, then, with this 
dear child? she has just left me, and 
she complained of being indisposed, but 
I did not think seriously of it." The 
young woman with tears in her eyes and 
every mark of affection of a true 
mother, approached Valentine and took 
her hand. D'Avrigny continued to look 
at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old 
man dilate and become round, his cheeks 
turn pale and tremble; the perspiration 
stood in drops upon his forehead. "Ah," 
said he, involuntarily following 
Noirtier's eyes, which were fixed on 
Madame de Villefort, who repeated, -- 
"This poor child would be better in 
bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her to 
bed." M. d'Avrigny, who saw that would 
be a means of his remaining alone with 
Noirtier, expressed his opinion that it 
was the best thing that could be done; 
but he forbade that anything should be 
given to her except what he ordered.

They carried Valentine away; she had 
revived, but could scarcely move or 
speak, so shaken was her frame by the 
attack. She had, however, just power to 
give one parting look to her 
grandfather, who in losing her seemed 
to be resigning his very soul. 
D'Avrigny followed the invalid, wrote a 
prescription, ordered Villefort to take 
a cabriolet, go in person to a 
chemist's to get the prescribed 
medicine, bring it himself, and wait 
for him in his daughter's room. Then, 
having renewed his injunction not to 
give Valentine anything, he went down 
again to Noirtier, shut the doors 
carefully, and after convincing himself 
that no one was listening, -- "Do you," 
said he, "know anything of this young 
lady's illness?"

"Yes," said the old man.

"We have no time to lose; I will 
question, and do you answer me." 
Noirtier made a sign that he was ready 
to answer. "Did you anticipate the 
accident which has happened to your 
granddaughter?"

"Yes." D'Avrigny reflected a moment; 
then approaching Noirtier, -- "Pardon 
what I am going to say," added he, "but 
no indication should be neglected in 
this terrible situation. Did you see 
poor Barrois die?" Noirtier raised his 
eyes to heaven. "Do you know of what he 
died!" asked d'Avrigny, placing his 
hand on Noirtier's shoulder.

"Yes," replied the old man.

"Do you think he died a natural death?" 
A sort of smile was discernible on the 
motionless lips of Noirtier.

"Then you have thought that Barrois was 
poisoned?"

"Yes."

"Do you think the poison he fell a 
victim to was intended for him?"

"No."

"Do you think the same hand which 
unintentionally struck Barrois has now 
attacked Valentine?"

"Yes."

"Then will she die too?" asked 
d'Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze 
on Noirtier. He watched the effect of 
this question on the old man. "No," 
replied he with an air of triumph which 
would have puzzled the most clever 
diviner. "Then you hope?" said 
d'Avrigny, with surprise.

"Yes."

"What do you hope?" The old man made 
him understand with his eyes that he 
could not answer. "Ah, yes, it is 
true," murmured d'Avrigny. Then, 
turning to Noirtier, -- "Do you hope 
the assassin will be tried?"

"No."

"Then you hope the poison will take no 
effect on Valentine?"

"Yes."

"It is no news to you," added 
d'Avrigny, "to tell you that an attempt 
has been made to poison her?" The old 
man made a sign that he entertained no 
doubt upon the subject. "Then how do 
you hope Valentine will escape?" 
Noirtier kept his eyes steadfastly 
fixed on the same spot. D'Avrigny 
followed the direction and saw that 
they were fixed on a bottle containing 
the mixture which he took every 
morning. "Ah, indeed?" said d'Avrigny, 
struck with a sudden thought, "has it 
occurred to you" -- Noirtier did not 
let him finish. "Yes," said he. "To 
prepare her system to resist poison?"

"Yes."

"By accustoming her by degrees" --

"Yes, yes, yes," said Noirtier, 
delighted to be understood.

"Of course. I had told you that there 
was brucine in the mixture I give you."

"Yes."

"And by accustoming her to that poison, 
you have endeavored to neutralize the 
effect of a similar poison?" Noirtier's 
joy continued. "And you have 
succeeded," exclaimed d'Avrigny. 
"Without that precaution Valentine 
would have died before assistance could 
have been procured. The dose has been 
excessive, but she has only been shaken 
by it; and this time, at any rate, 
Valentine will not die." A superhuman 
joy expanded the old man's eyes, which 
were raised towards heaven with an 
expression of infinite gratitude. At 
this moment Villefort returned. "Here, 
doctor," said he, "is what you sent me 
for."

"Was this prepared in your presence?"

"Yes," replied the procureur.

"Have you not let it go out of your 
hands?"

"No." D'Avrigny took the bottle, poured 
some drops of the mixture it contained 
in the hollow of his hand, and 
swallowed them. "Well," said he, "let 
us go to Valentine; I will give 
instructions to every one, and you, M. 
de Villefort, will yourself see that no 
one deviates from them."

At the moment when d'Avrigny was 
returning to Valentine's room, 
accompanied by Villefort, an Italian 
priest, of serious demeanor and calm 
and firm tone, hired for his use the 
house adjoining the hotel of M. de 
Villefort. No one knew how the three 
former tenants of that house left it. 
About two hours afterwards its 
foundation was reported to be unsafe; 
but the report did not prevent the new 
occupant establishing himself there 
with his modest furniture the same day 
at five o'clock. The lease was drawn up 
for three, six, or nine years by the 
new tenant, who, according to the rule 
of the proprietor, paid six months in 
advance. This new tenant, who, as we 
have said, was an Italian, was called 
Il Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were 
immediately called in, and that same 
night the passengers at the end of the 
faubourg saw with surprise that 
carpenters and masons were occupied in 
repairing the lower part of the 
tottering house. 

 Chapter 95 Father and Daughter.

We saw in a preceding chapter how 
Madame Danglars went formally to 
announce to Madame de Villefort the 
approaching marriage of Eugenie 
Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This 
announcement, which implied or appeared 
to imply, the approval of all the 
persons concerned in this momentous 
affair, had been preceded by a scene to 
which our readers must be admitted. We 
beg them to take one step backward, and 
to transport themselves, the morning of 
that day of great catastrophes, into 
the showy, gilded salon we have before 
shown them, and which was the pride of 
its owner, Baron Danglars. In this 
room, at about ten o'clock in the 
morning, the banker himself had been 
walking to and fro for some minutes 
thoughtfully and in evident uneasiness, 
watching both doors, and listening to 
every sound. When his patience was 
exhausted, he called his valet. 
"Etienne," said he, "see why 
Mademoiselle Eugenie has asked me to 
meet her in the drawing-room, and why 
she makes me wait so long."

Having given this vent to his 
ill-humor, the baron became more calm; 
Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning 
requested an interview with her father, 
and had fixed on the gilded 
drawing-room as the spot. The 
singularity of this step, and above all 
its formality, had not a little 
surprised the banker, who had 
immediately obeyed his daughter by 
repairing first to the drawing-room. 
Etienne soon returned from his errand. 
"Mademoiselle's lady's maid says, sir, 
that mademoiselle is finishing her 
toilette, and will be here shortly."

Danglars nodded, to signify that he was 
satisfied. To the world and to his 
servants Danglars assumed the character 
of the good-natured man and the 
indulgent father. This was one of his 
parts in the popular comedy he was 
performing, -- a make-up he had adopted 
and which suited him about as well as 
the masks worn on the classic stage by 
paternal actors, who seen from one 
side, were the image of geniality, and 
from the other showed lips drawn down 
in chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to 
say that in private the genial side 
descended to the level of the other, so 
that generally the indulgent man 
disappeared to give place to the brutal 
husband and domineering father. "Why 
the devil does that foolish girl, who 
pretends to wish to speak to me, not 
come into my study? and why on earth 
does she want to speak to me at all?"

He was turning this thought over in his 
brain for the twentieth time, when the 
door opened and Eugenie appeared, 
attired in a figured black satin dress, 
her hair dressed and gloves on, as if 
she were going to the Italian Opera. 
"Well, Eugenie, what is it you want 
with me? and why in this solemn 
drawing-room when the study is so 
comfortable?"

"I quite understand why you ask, sir," 
said Eugenie, making a sign that her 
father might be seated, "and in fact 
your two questions suggest fully the 
theme of our conversation. I will 
answer them both, and contrary to the 
usual method, the last first, because 
it is the least difficult. I have 
chosen the drawing-room, sir, as our 
place of meeting, in order to avoid the 
disagreeable impressions and influences 
of a banker's study. Those gilded 
cashbooks, drawers locked like gates of 
fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come 
from I know not where, and the 
quantities of letters from England, 
Holland, Spain, India, China, and Peru, 
have generally a strange influence on a 
father's mind, and make him forget that 
there is in the world an interest 
greater and more sacred than the good 
opinion of his correspondents. I have, 
therefore, chosen this drawing-room, 
where you see, smiling and happy in 
their magnificent frames, your 
portrait, mine, my mother's, and all 
sorts of rural landscapes and touching 
pastorals. I rely much on external 
impressions; perhaps, with regard to 
you, they are immaterial, but I should 
be no artist if I had not some fancies."

"Very well," replied M. Danglars, who 
had listened to all this preamble with 
imperturbable coolness, but without 
understanding a word, since like every 
man burdened with thoughts of the past, 
he was occupied with seeking the thread 
of his own ideas in those of the 
speaker.

"There is, then, the second point 
cleared up, or nearly so," said 
Eugenie, without the least confusion, 
and with that masculine pointedness 
which distinguished her gesture and her 
language; "and you appear satisfied 
with the explanation. Now, let us 
return to the first. You ask me why I 
have requested this interview; I will 
tell you in two words, sir; I will not 
marry count Andrea Cavalcanti."

Danglars leaped from his chair and 
raised his eyes and arms towards heaven.

"Yes, indeed, sir," continued Eugenie, 
still quite calm; "you are astonished, 
I see; for since this little affair 
began, I have not manifested the 
slightest opposition, and yet I am 
always sure, when the opportunity 
arrives, to oppose a determined and 
absolute will to people who have not 
consulted me, and things which 
displease me. However, this time, my 
tranquillity, or passiveness as 
philosophers say, proceeded from 
another source; it proceeded from a 
wish, like a submissive and devoted 
daughter" (a slight smile was 
observable on the purple lips of the 
young girl), "to practice obedience."

"Well?" asked Danglars.

"Well, sir," replied Eugenie, "I have 
tried to the very last and now that the 
moment has come, I feel in spite of all 
my efforts that it is impossible."

"But," said Danglars, whose weak mind 
was at first quite overwhelmed with the 
weight of this pitiless logic, marking 
evident premeditation and force of 
will, "what is your reason for this 
refusal, Eugenie? what reason do you 
assign?"

"My reason?" replied the young girl. 
"Well, it is not that the man is more 
ugly, more foolish, or more 
disagreeable than any other; no, M. 
Andrea Cavalcanti may appear to those 
who look at men's faces and figures as 
a very good specimen of his kind. It is 
not, either, that my heart is less 
touched by him than any other; that 
would be a schoolgirl's reason, which I 
consider quite beneath me. I actually 
love no one, sir; you know it, do you 
not? I do not then see why, without 
real necessity, I should encumber my 
life with a perpetual companion. Has 
not some sage said, `Nothing too much'? 
and another, `I carry all my effects 
with me'? I have been taught these two 
aphorisms in Latin and in Greek; one 
is, I believe, from Phaedrus, and the 
other from Bias. Well, my dear father, 
in the shipwreck of life -- for life is 
an eternal shipwreck of our hopes -- I 
cast into the sea my useless 
encumbrance, that is all, and I remain 
with my own will, disposed to live 
perfectly alone, and consequently 
perfectly free."

"Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!" murmured 
Danglars, turning pale, for he knew 
from long experience the solidity of 
the obstacle he had so suddenly 
encountered.

"Unhappy girl," replied Eugenie, 
"unhappy girl, do you say, sir? No, 
indeed; the exclamation appears quite 
theatrical and affected. Happy, on the 
contrary, for what am I in want of! The 
world calls me beautiful. It is 
something to be well received. I like a 
favorable reception; it expands the 
countenance, and those around me do not 
then appear so ugly. I possess a share 
of wit, and a certain relative 
sensibility, which enables me to draw 
from life in general, for the support 
of mine, all I meet with that is good, 
like the monkey who cracks the nut to 
get at its contents. I am rich, for you 
have one of the first fortunes in 
France. I am your only daughter, and 
you are not so exacting as the fathers 
of the Porte Saint-Martin and Gaiete, 
who disinherit their daughters for not 
giving them grandchildren. Besides, the 
provident law has deprived you of the 
power to disinherit me, at least 
entirely, as it has also of the power 
to compel me to marry Monsieur This or 
Monsieur That. And so -- being, 
beautiful, witty, somewhat talented, as 
the comic operas say, and rich -- and 
that is happiness, sir -- why do you 
call me unhappy?"

Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling, 
and proud even to insolence, could not 
entirely repress his brutal feelings, 
but they betrayed themselves only by an 
exclamation. Under the fixed and 
inquiring gaze levelled at him from 
under those beautiful black eyebrows, 
he prudently turned away, and calmed 
himself immediately, daunted by the 
power of a resolute mind. "Truly, my 
daughter," replied he with a smile, 
"you are all you boast of being, 
excepting one thing; I will not too 
hastily tell you which, but would 
rather leave you to guess it." Eugenie 
looked at Danglars, much surprised that 
one flower of her crown of pride, with 
which she had so superbly decked 
herself, should be disputed. "My 
daughter," continued the banker, "you 
have perfectly explained to me the 
sentiments which influence a girl like 
you, who is determined she will not 
marry; now it remains for me to tell 
you the motives of a father like me, 
who has decided that his daughter shall 
marry." Eugenie bowed, not as a 
submissive daughter, but as an 
adversary prepared for a discussion.

"My daughter," continued Danglars, 
"when a father asks his daughter to 
choose a husband, he has always some 
reason for wishing her to marry. Some 
are affected with the mania of which 
you spoke just now, that of living 
again in their grandchildren. This is 
not my weakness, I tell you at once; 
family joys have no charm for me. I may 
acknowledge this to a daughter whom I 
know to be philosophical enough to 
understand my indifference, and not to 
impute it to me as a crime."

"This is not to the purpose," said 
Eugenie; "let us speak candidly, sir; I 
admire candor."

"Oh," said Danglars, "I can, when 
circumstances render it desirable, 
adopt your system, although it may not 
be my general practice. I will 
therefore proceed. I have proposed to 
you to marry, not for your sake, for 
indeed I did not think of you in the 
least at the moment (you admire candor, 
and will now be satisfied, I hope); but 
because it suited me to marry you as 
soon as possible, on account of certain 
commercial speculations I am desirous 
of entering into." Eugenie became 
uneasy.

"It is just as I tell you, I assure 
you, and you must not be angry with me, 
for you have sought this disclosure. I 
do not willingly enter into 
arithmetical explanations with an 
artist like you, who fears to enter my 
study lest she should imbibe 
disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions 
and sensations. But in that same 
banker's study, where you very 
willingly presented yourself yesterday 
to ask for the thousand francs I give 
you monthly for pocket-money, you must 
know, my dear young lady, that many 
things may be learned, useful even to a 
girl who will not marry. There one may 
learn, for instance, what, out of 
regard to your nervous susceptibility, 
I will inform you of in the 
drawing-room, namely, that the credit 
of a banker is his physical and moral 
life; that credit sustains him as 
breath animates the body; and M. de 
Monte Cristo once gave me a lecture on 
that subject, which I have never 
forgotten. There we may learn that as 
credit sinks, the body becomes a 
corpse, and this is what must happen 
very soon to the banker who is proud to 
own so good a logician as you for his 
daughter." But Eugenie, instead of 
stooping, drew herself up under the 
blow. "Ruined?" said she.

"Exactly, my daughter; that is 
precisely what I mean," said Danglars, 
almost digging his nails into his 
breast, while he preserved on his harsh 
features the smile of the heartless 
though clever man; "ruined -- yes, that 
is it."

"Ah!" said Eugenie.

"Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this 
secret so full of horror, as the tragic 
poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from 
my lips how you may alleviate this 
misfortune, so far as it will affect 
you."

"Oh," cried Eugenie, "you are a bad 
physiognomist, if you imagine I deplore 
on my own account the catastrophe of 
which you warn me. I ruined? and what 
will that signify to me? Have I not my 
talent left? Can I not, like Pasta, 
Malibran, Grisi, acquire for myself 
what you would never have given me, 
whatever might have been your fortune, 
a hundred or a hundred and fifty 
thousand livres per annum, for which I 
shall be indebted to no one but myself; 
and which, instead of being given as 
you gave me those poor twelve thousand 
francs, with sour looks and reproaches 
for my prodigality, will be accompanied 
with acclamations, with bravos, and 
with flowers? And if I do not possess 
that talent, which your smiles prove to 
me you doubt, should I not still have 
that ardent love of independence, which 
will be a substitute for wealth, and 
which in my mind supersedes even the 
instinct of self-preservation? No, I 
grieve not on my own account, I shall 
always find a resource; my books, my 
pencils, my piano, all the things which 
cost but little, and which I shall be 
able to procure, will remain my own.

"Do you think that I sorrow for Madame 
Danglars? Undeceive yourself again; 
either I am greatly mistaken, or she 
has provided against the catastrophe 
which threatens you, and, which will 
pass over without affecting her. She 
has taken care for herself, -- at least 
I hope so, -- for her attention has not 
been diverted from her projects by 
watching over me. She has fostered my 
independence by professedly indulging 
my love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from 
my childhood I have seen too much, and 
understood too much, of what has passed 
around me, for misfortune to have an 
undue power over me. From my earliest 
recollections, I have been beloved by 
no one -- so much the worse; that has 
naturally led me to love no one -- so 
much the better -- now you have my 
profession of faith."

"Then," said Danglars, pale with anger, 
which was not at all due to offended 
paternal love, -- "then, mademoiselle, 
you persist in your determination to 
accelerate my ruin?"

"Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? 
What do you mean? I do not understand 
you."

"So much the better, I have a ray of 
hope left; listen."

"I am all attention," said Eugenie, 
looking so earnestly at her father that 
it was an effort for the latter to 
endure her unrelenting gaze.

"M. Cavalcanti," continued Danglars, 
"is about to marry you, and will place 
in my hands his fortune, amounting to 
three million livres."

"That is admirable!" said Eugenie with 
sovereign contempt, smoothing her 
gloves out one upon the other.

"You think I shall deprive you of those 
three millions," said Danglars; "but do 
not fear it. They are destined to 
produce at least ten. I and a brother 
banker have obtained a grant of a 
railway, the only industrial enterprise 
which in these days promises to make 
good the fabulous prospects that Law 
once held out to the eternally deluded 
Parisians, in the fantastic Mississippi 
scheme. As I look at it, a millionth 
part of a railway is worth fully as 
much as an acre of waste land on the 
banks of the Ohio. We make in our case 
a deposit, on a mortgage, which is an 
advance, as you see, since we gain at 
least ten, fifteen, twenty, or a 
hundred livres' worth of iron in 
exchange for our money. Well, within a 
week I am to deposit four millions for 
my share; the four millions, I promise 
you, will produce ten or twelve."

"But during my visit to you the day 
before yesterday, sir, which you appear 
to recollect so well," replied Eugenie, 
"I saw you arranging a deposit -- is 
not that the term? -- of five millions 
and a half; you even pointed it out to 
me in two drafts on the treasury, and 
you were astonished that so valuable a 
paper did not dazzle my eyes like 
lightning."

"Yes, but those five millions and a 
half are not mine, and are only a proof 
of the great confidence placed in me; 
my title of popular banker has gained 
me the confidence of charitable 
institutions, and the five millions and 
a half belong to them; at any other 
time I should not have hesitated to 
make use of them, but the great losses 
I have recently sustained are well 
known, and, as I told you, my credit is 
rather shaken. That deposit may be at 
any moment withdrawn, and if I had 
employed it for another purpose, I 
should bring on me a disgraceful 
bankruptcy. I do not despise 
bankruptcies, believe me, but they must 
be those which enrich, not those which 
ruin. Now, if you marry M. Cavalcanti, 
and I get the three millions, or even 
if it is thought I am going to get 
them, my credit will be restored, and 
my fortune, which for the last month or 
two has been swallowed up in gulfs 
which have been opened in my path by an 
inconceivable fatality, will revive. Do 
you understand me?"

"Perfectly; you pledge me for three 
millions, do you not?"

"The greater the amount, the more 
flattering it is to you; it gives you 
an idea of your value."

"Thank you. One word more, sir; do you 
promise me to make what use you can of 
the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti 
will bring without touching the money? 
This is no act of selfishness, but of 
delicacy. I am willing to help rebuild 
your fortune, but I will not be an 
accomplice in the ruin of others."

"But since I tell you," cried Danglars, 
"that with these three million" --

"Do you expect to recover your 
position, sir, without touching those 
three million?"

"I hope so, if the marriage should take 
place and confirm my credit."

"Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti 
the five hundred thousand francs you 
promise for my dowry?"

"He shall receive then on returning 
from the mayor's."*

* The performance of the civil marriage.

"Very well!"

"What next? what more do you want?"

"I wish to know if, in demanding my 
signature, you leave me entirely free 
in my person?"

"Absolutely."

"Then, as I said before, sir, -- very 
well; I am ready to marry M. 
Cavalcanti."

"But what are you up to?"

"Ah, that is my affair. What advantage 
should I have over you, if knowing your 
secret I were to tell you mine?" 
Danglars bit his lips. "Then," said he, 
"you are ready to pay the official 
visits, which are absolutely 
indispensable?"

"Yes," replied Eugenie.

"And to sign the contract in three 
days?"

"Yes."

"Then, in my turn, I also say, very 
well!" Danglars pressed his daughter's 
hand in his. But, extraordinary to 
relate, the father did not say, "Thank 
you, my child," nor did the daughter 
smile at her father. "Is the conference 
ended?" asked Eugenie, rising. Danglars 
motioned that he had nothing more to 
say. Five minutes afterwards the piano 
resounded to the touch of Mademoiselle 
d'Armilly's fingers, and Mademoiselle 
Danglars was singing Brabantio's 
malediction on Desdemona. At the end of 
the piece Etienne entered, and 
announced to Eugenie that the horses 
were in the carriage, and that the 
baroness was waiting for her to pay her 
visits. We have seen them at 
Villefort's; they proceeded then on 
their course. 

 Chapter 96 The Contract.

Three days after the scene we have just 
described, namely towards five o'clock 
in the afternoon of the day fixed for 
the signature of the contract between 
Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars and 
Andrea Cavalcanti, -- whom the banker 
persisted in calling prince, -- a fresh 
breeze was stirring the leaves in the 
little garden in front of the Count of 
Monte Cristo's house, and the count was 
preparing to go out. While his horses 
were impatiently pawing the ground, -- 
held in by the coachman, who had been 
seated a quarter of an hour on his box, 
-- the elegant phaeton with which we 
are familiar rapidly turned the angle 
of the entrance-gate, and cast out on 
the doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti, as 
decked up and gay as if he were going 
to marry a princess. He inquired after 
the count with his usual familiarity, 
and ascending lightly to the second 
story met him at the top of the stairs. 
The count stopped on seeing the young 
man. As for Andrea, he was launched, 
and when he was once launched nothing 
stopped him. "Ah, good morning, my dear 
count," said he. "Ah, M. Andrea," said 
the latter, with his half-jesting tone; 
"how do you do."

"Charmingly, as you see. I am come to 
talk to you about a thousand things; 
but, first tell me, were you going out 
or just returned?"

"I was going out, sir."

"Then, in order not to hinder you, I 
will get up with you if you please in 
your carriage, and Tom shall follow 
with my phaeton in tow."

"No," said the count, with an 
imperceptible smile of contempt, for he 
had no wish to be seen in the young 
man's society, -- "no; I prefer 
listening to you here, my dear M. 
Andrea; we can chat better in-doors, 
and there is no coachman to overhear 
our conversation." The count returned 
to a small drawing-room on the first 
floor, sat down, and crossing his legs 
motioned to the young man to take a 
seat also. Andrea assumed his gayest 
manner. "You know, my dear count," said 
he, "the ceremony is to take place this 
evening. At nine o'clock the contract 
is to be signed at my father-in-law's."

"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo.

"What; is it news to you? Has not M. 
Danglars informed you of the ceremony?"

"Oh, yes," said the count; "I received 
a letter from him yesterday, but I do 
not think the hour was mentioned."

"Possibly my father-in-law trusted to 
its general notoriety."

"Well," said Monte Cristo, "you are 
fortunate, M. Cavalcanti; it is a most 
suitable alliance you are contracting, 
and Mademoiselle Danglars is a handsome 
girl."

"Yes, indeed she is," replied 
Cavalcanti, in a very modest tone.

"Above all, she is very rich, -- at 
least, I believe so," said Monte Cristo.

"Very rich, do you think?" replied the 
young man.

"Doubtless; it is said M. Danglars 
conceals at least half of his fortune."

"And he acknowledges fifteen or twenty 
millions," said Andrea with a look 
sparkling with joy.

"Without reckoning," added Monte 
Cristo, "that he is on the eve of 
entering into a sort of speculation 
already in vogue in the United States 
and in England, but quite novel in 
France."

"Yes, yes, I know what you mean, -- the 
railway, of which he has obtained the 
grant, is it not?"

"Precisely; it is generally believed he 
will gain ten millions by that affair."

"Ten millions! Do you think so? It is 
magnificent!" said Cavalcanti, who was 
quite confounded at the metallic sound 
of these golden words. "Without 
reckoning," replied Monte Cristo, "that 
all his fortune will come to you, and 
justly too, since Mademoiselle Danglars 
is an only daughter. Besides, your own 
fortune, as your father assured me, is 
almost equal to that of your betrothed. 
But enough of money matters. Do you 
know, M. Andrea, I think you have 
managed this affair rather skilfully?"

"Not badly, by any means," said the 
young man; "I was born for a 
diplomatist."

"Well, you must become a diplomatist; 
diplomacy, you know, is something that 
is not to be acquired; it is 
instinctive. Have you lost your heart?"

"Indeed, I fear it," replied Andrea, in 
the tone in which he had heard Dorante 
or Valere reply to Alceste* at the 
Theatre Francais.

"Is your love returned?"

* In Moliere's comedy, Le Misanthrope.

"I suppose so," said Andrea with a 
triumphant smile, "since I am accepted. 
But I must not forget one grand point."

"Which?"

"That I have been singularly assisted."

"Nonsense."

"I have, indeed."

"By circumstances?"

"No; by you."

"By me? Not at all, prince," said Monte 
Cristo laying a marked stress on the 
title, "what have I done for you? Are 
not your name, your social position, 
and your merit sufficient?"

"No," said Andrea, -- "no; it is 
useless for you to say so, count. I 
maintain that the position of a man 
like you has done more than my name, my 
social position, and my merit."

"You are completely mistaken, sir," 
said Monte Cristo coldly, who felt the 
perfidious manoeuvre of the young man, 
and understood the bearing of his 
words; "you only acquired my protection 
after the influence and fortune of your 
father had been ascertained; for, after 
all, who procured for me, who had never 
seen either you or your illustrious 
father, the pleasure of your 
acquaintance? -- two of my good 
friends, Lord Wilmore and the Abbe 
Busoni. What encouraged me not to 
become your surety, but to patronize 
you? -- your father's name, so well 
known in Italy and so highly honored. 
Personally, I do not know you." This 
calm tone and perfect ease made Andrea 
feel that he was, for the moment, 
restrained by a more muscular hand than 
his own, and that the restraint could 
not be easily broken through.

"Oh, then my father has really a very 
large fortune, count?"

"It appears so, sir," replied Monte 
Cristo.

"Do you know if the marriage settlement 
he promised me has come?"

"I have been advised of it."

"But the three millions?"

"The three millions are probably on the 
road."

"Then I shall really have them?"

"Oh, well," said the count, "I do not 
think you have yet known the want of 
money." Andrea was so surprised that he 
pondered the matter for a moment. Then, 
arousing from his revery, -- "Now, sir, 
I have one request to make to you, 
which you will understand, even if it 
should be disagreeable to you."

"Proceed," said Monte Cristo.

"I have formed an acquaintance, thanks 
to my good fortune, with many noted 
persons, and have, at least for the 
moment, a crowd of friends. But 
marrying, as I am about to do, before 
all Paris, I ought to be supported by 
an illustrious name, and in the absence 
of the paternal hand some powerful one 
ought to lead me to the altar; now, my 
father is not coming to Paris, is he? 
He is old, covered with wounds, and 
suffers dreadfully, he says, in 
travelling."

"Indeed?"

"Well, I am come to ask a favor of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes, of you."

"And pray what may it be?"

"Well, to take his part."

"Ah, my dear sir! What? -- after the 
varied relations I have had the 
happiness to sustain towards you, can 
it be that you know me so little as to 
ask such a thing? Ask me to lend you 
half a million and, although such a 
loan is somewhat rare, on my honor, you 
would annoy me less! Know, then, what I 
thought I had already told you, that in 
participation in this world's affairs, 
more especially in their moral aspects, 
the Count of Monte Cristo has never 
ceased to entertain the scruples and 
even the superstitions of the East. I, 
who have a seraglio at Cairo, one at 
Smyrna, and one at Constantinople, 
preside at a wedding? -- never!"

"Then you refuse me?"

"Decidedly; and were you my son or my 
brother I would refuse you in the same 
way."

"But what must be done?" said Andrea, 
disappointed.

"You said just now that you had a 
hundred friends."

"Very true, but you introduced me at M. 
Danglars'."

"Not at all! Let us recall the exact 
facts. You met him at a dinner party at 
my house, and you introduced yourself 
at his house; that is a totally 
different affair."

"Yes, but, by my marriage, you have 
forwarded that."

"I? -- not in the least, I beg you to 
believe. Recollect what I told you when 
you asked me to propose you. `Oh, I 
never make matches, my dear prince, it 
is my settled principle.'" Andrea bit 
his lips.

"But, at least, you will be there?"

"Will all Paris be there?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Well, like all Paris, I shall be there 
too," said the count.

"And will you sign the contract?"

"I see no objection to that; my 
scruples do not go thus far."

"Well, since you will grant me no more, 
I must be content with what you give 
me. But one word more, count."

"What is it?"

"Advice."

"Be careful; advice is worse than a 
service."

"Oh, you can give me this without 
compromising yourself."

"Tell me what it is."

"Is my wife's fortune five hundred 
thousand livres?"

"That is the sum M. Danglars himself 
announced."

"Must I receive it, or leave it in the 
hands of the notary?"

"This is the way such affairs are 
generally arranged when it is wished to 
do them stylishly: Your two solicitors 
appoint a meeting, when the contract is 
signed, for the next or the following 
day; then they exchange the two 
portions, for which they each give a 
receipt; then, when the marriage is 
celebrated, they place the amount at 
your disposal as the chief member of 
the alliance."

"Because," said Andrea, with a certain 
ill-concealed uneasiness, "I thought I 
heard my father-in-law say that he 
intended embarking our property in that 
famous railway affair of which you 
spoke just now."

"Well," replied Monte Cristo, "it will 
be the way, everybody says, of trebling 
your fortune in twelve months. Baron 
Danglars is a good father, and knows 
how to calculate."

"In that case," said Andrea, 
"everything is all right, excepting 
your refusal, which quite grieves me."

"You must attribute it only to natural 
scruples under similar circumstances."

"Well," said Andrea, "let it be as you 
wish. This evening, then, at nine 
o'clock."

"Adieu till then." Notwithstanding a 
slight resistance on the part of Monte 
Cristo, whose lips turned pale, but who 
preserved his ceremonious smile, Andrea 
seized the count's hand, pressed it, 
jumped into his phaeton, and 
disappeared.

The four or five remaining hours before 
nine o'clock arrived, Andrea employed 
in riding, paying visits, -- designed 
to induce those of whom he had spoken 
to appear at the banker's in their 
gayest equipages, -- dazzling them by 
promises of shares in schemes which 
have since turned every brain, and in 
which Danglars was just taking the 
initiative. In fact, at half-past eight 
in the evening the grand salon, the 
gallery adjoining, and the three other 
drawing-rooms on the same floor, were 
filled with a perfumed crowd, who 
sympathized but little in the event, 
but who all participated in that love 
of being present wherever there is 
anything fresh to be seen. An 
Academician would say that the 
entertainments of the fashionable world 
are collections of flowers which 
attract inconstant butterflies, 
famished bees, and buzzing drones.

No one could deny that the rooms were 
splendidly illuminated; the light 
streamed forth on the gilt mouldings 
and the silk hangings; and all the bad 
taste of decorations, which had only 
their richness to boast of, shone in 
its splendor. Mademoiselle Eugenie was 
dressed with elegant simplicity in a 
figured white silk dress, and a white 
rose half concealed in her jet black 
hair was her only ornament, 
unaccompanied by a single jewel. Her 
eyes, however, betrayed that perfect 
confidence which contradicted the 
girlish simplicity of this modest 
attire. Madame Danglars was chatting at 
a short distance with Debray, 
Beauchamp, and Chateau-Renaud.

Debray was admitted to the house for 
this grand ceremony, but on the same 
plane with every one else, and without 
any particular privilege. M. Danglars, 
surrounded by deputies and men 
connected with the revenue, was 
explaining a new theory of taxation 
which he intended to adopt when the 
course of events had compelled the 
government to call him into the 
ministry. Andrea, on whose arm hung one 
of the most consummate dandies of the 
opera, was explaining to him rather 
cleverly, since he was obliged to be 
bold to appear at ease, his future 
projects, and the new luxuries he meant 
to introduce to Parisian fashions with 
his hundred and seventy-five thousand 
livres per annum.

The crowd moved to and fro in the rooms 
like an ebb and flow of turquoises, 
rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds. 
As usual, the oldest women were the 
most decorated, and the ugliest the 
most conspicuous. If there was a 
beautiful lily, or a sweet rose, you 
had to search for it, concealed in some 
corner behind a mother with a turban, 
or an aunt with a bird of paradise.

At each moment, in the midst of the 
crowd, the buzzing, and the laughter, 
the door-keeper's voice was heard 
announcing some name well known in the 
financial department, respected in the 
army, or illustrious in the literary 
world, and which was acknowledged by a 
slight movement in the different 
groups. But for one whose privilege it 
was to agitate that ocean of human 
waves, how many were received with a 
look of indifference or a sneer of 
disdain! At the moment when the hand of 
the massive time-piece, representing 
Endymion asleep, pointed to nine on its 
golden face, and the hammer, the 
faithful type of mechanical thought, 
struck nine times, the name of the 
Count of Monte Cristo resounded in its 
turn, and as if by an electric shock 
all the assembly turned towards the 
door.

The count was dressed in black and with 
his habitual simplicity; his white 
waistcoat displayed his expansive noble 
chest and his black stock was 
singularly noticeable because of its 
contrast with the deadly paleness of 
his face. His only jewellery was a 
chain, so fine that the slender gold 
thread was scarcely perceptible on his 
white waistcoat. A circle was 
immediately formed around the door. The 
count perceived at one glance Madame 
Danglars at one end of the 
drawing-room, M. Danglars at the other, 
and Eugenie in front of him. He first 
advanced towards the baroness, who was 
chatting with Madame de Villefort, who 
had come alone, Valentine being still 
an invalid; and without turning aside, 
so clear was the road left for him, he 
passed from the baroness to Eugenie, 
whom he complimented in such rapid and 
measured terms, that the proud artist 
was quite struck. Near her was 
Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly, who 
thanked the count for the letters of 
introduction he had so kindly given her 
for Italy, which she intended 
immediately to make use of. On leaving 
these ladies he found himself with 
Danglars, who had advanced to meet him.

Having accomplished these three social 
duties, Monte Cristo stopped, looking 
around him with that expression 
peculiar to a certain class, which 
seems to say, "I have done my duty, now 
let others do theirs." Andrea, who was 
in an adjoining room, had shared in the 
sensation caused by the arrival of 
Monte Cristo, and now came forward to 
pay his respects to the count. He found 
him completely surrounded; all were 
eager to speak to him, as is always the 
case with those whose words are few and 
weighty. The solicitors arrived at this 
moment and arranged their scrawled 
papers on the velvet cloth embroidered 
with gold which covered the table 
prepared for the signature; it was a 
gilt table supported on lions' claws. 
One of the notaries sat down, the other 
remained standing. They were about to 
proceed to the reading of the contract, 
which half Paris assembled was to sign. 
All took their places, or rather the 
ladies formed a circle, while the 
gentlemen (more indifferent to the 
restraints of what Boileau calls the 
"energetic style") commented on the 
feverish agitation of Andrea, on M. 
Danglars' riveted attention, Eugenie's 
composure, and the light and sprightly 
manner in which the baroness treated 
this important affair.

The contract was read during a profound 
silence. But as soon as it was 
finished, the buzz was redoubled 
through all the drawing-rooms; the 
brilliant sums, the rolling millions 
which were to be at the command of the 
two young people, and which crowned the 
display of the wedding presents and the 
young lady's diamonds, which had been 
made in a room entirely appropriated 
for that purpose, had exercised to the 
full their delusions over the envious 
assembly. Mademoiselle Danglars' charms 
were heightened in the opinion of the 
young men, and for the moment seemed to 
outvie the sun in splendor. As for the 
ladies, it is needless to say that 
while they coveted the millions, they 
thought they did not need them for 
themselves, as they were beautiful 
enough without them. Andrea, surrounded 
by his friends, complimented, 
flattered, beginning to believe in the 
reality of his dream, was almost 
bewildered. The notary solemnly took 
the pen, flourished it above his head, 
and said, "Gentlemen, we are about to 
sign the contract."

The baron was to sign first, then the 
representative of M. Cavalcanti, 
senior, then the baroness, afterwards 
the "future couple," as they are styled 
in the abominable phraseology of legal 
documents. The baron took the pen and 
signed, then the representative. The 
baroness approached, leaning on Madame 
de Villefort's arm. "My dear," said 
she, as she took the pen, "is it not 
vexatious? An unexpected incident, in 
the affair of murder and theft at the 
Count of Monte Cristo's, in which he 
nearly fell a victim, deprives us of 
the pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort."

"Indeed?" said M. Danglars, in the same 
tone in which he would have said, "Oh, 
well, what do I care?"

"As a matter of fact," said Monte 
Cristo, approaching, "I am much afraid 
that I am the involuntary cause of his 
absence."

"What, you, count?" said Madame 
Danglars, signing; "if you are, take 
care, for I shall never forgive you." 
Andrea pricked up his ears.

"But it is not my fault, as I shall 
endeavor to prove." Every one listened 
eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely 
opened his lips, was about to speak. 
"You remember," said the count, during 
the most profound silence, "that the 
unhappy wretch who came to rob me died 
at my house; the supposition is that he 
was stabbed by his accomplice, on 
attempting to leave it."

"Yes," said Danglars.

"In order that his wounds might be 
examined he was undressed, and his 
clothes were thrown into a corner, 
where the police picked them up, with 
the exception of the waistcoat, which 
they overlooked." Andrea turned pale, 
and drew towards the door; he saw a 
cloud rising in the horizon, which 
appeared to forebode a coming storm.

"Well, this waistcoat was discovered 
to-day, covered with blood, and with a 
hole over the heart." The ladies 
screamed, and two or three prepared to 
faint. "It was brought to me. No one 
could guess what the dirty rag could 
be; I alone suspected that it was the 
waistcoat of the murdered man. My 
valet, in examining this mournful 
relic, felt a paper in the pocket and 
drew it out; it was a letter addressed 
to you, baron."

"To me?" cried Danglars.

"Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in 
deciphering your name under the blood 
with which the letter was stained," 
replied Monte Cristo, amid the general 
outburst of amazement.

"But," asked Madame Danglars, looking 
at her husband with uneasiness, "how 
could that prevent M. de Villefort" --

"In this simple way, madame," replied 
Monte Cristo; "the waistcoat and the 
letter were both what is termed 
circumstantial evidence; I therefore 
sent them to the king's attorney. You 
understand, my dear baron, that legal 
methods are the safest in criminal 
cases; it was, perhaps, some plot 
against you." Andrea looked steadily at 
Monte Cristo and disappeared in the 
second drawing-room.

"Possibly," said Danglars; "was not 
this murdered man an old galley-slave?"

"Yes," replied the count; "a felon 
named Caderousse." Danglars turned 
slightly pale; Andrea reached the 
anteroom beyond the little drawing-room.

"But go on signing," said Monte Cristo; 
"I perceive that my story has caused a 
general emotion, and I beg to apologize 
to you, baroness, and to Mademoiselle 
Danglars." The baroness, who had 
signed, returned the pen to the notary. 
"Prince Cavalcanti," said the latter; 
"Prince Cavalcanti, where are you?"

"Andrea, Andrea," repeated several 
young people, who were already on 
sufficiently intimate terms with him to 
call him by his Christian name.

"Call the prince; inform him that it is 
his turn to sign," cried Danglars to 
one of the floorkeepers.

But at the same instant the crowd of 
guests rushed in alarm into the 
principal salon as if some frightful 
monster had entered the apartments, 
quaerens quem devoret. There was, 
indeed, reason to retreat, to be 
alarmed, and to scream. An officer was 
placing two soldiers at the door of 
each drawing-room, and was advancing 
towards Danglars, preceded by a 
commissary of police, girded with his 
scarf. Madame Danglars uttered a scream 
and fainted. Danglars, who thought 
himself threatened (certain consciences 
are never calm), -- Danglars even 
before his guests showed a countenance 
of abject terror.

"What is the matter, sir?" asked Monte 
Cristo, advancing to meet the 
commissioner.

"Which of you gentlemen," asked the 
magistrate, without replying to the 
count, "answers to the name of Andrea 
Cavalcanti?" A cry of astonishment was 
heard from all parts of the room. They 
searched; they questioned. "But who 
then is Andrea Cavalcanti?" asked 
Danglars in amazement.

"A galley-slave, escaped from 
confinement at Toulon."

"And what crime has he committed?"

"He is accused," said the commissary 
with his inflexible voice, "of having 
assassinated the man named Caderousse, 
his former companion in prison, at the 
moment he was making his escape from 
the house of the Count of Monte 
Cristo." Monte Cristo cast a rapid 
glance around him. Andrea was gone. 

 Chapter 97 The Departure for Belgium.

A few minutes after the scene of 
confusion produced in the salons of M. 
Danglars by the unexpected appearance 
of the brigade of soldiers, and by the 
disclosure which had followed, the 
mansion was deserted with as much 
rapidity as if a case of plague or of 
cholera morbus had broken out among the 
guests. In a few minutes, through all 
the doors, down all the staircases, by 
every exit, every one hastened to 
retire, or rather to fly; for it was a 
situation where the ordinary 
condolences, -- which even the best 
friends are so eager to offer in great 
catastrophes, -- were seen to be 
utterly futile. There remained in the 
banker's house only Danglars, closeted 
in his study, and making his statement 
to the officer of gendarmes; Madame 
Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir 
with which we are acquainted; and 
Eugenie, who with haughty air and 
disdainful lip had retired to her room 
with her inseparable companion, 
Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly. As for 
the numerous servants (more numerous 
that evening than usual, for their 
number was augmented by cooks and 
butlers from the Cafe de Paris), 
venting on their employers their anger 
at what they termed the insult to which 
they had been subjected, they collected 
in groups in the hall, in the kitchens, 
or in their rooms, thinking very little 
of their duty, which was thus naturally 
interrupted. Of all this household, 
only two persons deserve our notice; 
these are Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars 
and Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly.

The betrothed had retired, as we said, 
with haughty air, disdainful lip, and 
the demeanor of an outraged queen, 
followed by her companion, who was 
paler and more disturbed than herself. 
On reaching her room Eugenie locked her 
door, while Louise fell on a chair. 
"Ah, what a dreadful thing," said the 
young musician; "who would have 
suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a 
murderer -- a galley-slave escaped -- a 
convict!" An ironical smile curled the 
lip of Eugenie. "In truth I was fated," 
said she. "I escaped the Morcerf only 
to fall into the Cavalcanti."

"Oh, do not confound the two, Eugenie."

"Hold your tongue! The men are all 
infamous, and I am happy to be able now 
to do more than detest them -- I 
despise them."

"What shall we do?" asked Louise.

"What shall we do?"

"Yes."

"Why, the same we had intended doing 
three days since -- set off."

"What? -- although you are not now 
going to be married, you intend still" 
--

"Listen, Louise. I hate this life of 
the fashionable world, always ordered, 
measured, ruled, like our music-paper. 
What I have always wished for, desired, 
and coveted, is the life of an artist, 
free and independent, relying only on 
my own resources, and accountable only 
to myself. Remain here? What for? -- 
that they may try, a month hence, to 
marry me again; and to whom? -- M. 
Debray, perhaps, as it was once 
proposed. No, Louise, no! This 
evening's adventure will serve for my 
excuse. I did not seek one, I did not 
ask for one. God sends me this, and I 
hail it joyfully!"

"How strong and courageous you are!" 
said the fair, frail girl to her 
brunette companion.

"Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, 
let us talk of our affairs. The 
post-chaise" --

"Was happily bought three days since."

"Have you had it sent where we are to 
go for it?"

"Yes."

"Our passport?"

"Here it is."

And Eugenie, with her usual precision, 
opened a printed paper, and read, --

"M. Leon d'Armilly, twenty years of 
age; profession, artist; hair black, 
eyes black; travelling with his sister."

"Capital! How did you get this 
passport?"

"When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo 
for letters to the directors of the 
theatres at Rome and Naples, I 
expressed my fears of travelling as a 
woman; he perfectly understood them, 
and undertook to procure for me a man's 
passport, and two days after I received 
this, to which I have added with my own 
hand, `travelling with his sister.'"

"Well," said Eugenie cheerfully, "we 
have then only to pack up our trunks; 
we shall start the evening of the 
signing of the contract, instead of the 
evening of the wedding -- that is all."

"But consider the matter seriously, 
Eugenie!"

"Oh, I am done with considering! I am 
tired of hearing only of market 
reports, of the end of the month, of 
the rise and fall of Spanish funds, of 
Haitian bonds. Instead of that, Louise 
-- do you understand? -- air, liberty, 
melody of birds, plains of Lombardy, 
Venetian canals, Roman palaces, the Bay 
of Naples. How much have we, Louise?" 
The young girl to whom this question 
was addressed drew from an inlaid 
secretary a small portfolio with a 
lock, in which she counted twenty-three 
bank-notes.

"Twenty-three thousand francs," I said 
she.

"And as much, at least, in pearls, 
diamonds, and jewels," said Eugenie. 
"We are rich. With forty-five thousand 
francs we can live like princesses for 
two years, and comfortably for four; 
but before six months -- you with your 
music, and I with my voice -- we shall 
double our capital. Come, you shall 
take charge of the money, I of the 
jewel-box; so that if one of us had the 
misfortune to lose her treasure, the 
other would still have hers left. Now, 
the portmanteau -- let us make haste -- 
the portmanteau!"

"Stop!" said Louise, going to listen at 
Madame Danglars' door.

"What do you fear?"

"That we may be discovered."

"The door is locked."

"They may tell us to open it."

"They may if they like, but we will 
not."

"You are a perfect Amazon, Eugenie!" 
And the two young girls began to heap 
into a trunk all the things they 
thought they should require. "There 
now," said Eugenie, "while I change my 
costume do you lock the portmanteau." 
Louise pressed with all the strength of 
her little hands on the top of the 
portmanteau. "But I cannot," said she; 
"I am not strong enough; do you shut 
it."

"Ah, you do well to ask," said Eugenie, 
laughing; "I forgot that I was 
Hercules, and you only the pale 
Omphale!" And the young girl, kneeling 
on the top, pressed the two parts of 
the portmanteau together, and 
Mademoiselle d'Armilly passed the bolt 
of the padlock through. When this was 
done, Eugenie opened a drawer, of which 
she kept the key, and took from it a 
wadded violet silk travelling cloak. 
"Here," said she, "you see I have 
thought of everything; with this cloak 
you will not be cold."

"But you?"

"Oh, I am never cold, you know! 
Besides, with these men's clothes" --

"Will you dress here?"

"Certainly."

"Shall you have time?"

"Do not be uneasy, you little coward! 
All our servants are busy, discussing 
the grand affair. Besides, what is 
there astonishing, when you think of 
the grief I ought to be in, that I shut 
myself up? -- tell me!"

"No, truly -- you comfort me."

"Come and help me."

From the same drawer she took a man's 
complete costume, from the boots to the 
coat, and a provision of linen, where 
there was nothing superfluous, but 
every requisite. Then, with a 
promptitude which indicated that this 
was not the first time she had amused 
herself by adopting the garb of the 
opposite sex, Eugenie drew on the boots 
and pantaloons, tied her cravat, 
buttoned her waistcoat up to the 
throat, and put on a coat which 
admirably fitted her beautiful figure. 
"Oh, that is very good -- indeed, it is 
very good!" said Louise, looking at her 
with admiration; "but that beautiful 
black hair, those magnificent braids, 
which made all the ladies sigh with 
envy, -- will they go under a man's hat 
like the one I see down there?"

"You shall see," said Eugenie. And with 
her left hand seizing the thick mass, 
which her long fingers could scarcely 
grasp, she took in her right hand a 
pair of long scissors, and soon the 
steel met through the rich and splendid 
hair, which fell in a cluster at her 
feet as she leaned back to keep it from 
her coat. Then she grasped the front 
hair, which she also cut off, without 
expressing the least regret; on the 
contrary, her eyes sparkled with 
greater pleasure than usual under her 
ebony eyebrows. "Oh, the magnificent 
hair!" said Louise, with regret.

"And am I not a hundred times better 
thus?" cried Eugenie, smoothing the 
scattered curls of her hair, which had 
now quite a masculine appearance; "and 
do you not think me handsomer so?"

"Oh, you are beautiful -- always 
beautiful!" cried Louise. "Now, where 
are you going?"

"To Brussels, if you like; it is the 
nearest frontier. We can go to 
Brussels, Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle; then 
up the Rhine to Strasburg. We will 
cross Switzerland, and go down into 
Italy by the Saint-Gothard. Will that 
do?"

"Yes."

"What are you looking at?"

"I am looking at you; indeed you are 
adorable like that! One would say you 
were carrying me off."

"And they would be right, pardieu!"

"Oh, I think you swore, Eugenie." And 
the two young girls, whom every one 
might have thought plunged in grief, 
the one on her own account, the other 
from interest in her friend, burst out 
laughing, as they cleared away every 
visible trace of the disorder which had 
naturally accompanied the preparations 
for their escape. Then, having blown 
out the lights, the two fugitives, 
looking and listening eagerly, with 
outstretched necks, opened the door of 
a dressing-room which led by a side 
staircase down to the yard, -- Eugenie 
going first, and holding with one arm 
the portmanteau, which by the opposite 
handle Mademoiselle d'Armilly scarcely 
raised with both hands. The yard was 
empty; the clock was striking twelve. 
The porter was not yet gone to bed. 
Eugenie approached softly, and saw the 
old man sleeping soundly in an 
arm-chair in his lodge. She returned to 
Louise, took up the portmanteau, which 
she had placed for a moment on the 
ground, and they reached the archway 
under the shadow of the wall.

Eugenie concealed Louise in an angle of 
the gateway, so that if the porter 
chanced to awake he might see but one 
person. Then placing herself in the 
full light of the lamp which lit the 
yard, -- "Gate!" cried she, with her 
finest contralto voice, and rapping at 
the window.

The porter got up as Eugenie expected, 
and even advanced some steps to 
recognize the person who was going out, 
but seeing a young man striking his 
boot impatiently with his riding-whip, 
he opened it immediately. Louise slid 
through the half-open gate like a 
snake, and bounded lightly forward. 
Eugenie, apparently calm, although in 
all probability her heart beat somewhat 
faster than usual, went out in her 
turn. A porter was passing and they 
gave him the portmanteau; then the two 
young girls, having told him to take it 
to No. 36, Rue de la Victoire, walked 
behind this man, whose presence 
comforted Louise. As for Eugenie, she 
was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. 
They arrived at the appointed spot. 
Eugenie ordered the porter to put down 
the portmanteau, gave him some pieces 
of money, and having rapped at the 
shutter sent him away. The shutter 
where Eugenie had rapped was that of a 
little laundress, who had been 
previously warned, and was not yet gone 
to bed. She opened the door.

"Mademoiselle," said Eugenie, "let the 
porter get the post-chaise from the 
coach-house, and fetch some post-horses 
from the hotel. Here are five francs 
for his trouble."

"Indeed," said Louise, "I admire you, 
and I could almost say respect you." 
The laundress looked on in 
astonishment, but as she had been 
promised twenty louis, she made no 
remark.

In a quarter of an hour the porter 
returned with a post-boy and horses, 
which were harnessed, and put in the 
post-chaise in a minute, while the 
porter fastened the portmanteau on with 
the assistance of a cord and strap. 
"Here is the passport," said the 
postilion, "which way are we going, 
young gentleman?"

"To Fontainebleau," replied Eugenie 
with an almost masculine voice.

"What do you say?" said Louise.

"I am giving them the slip," said 
Eugenie; "this woman to whom we have 
given twenty louis may betray us for 
forty; we will soon alter our 
direction." And the young girl jumped 
into the britzska, which was admirably 
arranged for sleeping in, without 
scarcely touching the step. "You are 
always right," said the music teacher, 
seating herself by the side of her 
friend.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the 
postilion, having been put in the right 
road, passed with a crack of his whip 
through the gateway of the Barriere 
Saint-Martin. "Ah," said Louise, 
breathing freely, "here we are out of 
Paris."

"Yes, my dear, the abduction is an 
accomplished fact," replied Eugenie. 
"Yes, and without violence," said 
Louise.

"I shall bring that forward as an 
extenuating circumstance," replied 
Eugenie. These words were lost in the 
noise which the carriage made in 
rolling over the pavement of La 
Villette. M. Danglars no longer had a 
daughter. 

 Chapter 98 The Bell and Bottle Tavern.

And now let us leave Mademoiselle 
Danglars and her friend pursuing their 
way to Brussels, and return to poor 
Andrea Cavalcanti, so inopportunely 
interrupted in his rise to fortune. 
Notwithstanding his youth, Master 
Andrea was a very skilful and 
intelligent boy. We have seen that on 
the first rumor which reached the salon 
he had gradually approached the door, 
and crossing two or three rooms at last 
disappeared. But we have forgotten to 
mention one circumstance, which 
nevertheless ought not to be omitted; 
in one of the rooms he crossed, the 
trousseau of the bride-elect was on 
exhibition. There were caskets of 
diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes 
lace, English veilings, and in fact all 
the tempting things, the bare mention 
of which makes the hearts of young 
girls bound with joy, and which is 
called the "corbeille."* Now, in 
passing through this room, Andrea 
proved himself not only to be clever 
and intelligent, but also provident, 
for he helped himself to the most 
valuable of the ornaments before him.

* Literally, "the basket," because 
wedding gifts were originally brought 
in such a receptacle.

Furnished with this plunder, Andrea 
leaped with a lighter heart from the 
window, intending to slip through the 
hands of the gendarmes. Tall and well 
proportioned as an ancient gladiator, 
and muscular as a Spartan, he walked 
for a quarter of an hour without 
knowing where to direct his steps, 
actuated by the sole idea of getting 
away from the spot where if he lingered 
he knew that he would surely be taken. 
Having passed through the Rue Mont 
Blanc, guided by the instinct which 
leads thieves always to take the safest 
path, he found himself at the end of 
the Rue Lafayette. There he stopped, 
breathless and panting. He was quite 
alone; on one side was the vast 
wilderness of the Saint-Lazare, on the 
other, Paris enshrouded in darkness. 
"Am I to be captured?" he cried; "no, 
not if I can use more activity than my 
enemies. My safety is now a mere 
question of speed." At this moment he 
saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg 
Poissonniere. The dull driver, smoking 
his pipe, was plodding along toward the 
limits of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, 
where no doubt he ordinarily had his 
station. "Ho, friend!" said Benedetto.

"What do you want, sir?" asked the 
driver.

"Is your horse tired?"

"Tired? oh, yes, tired enough -- he has 
done nothing the whole of this blessed 
day! Four wretched fares, and twenty 
sous over, making in all seven francs, 
are all that I have earned, and I ought 
to take ten to the owner."

"Will you add these twenty francs to 
the seven you have?"

"With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are 
not to be despised. Tell me what I am 
to do for this."

"A very easy thing, if your horse isn't 
tired."

"I tell you he'll go like the wind, -- 
only tell me which way to drive."

"Towards the Louvres."

"Ah, I know the way -- you get good 
sweetened rum over there."

"Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake 
one of my friends, with whom I am going 
to hunt to-morrow at 
Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have 
waited for me here with a cabriolet 
till half-past eleven; it is twelve, 
and, tired of waiting, he must have 
gone on."

"It is likely."

"Well, will you try and overtake him?"

"Nothing I should like better."

"If you do not overtake him before we 
reach Bourget you shall have twenty 
francs; if not before Louvres, thirty."

"And if we do overtake him?"

"Forty," said Andrea, after a moment's 
hesitation, at the end of which he 
remembered that he might safely 
promise. "That's all right," said the 
man; "hop in, and we're off! Who-o-o-p, 
la!"

Andrea got into the cab, which passed 
rapidly through the Faubourg 
Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg 
Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and 
threaded its way through the 
interminable Villette. They never 
overtook the chimerical friend, yet 
Andrea frequently inquired of people on 
foot whom he passed and at the inns 
which were not yet closed, for a green 
cabriolet and bay horse; and as there 
are a great many cabriolets to be seen 
on the road to the Low Countries, and 
as nine-tenths of them are green, the 
inquiries increased at every step. 
Every one had just seen it pass; it was 
only five hundred, two hundred, one 
hundred steps in advance; at length 
they reached it, but it was not the 
friend. Once the cab was also passed by 
a calash rapidly whirled along by two 
post-horses. "Ah," said Cavalcanti to 
himself, "if I only had that britzska, 
those two good post-horses, and above 
all the passport that carries them on!" 
And he sighed deeply. The calash 
contained Mademoiselle Danglars and 
Mademoiselle d'Armilly. "Hurry, hurry!" 
said Andrea, "we must overtake him 
soon." And the poor horse resumed the 
desperate gallop it had kept up since 
leaving the barrier, and arrived 
steaming at Louvres.

"Certainly," said Andrea, "I shall not 
overtake my friend, but I shall kill 
your horse, therefore I had better 
stop. Here are thirty francs; I will 
sleep at the Red Horse, and will secure 
a place in the first coach. Good-night, 
friend." And Andrea, after placing six 
pieces of five francs each in the man's 
hand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. 
The cabman joyfully pocketed the sum, 
and turned back on his road to Paris. 
Andrea pretended to go towards the Red 
Horse inn, but after leaning an instant 
against the door, and hearing the last 
sound of the cab, which was 
disappearing from view, he went on his 
road, and with a lusty stride soon 
traversed the space of two leagues. 
Then he rested; he must be near 
Chapelle-en-Serval, where he pretended 
to be going. It was not fatigue that 
stayed Andrea here; it was that he 
might form some resolution, adopt some 
plan. It would be impossible to make 
use of a diligence, equally so to 
engage post-horses; to travel either 
way a passport was necessary. It was 
still more impossible to remain in the 
department of the Oise, one of the most 
open and strictly guarded in France; 
this was quite out of the question, 
especially to a man like Andrea, 
perfectly conversant with criminal 
matters.

He sat down by the side of the moat, 
buried his face in his hands and 
reflected. Ten minutes after he raised 
his head; his resolution was made. He 
threw some dust over the topcoat, which 
he had found time to unhook from the 
ante-chamber and button over his ball 
costume, and going to 
Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at 
the door of the only inn in the place. 
The host opened. "My friend," said 
Andrea, "I was coming from 
Montefontaine to Senlis, when my horse, 
which is a troublesome creature, 
stumbled and threw me. I must reach 
Compiegne to-night, or I shall cause 
deep anxiety to my family. Could you 
let me hire a horse of you?"

An inn-keeper has always a horse to 
let, whether it be good or bad. The 
host called the stable-boy, and ordered 
him to saddle "Whitey," then he awoke 
his son, a child of seven years, whom 
he ordered to ride before the gentleman 
and bring back the horse. Andrea gave 
the inn-keeper twenty francs, and in 
taking them from his pocket dropped a 
visiting card. This belonged to one of 
his friends at the Cafe de Paris, so 
that the innkeeper, picking it up after 
Andrea had left, was convinced that he 
had let his horse to the Count of 
Mauleon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that 
being the name and address on the card. 
"Whitey" was not a fast animal, but he 
kept up an easy, steady pace; in three 
hours and a half Andrea had traversed 
the nine leagues which separated him 
from Compiegne, and four o'clock struck 
as he reached the place where the 
coaches stop. There is an excellent 
tavern at Compiegne, well remembered by 
those who have ever been there. Andrea, 
who had often stayed there in his rides 
about Paris, recollected the Bell and 
Bottle inn; he turned around, saw the 
sign by the light of a reflected lamp, 
and having dismissed the child, giving 
him all the small coin he had about 
him, he began knocking at the door, 
very reasonably concluding that having 
now three or four hours before him he 
had best fortify himself against the 
fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep 
and a good supper. A waiter opened the 
door.

"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been 
dining at Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and 
expected to catch the coach which 
passes by at midnight, but like a fool 
I have lost my way, and have been 
walking for the last four hours in the 
forest. Show me into one of those 
pretty little rooms which overlook the 
court, and bring me a cold fowl and a 
bottle of Bordeaux." The waiter had no 
suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect 
composure, he had a cigar in his mouth, 
and his hands in the pocket of his top 
coat; his clothes were fashionably 
made, his chin smooth, his boots 
irreproachable; he looked merely as if 
he had stayed out very late, that was 
all. While the waiter was preparing his 
room, the hostess arose; Andrea assumed 
his most charming smile, and asked if 
he could have No. 3, which he had 
occupied on his last stay at Compiegne. 
Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a 
young man who was travelling with his 
sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but 
consoled himself when the hostess 
assured him that No. 7, prepared for 
him, was situated precisely the same as 
No. 3, and while warming his feet and 
chatting about the last races at 
Chantilly, he waited until they 
announced his room to be ready.

Andrea had not spoken without cause of 
the pretty rooms looking out upon the 
court of the Bell Tavern, which with 
its triple galleries like those of a 
theatre, with the jessamine and 
clematis twining round the light 
columns, forms one of the prettiest 
entrances to an inn that you can 
imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine 
old, the fire clear and sparkling, and 
Andrea was surprised to find himself 
eating with as good an appetite as 
though nothing had happened. Then be 
went to bed and almost immediately fell 
into that deep sleep which is sure to 
visit men of twenty years of age, even 
when they are torn with remorse. Now, 
here we are obliged to own that Andrea 
ought to have felt remorse, but that he 
did not. This was the plan which had 
appealed to him to afford the best 
chance of his security. Before daybreak 
he would awake, leave the inn after 
rigorously paying his bill, and 
reaching the forest, he would, under 
presence of making studies in painting, 
test the hospitality of some peasants, 
procure himself the dress of a 
woodcutter and a hatchet, casting off 
the lion's skin to assume that of the 
woodman; then, with his hands covered 
with dirt, his hair darkened by means 
of a leaden comb, his complexion 
embrowned with a preparation for which 
one of his old comrades had given him 
the recipe, he intended, by following 
the wooded districts, to reach the 
nearest frontier, walking by night and 
sleeping in the day in the forests and 
quarries, and only entering inhabited 
regions to buy a loaf from time to time.

Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed 
making money of his diamonds; and by 
uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes 
he always carried about with him in 
case of accident, he would then find 
himself possessor of about 50,000 
livres, which he philosophically 
considered as no very deplorable 
condition after all. Moreover, he 
reckoned much on the interest of the 
Danglars to hush up the rumor of their 
own misadventures. These were the 
reasons which, added to the fatigue, 
caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In 
order that he might awaken early he did 
not close the shutters, but contented 
himself with bolting the door and 
placing on the table an unclasped and 
long-pointed knife, whose temper he 
well knew, and which was never absent 
from him. About seven in the morning 
Andrea was awakened by a ray of 
sunlight, which played, warm and 
brilliant, upon his face. In all 
well-organized brains, the 
predominating idea -- and there always 
is one -- is sure to be the last 
thought before sleeping, and the first 
upon waking in the morning. Andrea had 
scarcely opened his eyes when his 
predominating idea presented itself, 
and whispered in his ear that he had 
slept too long. He jumped out of bed 
and ran to the window. A gendarme was 
crossing the court. A gendarme is one 
of the most striking objects in the 
world, even to a man void of 
uneasiness; but for one who has a timid 
conscience, and with good cause too, 
the yellow, blue, and white uniform is 
really very alarming.

"Why is that gendarme there?" asked 
Andrea of himself. Then, all at once, 
he replied, with that logic which the 
reader has, doubtless, remarked in him, 
"There is nothing astonishing in seeing 
a gendarme at an inn; instead of being 
astonished, let me dress myself." And 
the youth dressed himself with a 
facility his valet de chambre had 
failed to rob him of during the two 
months of fashionable life he had led 
in Paris. "Now then," said Andrea, 
while dressing himself, "I'll wait till 
he leaves, and then I'll slip away." 
And, saying this, Andrea, who had now 
put on his boots and cravat, stole 
gently to the window, and a second time 
lifted up the muslin curtain. Not only 
was the first gendarme still there, but 
the young man now perceived a second 
yellow, blue, and white uniform at the 
foot of the staircase, the only one by 
which he could descend, while a third, 
on horseback, holding a musket in his 
fist, was posted as a sentinel at the 
great street door which alone afforded 
the means of egress.

The appearance of the third gendarme 
settled the matter, for a crowd of 
curious loungers was extended before 
him, effectually blocking the entrance 
to the hotel. "They're after me!" was 
Andrea's first thought. "The devil!" A 
pallor overspread the young man's 
forehead, and he looked around him with 
anxiety. His room, like all those on 
the same floor, had but one outlet to 
the gallery in the sight of everybody. 
"I am lost!" was his second thought; 
and, indeed, for a man in Andrea's 
situation, an arrest meant the assizes, 
trial, and death, -- death without 
mercy or delay. For a moment he 
convulsively pressed his head within 
his hands, and during that brief period 
he became nearly mad with terror; but 
soon a ray of hope glimmered in the 
multitude of thoughts which bewildered 
his mind, and a faint smile played upon 
his white lips and pallid cheeks. He 
looked around and saw the objects of 
his search upon the chimney-piece; they 
were a pen, ink, and paper. With forced 
composure he dipped the pen in the ink, 
and wrote the following lines upon a 
sheet of paper: --

"I have no money to pay my bill, but I 
am not a dishonest man; I leave behind 
me as a pledge this pin, worth ten 
times the amount. I shall be excused 
for leaving at daybreak, for I was 
ashamed."

He then drew the pin from his cravat 
and placed it on the paper. This done, 
instead of leaving the door fastened, 
he drew back the bolts and even placed 
the door ajar, as though he had left 
the room, forgetting to close it, and 
slipping into the chimney like a man 
accustomed to that kind of gymnastic 
exercise, having effaced the marks of 
his feet upon the floor, he commenced 
climbing the only opening which 
afforded him the means of escape. At 
this precise time, the first gendarme 
Andrea had noticed walked up-stairs, 
preceded by the commissary of police, 
and supported by the second gendarme 
who guarded the staircase and was 
himself re-enforced by the one 
stationed at the door.

Andrea was indebted for this visit to 
the following circumstances. At 
daybreak, the telegraphs were set at 
work in all directions, and almost 
immediately the authorities in every 
district had exerted their utmost 
endeavors to arrest the murderer of 
Caderousse. Compiegne, that royal 
residence and fortified town, is well 
furnished with authorities, gendarmes, 
and commissaries of police; they 
therefore began operations as soon as 
the telegraphic despatch arrived, and 
the Bell and Bottle being the 
best-known hotel in the town, they had 
naturally directed their first 
inquiries there.

Now, besides the reports of the 
sentinels guarding the Hotel de Ville, 
which is next door to the Bell and 
Bottle, it had been stated by others 
that a number of travellers had arrived 
during the night. The sentinel who was 
relieved at six o'clock in the morning, 
remembered perfectly that just as he 
was taking his post a few minutes past 
four a young man arrived on horseback, 
with a little boy before him. The young 
man, having dismissed the boy and 
horse, knocked at the door of the 
hotel, which was opened, and again 
closed after his entrance. This late 
arrival had attracted much suspicion, 
and the young man being no other than 
Andrea, the commissary and gendarme, 
who was a brigadier, directed their 
steps towards his room.

They found the door ajar. "Oh, ho," 
said the brigadier, who thoroughly 
understood the trick; "a bad sign to 
find the door open! I would rather find 
it triply bolted." And, indeed, the 
little note and pin upon the table 
confirmed, or rather corroborated, the 
sad truth. Andrea had fled. We say 
corroborated, because the brigadier was 
too experienced to be convinced by a 
single proof. He glanced around, looked 
in the bed, shook the curtains, opened 
the closets, and finally stopped at the 
chimney. Andrea had taken the 
precaution to leave no traces of his 
feet in the ashes, but still it was an 
outlet, and in this light was not to be 
passed over without serious 
investigation.

The brigadier sent for some sticks and 
straw, and having filled the chimney 
with them, set a light to it. The fire 
crackled, and the smoke ascended like 
the dull vapor from a volcano; but 
still no prisoner fell down, as they 
expected. The fact was, that Andrea, at 
war with society ever since his youth, 
was quite as deep as a gendarme, even 
though he were advanced to the rank of 
brigadier, and quite prepared for the 
fire, he had climbed out on the roof 
and was crouching down against the 
chimney-pots. At one time he thought he 
was saved, for he heard the brigadier 
exclaim in a loud voice, to the two 
gendarmes, "He is not here!" But 
venturing to peep, he perceived that 
the latter, instead of retiring, as 
might have been reasonably expected 
upon this announcement, were watching 
with increased attention.

It was now his turn to look about him; 
the Hotel de Ville, a massive sixteenth 
century building, was on his right; any 
one could descend from the openings in 
the tower, and examine every corner of 
the roof below, and Andrea expected 
momentarily to see the head of a 
gendarme appear at one of these 
openings. If once discovered, he knew 
he would be lost, for the roof afforded 
no chance of escape; he therefore 
resolved to descend, not through the 
same chimney by which he had come up, 
but by a similar one conducting to 
another room. He looked around for a 
chimney from which no smoke issued, and 
having reached it, he disappeared 
through the orifice without being seen 
by any one. At the same minute, one of 
the little windows of the Hotel de 
Ville was thrown open, and the head of 
a gendarme appeared. For an instant it 
remained motionless as one of the stone 
decorations of the building, then after 
a long sigh of disappointment the head 
disappeared. The brigadier, calm and 
dignified as the law he represented, 
passed through the crowd, without 
answering the thousand questions 
addressed to him, and re-entered the 
hotel.

"Well?" asked the two gendarmes.

"Well, my boys," said the brigadier, 
"the brigand must really have escaped 
early this morning; but we will send to 
the Villers-Coterets and Noyon roads, 
and search the forest, when we shall 
catch him, no doubt." The honorable 
functionary had scarcely expressed 
himself thus, in that intonation which 
is peculiar to brigadiers of the 
gendarmerie, when a loud scream, 
accompanied by the violent ringing of a 
bell, resounded through the court of 
the hotel. "Ah, what is that?" cried 
the brigadier.

"Some traveller seems impatient," said 
the host. "What number was it that 
rang?"

"Number 3."

"Run, waiter!" At this moment the 
screams and ringing were redoubled. 
"Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the 
servant, "the person who is ringing 
appears to want something more than a 
waiter; we will attend upon him with a 
gendarme. Who occupies Number 3?"

"The little fellow who arrived last 
night in a post-chaise with his sister, 
and who asked for an apartment with two 
beds." The bell here rang for the third 
time, with another shriek of anguish.

"Follow me, Mr. Commissary!" said the 
brigadier; "tread in my steps."

"Wait an instant," said the host; 
"Number 3 has two staircases, -- inside 
and outside."

"Good," said the brigadier. "I will 
take charge of the inside one. Are the 
carbines loaded?"

"Yes, brigadier."

"Well, you guard the exterior, and if 
he attempts to fly, fire upon him; he 
must be a great criminal, from what the 
telegraph says."

The brigadier, followed by the 
commissary, disappeared by the inside 
staircase, accompanied by the noise 
which his assertions respecting Andrea 
had excited in the crowd. This is what 
had happened. Andrea had very cleverly 
managed to descend two-thirds of the 
chimney, but then his foot slipped, and 
notwithstanding his endeavors, he came 
into the room with more speed and noise 
than he intended. It would have 
signified little had the room been 
empty, but unfortunately it was 
occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in one 
bed, were awakened by the noise, and 
fixing their eyes upon the spot whence 
the sound proceeded, they saw a man. 
One of these ladies, the fair one, 
uttered those terrible shrieks which 
resounded through the house, while the 
other, rushing to the bell-rope, rang 
with all her strength. Andrea, as we 
can see, was surrounded by misfortune.

"For pity's sake," he cried, pale and 
bewildered, without seeing whom he was 
addressing, -- "for pity's sake do not 
call assistance! Save me! -- I will not 
harm you."

"Andrea, the murderer!" cried one of 
the ladies.

"Eugenie! Mademoiselle Danglars!" 
exclaimed Andrea, stupefied.

"Help, help!" cried Mademoiselle 
d'Armilly, taking the bell from her 
companion's hand, and ringing it yet 
more violently. "Save me, I am 
pursued!" said Andrea, clasping his 
hands. "For pity, for mercy's sake do 
not deliver me up!"

"It is too late, they are coming," said 
Eugenie.

"Well, conceal me somewhere; you can 
say you were needlessly alarmed; you 
can turn their suspicions and save my 
life!"

The two ladies, pressing closely to one 
another, and drawing the bedclothes 
tightly around them, remained silent to 
this supplicating voice, repugnance and 
fear taking possession of their minds.

"Well, be it so," at length said 
Eugenie; "return by the same road you 
came, and we will say nothing about 
you, unhappy wretch."

"Here he is, here he is!" cried a voice 
from the landing; "here he is! I see 
him!" The brigadier had put his eye to 
the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea 
in a posture of entreaty. A violent 
blow from the butt end of the musket 
burst open the lock, two more forced 
out the bolts, and the broken door fell 
in. Andrea ran to the other door, 
leading to the gallery, ready to rush 
out; but he was stopped short, and he 
stood with his body a little thrown 
back, pale, and with the useless knife 
in his clinched hand.

"Fly, then!" cried Mademoiselle 
d'Armilly, whose pity returned as her 
fears diminished; "fly!"

"Or kill yourself!" said Eugenie (in a 
tone which a Vestal in the amphitheatre 
would have used, when urging the 
victorious gladiator to finish his 
vanquished adversary). Andrea 
shuddered, and looked on the young girl 
with an expression which proved how 
little he understood such ferocious 
honor. "Kill myself?" he cried, 
throwing down his knife; "why should I 
do so?"

"Why, you said," answered Mademoiselle 
Danglars, "that you would be condemned 
to die like the worst criminals."

"Bah," said Cavalcanti, crossing his 
arms, "one has friends."

The brigadier advanced to him, sword in 
hand. "Come, come," said Andrea, 
"sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; 
there is no occasion to make such a 
fuss, since I give myself up;" and he 
held out his hands to be manacled. The 
girls looked with horror upon this 
shameful metamorphosis, the man of the 
world shaking off his covering and 
appearing as a galley-slave. Andrea 
turned towards them, and with an 
impertinent smile asked, -- "Have you 
any message for your father, 
Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all 
probability I shall return to Paris?"

Eugenie covered her face with her 
hands. "Oh, ho!" said Andrea, "you need 
not be ashamed, even though you did 
post after me. Was I not nearly your 
husband?"

And with this raillery Andrea went out, 
leaving the two girls a prey to their 
own feelings of shame, and to the 
comments of the crowd. An hour after 
they stepped into their calash, both 
dressed in feminine attire. The gate of 
the hotel had been closed to screen 
them from sight, but they were forced, 
when the door was open, to pass through 
a throng of curious glances and 
whispering voices. Eugenie closed her 
eyes; but though she could not see, she 
could hear, and the sneers of the crowd 
reached her in the carriage. "Oh, why 
is not the world a wilderness?" she 
exclaimed, throwing herself into the 
arms of Mademoiselle d'Armilly, her 
eyes sparkling with the same kind of 
rage which made Nero wish that the 
Roman world had but one neck, that he 
might sever it at a single blow. The 
next day they stopped at the Hotel de 
Flandre, at Brussels. The same evening 
Andrea was incarcerated in the 
Conciergerie. 

 Chapter 99 The Law.

We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle 
Danglars and Mademoiselle d'Armilly 
accomplished their transformation and 
flight; the fact being that every one 
was too much occupied in his or her own 
affairs to think of theirs. We will 
leave the banker contemplating the 
enormous magnitude of his debt before 
the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow 
the baroness, who after being 
momentarily crushed under the weight of 
the blow which had struck her, had gone 
to seek her usual adviser, Lucien 
Debray. The baroness had looked forward 
to this marriage as a means of ridding 
her of a guardianship which, over a 
girl of Eugenie's character, could not 
fail to be rather a troublesome 
undertaking; for in the tacit relations 
which maintain the bond of family 
union, the mother, to maintain her 
ascendancy over her daughter, must 
never fail to be a model of wisdom and 
a type of perfection.

Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugenie's 
sagacity and the influence of 
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; she had 
frequently observed the contemptuous 
expression with which her daughter 
looked upon Debray, -- an expression 
which seemed to imply that she 
understood all her mother's amorous and 
pecuniary relationships with the 
intimate secretary; moreover, she saw 
that Eugenie detested Debray, -- not 
only because he was a source of 
dissension and scandal under the 
paternal roof, but because she had at 
once classed him in that catalogue of 
bipeds whom Plato endeavors to withdraw 
from the appellation of men, and whom 
Diogenes designated as animals upon two 
legs without feathers.

Unfortunately, in this world of ours, 
each person views things through a 
certain medium, and so is prevented 
from seeing in the same light as 
others, and Madame Danglars, therefore, 
very much regretted that the marriage 
of Eugenie had not taken place, not 
only because the match was good, and 
likely to insure the happiness of her 
child, but because it would also set 
her at liberty. She ran therefore to 
Debray, who, after having like the rest 
of Paris witnessed the contract scene 
and the scandal attending it, had 
retired in haste to his club, where he 
was chatting with some friends upon the 
events which served as a subject of 
conversation for three-fourths of that 
city known as the capital of the world.

At the precise time when Madame 
Danglars, dressed in black and 
concealed in a long veil, was ascending 
the stairs leading to Debray's 
apartments, -- notwithstanding the 
assurances of the concierge that the 
young man was not at home, -- Debray 
was occupied in repelling the 
insinuations of a friend, who tried to 
persuade him that after the terrible 
scene which had just taken place he 
ought, as a friend of the family, to 
marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her two 
millions. Debray did not defend himself 
very warmly, for the idea had sometimes 
crossed his mind; still, when he 
recollected the independent, proud 
spirit of Eugenie, he positively 
rejected it as utterly impossible, 
though the same thought again 
continually recurred and found a 
resting-place in his heart. Tea, play, 
and the conversation, which had become 
interesting during the discussion of 
such serious affairs, lasted till one 
o'clock in the morning.

Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and 
uneasy, awaited the return of Debray in 
the little green room, seated between 
two baskets of flowers, which she had 
that morning sent, and which, it must 
be confessed, Debray had himself 
arranged and watered with so much care 
that his absence was half excused in 
the eyes of the poor woman.

At twenty minutes of twelve, Madame 
Danglars, tired of waiting, returned 
home. Women of a certain grade are like 
prosperous grisettes in one respect, 
they seldom return home after twelve 
o'clock. The baroness returned to the 
hotel with as much caution as Eugenie 
used in leaving it; she ran lightly 
up-stairs, and with an aching heart 
entered her apartment, contiguous, as 
we know, to that of Eugenie. She was 
fearful of exciting any remark, and 
believed firmly in her daughter's 
innocence and fidelity to the paternal 
roof. She listened at Eugenie's door, 
and hearing no sound tried to enter, 
but the bolts were in place. Madame 
Danglars then concluded that the young 
girl had been overcome with the 
terrible excitement of the evening, and 
had gone to bed and to sleep. She 
called the maid and questioned her.

"Mademoiselle Eugenie," said the maid, 
"retired to her apartment with 
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took 
tea together, after which they desired 
me to leave, saying that they needed me 
no longer." Since then the maid had 
been below, and like every one else she 
thought the young ladies were in their 
own room; Madame Danglars, therefore, 
went to bed without a shadow of 
suspicion, and began to muse over the 
recent events. In proportion as her 
memory became clearer, the occurrences 
of the evening were revealed in their 
true light; what she had taken for 
confusion was a tumult; what she had 
regarded as something distressing, was 
in reality a disgrace. And then the 
baroness remembered that she had felt 
no pity for poor Mercedes, who had been 
afflicted with as severe a blow through 
her husband and son.

"Eugenie," she said to herself, "is 
lost, and so are we. The affair, as it 
will be reported, will cover us with 
shame; for in a society such as ours 
satire inflicts a painful and incurable 
wound. How fortunate that Eugenie is 
possessed of that strange character 
which has so often made me tremble!" 
And her glance was turned towards 
heaven, where a mysterious providence 
disposes all things, and out of a 
fault, nay, even a vice, sometimes 
produces a blessing. And then her 
thoughts, cleaving through space like a 
bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. 
This Andrea was a wretch, a robber, an 
assassin, and yet his manners showed 
the effects of a sort of education, if 
not a complete one; he had been 
presented to the world with the 
appearance of an immense fortune, 
supported by an honorable name. How 
could she extricate herself from this 
labyrinth? To whom would she apply to 
help her out of this painful situation? 
Debray, to whom she had run, with the 
first instinct of a woman towards the 
man she loves, and who yet betrays her, 
-- Debray could but give her advice, 
she must apply to some one more 
powerful than he.

The baroness then thought of M. de 
Villefort. It was M. de Villefort who 
had remorselessly brought misfortune 
into her family, as though they had 
been strangers. But, no; on reflection, 
the procureur was not a merciless man; 
and it was not the magistrate, slave to 
his duties, but the friend, the loyal 
friend, who roughly but firmly cut into 
the very core of the corruption; it was 
not the executioner, but the surgeon, 
who wished to withdraw the honor of 
Danglars from ignominious association 
with the disgraced young man they had 
presented to the world as their 
son-in-law. And since Villefort, the 
friend of Danglars, had acted in this 
way, no one could suppose that he had 
been previously acquainted with, or had 
lent himself to, any of Andrea's 
intrigues. Villefort's conduct, 
therefore, upon reflection, appeared to 
the baroness as if shaped for their 
mutual advantage. But the inflexibility 
of the procureur should stop there; she 
would see him the next day, and if she 
could not make him fail in his duties 
as a magistrate, she would, at least, 
obtain all the indulgence he could 
allow. She would invoke the past, 
recall old recollections; she would 
supplicate him by the remembrance of 
guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort 
would stifle the affair; he had only to 
turn his eyes on one side, and allow 
Andrea to fly, and follow up the crime 
under that shadow of guilt called 
contempt of court. And after this 
reasoning she slept easily.

At nine o'clock next morning she arose, 
and without ringing for her maid or 
giving the least sign of her activity, 
she dressed herself in the same simple 
style as on the previous night; then 
running down-stairs, she left the 
hotel. walked to the Rue de Provence, 
called a cab, and drove to M. de 
Villefort's house. For the last month 
this wretched house had presented the 
gloomy appearance of a lazaretto 
infected with the plague. Some of the 
apartments were closed within and 
without; the shutters were only opened 
to admit a minute's air, showing the 
scared face of a footman, and 
immediately afterwards the window would 
be closed, like a gravestone falling on 
a sepulchre, and the neighbors would 
say to each other in a low voice, "Will 
there be another funeral to-day at the 
procureur's house?" Madame Danglars 
involuntarily shuddered at the desolate 
aspect of the mansion; descending from 
the cab, she approached the door with 
trembling knees, and rang the bell. 
Three times did the bell ring with a 
dull, heavy sound, seeming to 
participate, in the general sadness, 
before the concierge appeared and 
peeped through the door, which he 
opened just wide enough to allow his 
words to be heard. He saw a lady, a 
fashionable, elegantly dressed lady, 
and yet the door remained almost closed.

"Do you intend opening the door?" said 
the baroness.

"First, madame, who are you?"

"Who am I? You know me well enough."

"We no longer know any one, madame."

"You must be mad, my friend," said the 
baroness.

"Where do you come from?"

"Oh, this is too much!"

"Madame, these are my orders; excuse 
me. Your name?"

"The baroness Danglars; you have seen 
me twenty times."

"Possibly, madame. And now, what do you 
want?"

"Oh, how extraordinary! I shall 
complain to M. de Villefort of the 
impertinence of his servants."

"Madame, this is precaution, not 
impertinence; no one enters here 
without an order from M. d'Avrigny, or 
without speaking to the procureur."

"Well, I have business with the 
procureur."

"Is it pressing business?"

"You can imagine so, since I have not 
even brought my carriage out yet. But 
enough of this -- here is my card, take 
it to your master."

"Madame will await my return?"

"Yes; go." The concierge closed the 
door, leaving Madame Danglars in the 
street. She had not long to wait; 
directly afterwards the door was opened 
wide enough to admit her, and when she 
had passed through, it was again shut. 
Without losing sight of her for an 
instant, the concierge took a whistle 
from his pocket as soon as they entered 
the court, and blew it. The valet de 
chambre appeared on the door-steps. 
"You will excuse this poor fellow, 
madame," he said, as he preceded the 
baroness, "but his orders are precise, 
and M. de Villefort begged me to tell 
you that he could not act otherwise."

In the court showing his merchandise, 
was a tradesman who had been admitted 
with the same precautions. The baroness 
ascended the steps; she felt herself 
strongly infected with the sadness 
which seemed to magnify her own, and 
still guided by the valet de chambre, 
who never lost sight of her for an 
instant, she was introduced to the 
magistrate's study. Preoccupied as 
Madame Danglars had been with the 
object of her visit, the treatment she 
had received from these underlings 
appeared to her so insulting, that she 
began by complaining of it. But 
Villefort, raising his head, bowed down 
by grief, looked up at her with so sad 
a smile that her complaints died upon 
her lips. "Forgive my servants," he 
said, "for a terror I cannot blame them 
for; from being suspected they have 
become suspicious."

Madame Danglars had often heard of the 
terror to which the magistrate alluded, 
but without the evidence of her own 
eyesight she could never have believed 
that the sentiment had been carried so 
far. "You too, then, are unhappy?" she 
said. "Yes, madame," replied the 
magistrate.

"Then you pity me!"

"Sincerely, madame."

"And you understand what brings me 
here?"

"You wish to speak to me about the 
circumstance which has just happened?"

"Yes, sir, -- a fearful misfortune."

"You mean a mischance."

"A mischance?" repeated the baroness.

"Alas, madame," said the procureur with 
his imperturbable calmness of manner, 
"I consider those alone misfortunes 
which are irreparable."

"And do you suppose this will be 
forgotten?"

"Everything will be forgotten, madame," 
said Villefort. "Your daughter will be 
married to-morrow, if not to-day -- in 
a week, if not to-morrow; and I do not 
think you can regret the intended 
husband of your daughter."

Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort, 
stupefied to find him so almost 
insultingly calm. "Am I come to a 
friend?" she asked in a tone full of 
mournful dignity. "You know that you 
are, madame," said Villefort, whose 
pale cheeks became slightly flushed as 
he gave her the assurance. And truly 
this assurance carried him back to 
different events from those now 
occupying the baroness and him. "Well, 
then, be more affectionate, my dear 
Villefort," said the baroness. "Speak 
to me not as a magistrate, but as a 
friend; and when I am in bitter anguish 
of spirit, do not tell me that I ought 
to be gay." Villefort bowed. "When I 
hear misfortunes named, madame," he 
said, "I have within the last few 
mouths contracted the bad habit of 
thinking of my own, and then I cannot 
help drawing up an egotistical parallel 
in my mind. That is the reason that by 
the side of my misfortunes yours appear 
to me mere mischances; that is why my 
dreadful position makes yours appear 
enviable. But this annoys you; let us 
change the subject. You were saying, 
madame" --

"I came to ask you, my friend," said 
the baroness, "what will be done with 
this impostor?"

"Impostor," repeated Villefort; 
"certainly, madame, you appear to 
extenuate some cases, and exaggerate 
others. Impostor, indeed! -- M. Andrea 
Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is 
nothing more nor less than an assassin!"

"Sir, I do not deny the justice of your 
correction, but the more severely you 
arm yourself against that unfortunate 
man, the more deeply will you strike 
our family. Come, forget him for a 
moment, and instead of pursuing him let 
him go."

"You are too late, madame; the orders 
are issued."

"Well, should he be arrested -- do they 
think they will arrest him?"

"I hope so."

"If they should arrest him (I know that 
sometimes prisoners afford means of 
escape), will you leave him in prison?" 
-- The procureur shook his head. "At 
least keep him there till my daughter 
be married."

"Impossible, madame; justice has its 
formalities."

"What, even for me?" said the baroness, 
half jesting, half in earnest. "For 
all, even for myself among the rest," 
replied Villefort.

"Ah," exclaimed the baroness, without 
expressing the ideas which the 
exclamation betrayed. Villefort looked 
at her with that piercing glance which 
reads the secrets of the heart. "Yes, I 
know what you mean," he said; "you 
refer to the terrible rumors spread 
abroad in the world, that the deaths 
which have kept me in mourning for the 
last three months, and from which 
Valentine has only escaped by a 
miracle, have not happened by natural 
means."

"I was not thinking of that," replied 
Madame Danglars quickly. "Yes, you were 
thinking of it, and with justice. You 
could not help thinking of it, and 
saying to yourself, `you, who pursue 
crime so vindictively, answer now, why 
are there unpunished crimes in your 
dwelling?'" The baroness became pale. 
"You were saying this, were you not?"

"Well, I own it."

"I will answer you."

Villefort drew his armchair nearer to 
Madame Danglars; then resting both 
hands upon his desk he said in a voice 
more hollow than usual: "There are 
crimes which remain unpunished because 
the criminals are unknown, and we might 
strike the innocent instead of the 
guilty; but when the culprits are 
discovered" (Villefort here extended 
his hand toward a large crucifix placed 
opposite to his desk) -- "when they are 
discovered, I swear to you, by all I 
hold most sacred, that whoever they may 
be they shall die. Now, after the oath 
I have just taken, and which I will 
keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy 
for that wretch!"

"But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty 
as they say?"

"Listen; this is his description: 
`Benedetto, condemned, at the age of 
sixteen, for five years to the galleys 
for forgery.' He promised well, as you 
see -- first a runaway, then an 
assassin."

"And who is this wretch?"

"Who can tell? -- a vagabond, a 
Corsican."

"Has no one owned him?"

"No one; his parents are unknown."

"But who was the man who brought him 
from Lucca?"

"Another rascal like himself, perhaps 
his accomplice." The baroness clasped 
her hands. "Villefort," she exclaimed 
in her softest and most captivating 
manner.

"For heaven's sake, madame," said 
Villefort, with a firmness of 
expression not altogether free from 
harshness -- "for heaven's sake, do not 
ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! 
What am I? -- the law. Has the law any 
eyes to witness your grief? Has the law 
ears to be melted by your sweet voice? 
Has the law a memory for all those soft 
recollections you endeavor to recall? 
No, madame; the law has commanded, and 
when it commands it strikes. You will 
tell me that I am a living being, and 
not a code -- a man, and not a volume. 
Look at me, madame -- look around me. 
Have mankind treated me as a brother? 
Have they loved me? Have they spared 
me? Has any one shown the mercy towards 
me that you now ask at my hands? No, 
madame, they struck me, always struck 
me!

"Woman, siren that you are, do you 
persist in fixing on me that 
fascinating eye, which reminds me that 
I ought to blush? Well, be it so; let 
me blush for the faults you know, and 
perhaps -- perhaps for even more than 
those! But having sinned myself, -- it 
may be more deeply than others, -- I 
never rest till I have torn the 
disguises from my fellow-creatures, and 
found out their weaknesses. I have 
always found them; and more, -- I 
repeat it with joy, with triumph, -- I 
have always found some proof of human 
perversity or error. Every criminal I 
condemn seems to me living evidence 
that I am not a hideous exception to 
the rest. Alas, alas, alas; all the 
world is wicked; let us therefore 
strike at wickedness!"

Villefort pronounced these last words 
with a feverish rage, which gave a 
ferocious eloquence to his words.

"But"' said Madame Danglars, resolving 
to make a last effort, "this young man, 
though a murderer, is an orphan, 
abandoned by everybody."

"So much the worse, or rather, so much 
the better; it has been so ordained 
that he may have none to weep his fate."

"But this is trampling on the weak, 
sir."

"The weakness of a murderer!"

"His dishonor reflects upon us."

"Is not death in my house?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed the baroness, "you 
are without pity for others, well, 
then, I tell you they will have no 
mercy on you!"

"Be it so!" said Villefort, raising his 
arms to heaven.

"At least, delay the trial till the 
next assizes; we shall then have six 
months before us."

"No, madame," said Villefort; 
"instructions have been given, There 
are yet five days left; five days are 
more than I require. Do you not think 
that I also long for forgetfulness? 
While working night and day, I 
sometimes lose all recollection of the 
past, and then I experience the same 
sort of happiness I can imagine the 
dead feel; still, it is better than 
suffering."

"But, sir, he has fled; let him escape 
-- inaction is a pardonable offence."

"I tell you it is too late; early this 
morning the telegraph was employed, and 
at this very minute" --

"Sir," said the valet de chambre, 
entering the room, "a dragoon has 
brought this despatch from the minister 
of the interior." Villefort seized the 
letter, and hastily broke the seal. 
Madame Danglars trembled with fear; 
Villefort started with joy. "Arrested!" 
he exclaimed; "he was taken at 
Compiegne, and all is over." Madame 
Danglars rose from her seat, pale and 
cold. "Adieu, sir," she said. "Adieu, 
madame," replied the king's attorney, 
as in an almost joyful manner he 
conducted her to the door. Then, 
turning to his desk, he said, striking 
the letter with the back of his right 
hand, "Come, I had a forgery, three 
robberies, and two cases of arson, I 
only wanted a murder, and here it is. 
It will be a splendid session!" 

 Chapter 100 The Apparition.

As the procureur had told Madame 
Danglars, Valentine was not yet 
recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she 
was indeed confined to her bed; and it 
was in her own room, and from the lips 
of Madame de Villefort, that she heard 
all the strange events we have related, 
-- we mean the flight of Eugenie and 
the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or 
rather Benedetto, together with the 
accusation of murder pronounced against 
him. But Valentine was so weak that 
this recital scarcely produced the same 
effect it would have done had she been 
in her usual state of health. Indeed, 
her brain was only the seat of vague 
ideas, and confused forms, mingled with 
strange fancies, alone presented 
themselves before her eyes.

During the daytime Valentine's 
perceptions remained tolerably clear, 
owing to the constant presence of M. 
Noirtier, who caused himself to be 
carried to his granddaughter's room, 
and watched her with his paternal 
tenderness; Villefort also, on his 
return from the law courts, frequently 
passed an hour or two with his father 
and child. At six o'clock Villefort 
retired to his study, at eight M. 
d'Avrigny himself arrived, bringing the 
night draught prepared for the young 
girl, and then M. Noirtier was carried 
away. A nurse of the doctor's choice 
succeeded them, and never left till 
about ten or eleven o'clock, when 
Valentine was asleep. As she went 
down-stairs she gave the keys of 
Valentine's room to M. de Villefort, so 
that no one could reach the sick-room 
excepting through that of Madame de 
Villefort and little Edward.

Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier 
to receive news of Valentine, and, 
extraordinary as it seemed, each day 
found him less uneasy. Certainly, 
though Valentine still labored under 
dreadful nervous excitement, she was 
better; and moreover, Monte Cristo had 
told him when, half distracted, he had 
rushed to the count's house, that if 
she were not dead in two hours she 
would be saved. Now four days had 
elapsed, and Valentine still lived.

The nervous excitement of which we 
speak pursued Valentine even in her 
sleep, or rather in that state of 
somnolence which succeeded her waking 
hours; it was then, in the silence of 
night, in the dim light shed from the 
alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece, 
that she saw the shadows pass and 
repass which hover over the bed of 
sickness, and fan the fever with their 
trembling wings. First she fancied she 
saw her stepmother threatening her, 
then Morrel stretched his arms towards 
her; sometimes mere strangers, like the 
Count of Monte Cristo came to visit 
her; even the very furniture, in these 
moments of delirium, seemed to move, 
and this state lasted till about three 
o'clock in the morning, when a deep, 
heavy slumber overcame the young girl, 
from which she did not awake till 
daylight. On the evening of the day on 
which Valentine had learned of the 
flight of Eugenie and the arrest of 
Benedetto, -- Villefort having retired 
as well as Noirtier and d'Avrigny, -- 
her thoughts wandered in a confused 
maze, alternately reviewing her own 
situation and the events she had just 
heard.

Eleven o'clock had struck. The nurse, 
having placed the beverage prepared by 
the doctor within reach of the patient, 
and locked the door, was listening with 
terror to the comments of the servants 
in the kitchen, and storing her memory 
with all the horrible stories which had 
for some months past amused the 
occupants of the ante-chambers in the 
house of the king's attorney. Meanwhile 
an unexpected scene was passing in the 
room which had been so carefully 
locked. Ten minutes had elapsed since 
the nurse had left; Valentine, who for 
the last hour had been suffering from 
the fever which returned nightly, 
incapable of controlling her ideas, was 
forced to yield to the excitement which 
exhausted itself in producing and 
reproducing a succession and recurrence 
of the same fancies and images. The 
night-lamp threw out countless rays, 
each resolving itself into some strange 
form to her disordered imagination, 
when suddenly by its flickering light 
Valentine thought she saw the door of 
her library, which was in the recess by 
the chimney-piece, open slowly, though 
she in vain listened for the sound of 
the hinges on which it turned.

At any other time Valentine would have 
seized the silken bell-pull and 
summoned assistance, but nothing 
astonished her in her present 
situation. Her reason told her that all 
the visions she beheld were but the 
children of her imagination, and the 
conviction was strengthened by the fact 
that in the morning no traces remained 
of the nocturnal phantoms, who 
disappeared with the coming of 
daylight. From behind the door a human 
figure appeared, but the girl was too 
familiar with such apparitions to be 
alarmed, and therefore only stared, 
hoping to recognize Morrel. The figure 
advanced towards the bed and appeared 
to listen with profound attention. At 
this moment a ray of light glanced 
across the face of the midnight visitor.

"It is not he," she murmured, and 
waited, in the assurance that this was 
but a dream, for the man to disappear 
or assume some other form. Still, she 
felt her pulse, and finding it throb 
violently she remembered that the best 
method of dispelling such illusions was 
to drink, for a draught of the beverage 
prepared by the doctor to allay her 
fever seemed to cause a reaction of the 
brain, and for a short time she 
suffered less. Valentine therefore 
reached her hand towards the glass, but 
as soon as her trembling arm left the 
bed the apparition advanced more 
quickly towards her, and approached the 
young girl so closely that she fancied 
she heard his breath, and felt the 
pressure of his hand.

This time the illusion, or rather the 
reality, surpassed anything Valentine 
had before experienced; she began to 
believe herself really alive and awake, 
and the belief that her reason was this 
time not deceived made her shudder. The 
pressure she felt was evidently 
intended to arrest her arm, and she 
slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, 
from whom she could not detach her 
eyes, and who appeared more protecting 
than menacing, took the glass, and 
walking towards the night-light held it 
up, as if to test its transparency. 
This did not seem sufficient; the man, 
or rather the ghost -- for he trod so 
softly that no sound was heard -- then 
poured out about a spoonful into the 
glass, and drank it. Valentine 
witnessed this scene with a sentiment 
of stupefaction. Every minute she had 
expected that it would vanish and give 
place to another vision; but the man, 
instead of dissolving like a shadow, 
again approached her, and said in an 
agitated voice, "Now you may drink."

Valentine shuddered. It was the first 
time one of these visions had ever 
addressed her in a living voice, and 
she was about to utter an exclamation. 
The man placed his finger on her lips. 
"The Count of Monte Cristo!" she 
murmured.

It was easy to see that no doubt now 
remained in the young girl's mind as to 
the reality of the scene; her eyes 
started with terror, her hands 
trembled, and she rapidly drew the 
bedclothes closer to her. Still, the 
presence of Monte Cristo at such an 
hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and 
extraordinary entrance into her room 
through the wall, might well seem 
impossibilities to her shattered 
reason. "Do not call any one -- do not 
be alarmed," said the Count; "do not 
let a shade of suspicion or uneasiness 
remain in your breast; the man standing 
before you, Valentine (for this time it 
is no ghost), is nothing more than the 
tenderest father and the most 
respectful friend you could dream of."

Valentine could not reply; the voice 
which indicated the real presence of a 
being in the room, alarmed her so much 
that she feared to utter a syllable; 
still the expression of her eyes seemed 
to inquire, "If your intentions are 
pure, why are you here?" The count's 
marvellous sagacity understood all that 
was passing in the young girl's mind.

"Listen to me," he said, "or, rather, 
look upon me; look at my face, paler 
even than usual, and my eyes, red with 
weariness -- for four days I have not 
closed them, for I have been constantly 
watching you, to protect and preserve 
you for Maximilian." The blood mounted 
rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for 
the name just announced by the count 
dispelled all the fear with which his 
presence had inspired her. 
"Maximilian!" she exclaimed, and so 
sweet did the sound appear to her, that 
she repeated it -- "Maximilian! -- has 
he then owned all to you?"

"Everything. He told me your life was 
his, and I have promised him that you 
shall live."

"You have promised him that I shall 
live?"

"Yes."

"But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and 
protection. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes; the best you could have at the 
present time, believe me."

"But you say you have watched?" said 
Valentine uneasily; "where have you 
been? -- I have not seen you." The 
count extended his hand towards the 
library. "I was hidden behind that 
door," he said, "which leads into the 
next house, which I have rented." 
Valentine turned her eyes away, and, 
with an indignant expression of pride 
and modest fear, exclaimed: "Sir, I 
think you have been guilty of an 
unparalleled intrusion, and that what 
you call protection is more like an 
insult."

"Valentine," he answered, "during my 
long watch over you, all I have 
observed has been what people visited 
you, what nourishment was prepared, and 
what beverage was served; then, when 
the latter appeared dangerous to me, I 
entered, as I have now done, and 
substituted, in the place of the 
poison, a healthful draught; which, 
instead of producing the death 
intended, caused life to circulate in 
your veins."

"Poison -- death!" exclaimed Valentine, 
half believing herself under the 
influence of some feverish 
hallucination; "what are you saying, 
sir?"

"Hush, my child," said Monte Cristo, 
again placing his finger upon her lips, 
"I did say poison and death. But drink 
some of this;" and the count took a 
bottle from his pocket, containing a 
red liquid, of which he poured a few 
drops into the glass. "Drink this, and 
then take nothing more to-night." 
Valentine stretched out her hand, but 
scarcely had she touched the glass when 
she drew back in fear. Monte Cristo 
took the glass, drank half its 
contents, and then presented it to 
Valentine, who smiled and swallowed the 
rest. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "I 
recognize the flavor of my nocturnal 
beverage which refreshed me so much, 
and seemed to ease my aching brain. 
Thank you, sir, thank you!"

"This is how you have lived during the 
last four nights, Valentine," said the 
count. "But, oh, how I passed that 
time! Oh, the wretched hours I have 
endured -- the torture to which I have 
submitted when I saw the deadly poison 
poured into your glass, and how I 
trembled lest you should drink it 
before I could find time to throw it 
away!"

"Sir," said Valentine, at the height of 
her terror, "you say you endured 
tortures when you saw the deadly poison 
poured into my glass; but if you saw 
this, you must also have seen the 
person who poured it?"

"Yes." Valentine raised herself in bed, 
and drew over her chest, which appeared 
whiter than snow, the embroidered 
cambric, still moist with the cold dews 
of delirium, to which were now added 
those of terror. "You saw the person?" 
repeated the young girl. "Yes," 
repeated the count.

"What you tell me is horrible, sir. You 
wish to make me believe something too 
dreadful. What? -- attempt to murder me 
in my father's house, in my room, on my 
bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you 
are tempting me -- you make me doubt 
the goodness of providence -- it is 
impossible, it cannot be!"

"Are you the first that this hand has 
stricken? Have you not seen M. de 
Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, 
Barrois, all fall? would not M. 
Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had 
not the treatment he has been pursuing 
for the last three years neutralized 
the effects of the poison?"

"Oh, heaven," said Valentine; "is this 
the reason why grandpapa has made me 
share all his beverages during the last 
month?"

"And have they all tasted of a slightly 
bitter flavor, like that of dried 
orange-peel?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Then that explains all," said Monte 
Cristo. "Your grandfather knows, then, 
that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he 
even suspects the person. He has been 
fortifying you, his beloved child, 
against the fatal effects of the 
poison, which has failed because your 
system was already impregnated with it. 
But even this would have availed little 
against a more deadly medium of death 
employed four days ago, which is 
generally but too fatal."

"But who, then, is this assassin, this 
murderer?"

"Let me also ask you a question. Have 
you never seen any one enter your room 
at night?"

"Oh, yes; I have frequently seen 
shadows pass close to me, approach, and 
disappear; but I took them for visions 
raised by my feverish imagination, and 
indeed when you entered I thought I was 
under the influence of delirium."

"Then you do not know who it is that 
attempts your life?"

"No," said Valentine; "who could desire 
my death?"

"You shall know it now, then," said 
Monte Cristo, listening.

"How do you mean?" said Valentine, 
looking anxiously around.

"Because you are not feverish or 
delirious to-night, but thoroughly 
awake; midnight is striking, which is 
the hour murderers choose."

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, 
wiping off the drops which ran down her 
forehead. Midnight struck slowly and 
sadly; every hour seemed to strike with 
leaden weight upon the heart of the 
poor girl. "Valentine," said the count, 
"summon up all your courage; still the 
beatings of your heart; do not let a 
sound escape you, and feign to be 
asleep; then you will see." Valentine 
seized the count's hand. "I think I 
hear a noise," she said; "leave me."

"Good-by, for the present," replied the 
count, walking upon tiptoe towards the 
library door, and smiling with an 
expression so sad and paternal that the 
young girl's heart was filled with 
gratitude. Before closing the door he 
turned around once more, and said, "Not 
a movement -- not a word; let them 
think you asleep, or perhaps you may be 
killed before I have the power of 
helping you." And with this fearful 
injunction the count disappeared 
through the door, which noiselessly 
closed after him. 

 Chapter 101 Locusta.

Valentine was alone; two other clocks, 
slower than that of Saint-Philippe du 
Roule, struck the hour of midnight from 
different directions, and excepting the 
rumbling of a few carriages all was 
silent. Then Valentine's attention was 
engrossed by the clock in her room, 
which marked the seconds. She began 
counting them, remarking that they were 
much slower than the beatings of her 
heart; and still she doubted, -- the 
inoffensive Valentine could not imagine 
that any one should desire her death. 
Why should they? To what end? What had 
she done to excite the malice of an 
enemy? There was no fear of her falling 
asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon 
her mind, -- that some one existed in 
the world who had attempted to 
assassinate her, and who was about to 
endeavor to do so again. Supposing this 
person, wearied at the inefficacy of 
the poison, should, as Monte Cristo 
intimated, have recourse to steel! -- 
What if the count should have no time 
to run to her rescue! -- What if her 
last moments were approaching, and she 
should never again see Morrel! When 
this terrible chain of ideas presented 
itself, Valentine was nearly persuaded 
to ring the bell, and call for help. 
But through the door she fancied she 
saw the luminous eye of the count -- 
that eye which lived in her memory, and 
the recollection overwhelmed her with 
so much shame that she asked herself 
whether any amount of gratitude could 
ever repay his adventurous and devoted 
friendship.

Twenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes, 
passed thus, then ten more, and at last 
the clock struck the half-flour. Just 
then the sound of finger-nails slightly 
grating against the door of the library 
informed Valentine that the count was 
still watching, and recommended her to 
do the same; at the same time, on the 
opposite side, that is towards Edward's 
room, Valentine fancied that she heard 
the creaking of the floor; she listened 
attentively, holding her breath till 
she was nearly suffocated; the lock 
turned, and the door slowly opened. 
Valentine had raised herself upon her 
elbow, and had scarcely time to throw 
herself down on the bed and shade her 
eyes with her arm; then, trembling, 
agitated, and her heart beating with 
indescribable terror, she awaited the 
event.

Some one approached the bed and drew 
back the curtains. Valentine summoned 
every effort, and breathed with that 
regular respiration which announces 
tranquil sleep. "Valentine!" said a low 
voice. Still silent: Valentine had 
promised not to awake. Then everything 
was still, excepting that Valentine 
heard the almost noiseless sound of 
some liquid being poured into the glass 
she had just emptied. Then she ventured 
to open her eyelids, and glance over 
her extended arm. She saw a woman in a 
white dressing-gown pouring a liquor 
from a phial into her glass. During 
this short time Valentine must have 
held her breath, or moved in some 
slight degree, for the woman, 
disturbed, stopped and leaned over the 
bed, in order the better to ascertain 
whether Valentine slept -- it was 
Madame de Villefort.

On recognizing her step-mother, 
Valentine could not repress a shudder, 
which caused a vibration in the bed. 
Madame de Villefort instantly stepped 
back close to the wall, and there, 
shaded by the bed-curtains, she 
silently and attentively watched the 
slightest movement of Valentine. The 
latter recollected the terrible caution 
of Monte Cristo; she fancied that the 
hand not holding the phial clasped a 
long sharp knife. Then collecting all 
her remaining strength, she forced 
herself to close her eyes; but this 
simple operation upon the most delicate 
organs of our frame, generally so easy 
to accomplish, became almost impossible 
at this moment, so much did curiosity 
struggle to retain the eyelid open and 
learn the truth. Madame de Villefort, 
however, reassured by the silence, 
which was alone disturbed by the 
regular breathing of Valentine, again 
extended her hand, and half hidden by 
the curtains succeeded in emptying the 
contents of the phial into the glass. 
Then she retired so gently that 
Valentine did not know she had left the 
room. She only witnessed the withdrawal 
of the arm -- the fair round arm of a 
woman but twenty-five years old, and 
who yet spread death around her.

It is impossible to describe the 
sensations experienced by Valentine 
during the minute and a half Madame de 
Villefort remained in the room. The 
grating against the library-door 
aroused the young girl from the stupor 
in which she was plunged, and which 
almost amounted to insensibility. She 
raised her head with an effort. The 
noiseless door again turned on its 
hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo 
reappeared. "Well," said he, "do you 
still doubt?"

"Oh," murmured the young girl.

"Have you seen?"

"Alas!"

"Did you recognize?" Valentine groaned. 
"Oh, yes;" she said, "I saw, but I 
cannot believe!"

"Would you rather die, then, and cause 
Maximilian's death?"

"Oh," repeated the young girl, almost 
bewildered, "can I not leave the house? 
-- can I not escape?"

"Valentine, the hand which now 
threatens you will pursue you 
everywhere; your servants will be 
seduced with gold, and death will be 
offered to you disguised in every 
shape. You will find it in the water 
you drink from the spring, in the fruit 
you pluck from the tree."

"But did you not say that my kind 
grandfather's precaution had 
neutralized the poison?"

"Yes, but not against a strong dose; 
the poison will be changed, and the 
quantity increased." He took the glass 
and raised it to his lips. "It is 
already done," he said; "brucine is no 
longer employed, but a simple narcotic! 
I can recognize the flavor of the 
alcohol in which it has been dissolved. 
If you had taken what Madame de 
Villefort has poured into your glass, 
Valentine -- Valentine -- you would 
have been doomed!"

"But," exclaimed the young girl, "why 
am I thus pursued?"

"Why? -- are you so kind -- so good -- 
so unsuspicious of ill, that you cannot 
understand, Valentine?"

"No, I have never injured her."

"But you are rich, Valentine; you have 
200,000 livres a year, and you prevent 
her son from enjoying these 200,000 
livres."

"How so? The fortune is not her gift, 
but is inherited from my relations."

"Certainly; and that is why M. and 
Madame de Saint-Meran have died; that 
is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the 
day he made you his heir; that is why 
you, in your turn, are to die -- it is 
because your father would inherit your 
property, and your brother, his only 
son, succeed to his."

"Edward? Poor child! Are all these 
crimes committed on his account?"

"Ah, then you at length understand?"

"Heaven grant that this may not be 
visited upon him!"

"Valentine, you are an angel!"

"But why is my grandfather allowed to 
live?"

"It was considered, that you dead, the 
fortune would naturally revert to your 
brother, unless he were disinherited; 
and besides, the crime appearing 
useless, it would be folly to commit 
it."

"And is it possible that this frightful 
combination of crimes has been invented 
by a woman?"

"Do you recollect in the arbor of the 
Hotel des Postes, at Perugia, seeing a 
man in a brown cloak, whom your 
stepmother was questioning upon aqua 
tofana? Well, ever since then, the 
infernal project has been ripening in 
her brain."

"Ah, then, indeed, sir," said the sweet 
girl, bathed in tears, "I see that I am 
condemned to die!"

"No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all 
their plots; no, your enemy is 
conquered since we know her, and you 
will live, Valentine -- live to be 
happy yourself, and to confer happiness 
upon a noble heart; but to insure this 
you must rely on me."

"Command me, sir -- what am I to do?"

"You must blindly take what I give you."

"Alas, were it only for my own sake, I 
should prefer to die!"

"You must not confide in any one -- not 
even in your father."

"My father is not engaged in this 
fearful plot, is he, sir?" asked 
Valentine, clasping her hands.

"No; and yet your father, a man 
accustomed to judicial accusations, 
ought to have known that all these 
deaths have not happened naturally; it 
is he who should have watched over you 
-- he should have occupied my place -- 
he should have emptied that glass -- he 
should have risen against the assassin. 
Spectre against spectre!" he murmured 
in a low voice, as he concluded his 
sentence.

"Sir," said Valentine, "I will do all I 
can to live. for there are two beings 
whose existence depends upon mine -- my 
grandfather and Maximilian."

"I will watch over them as I have over 
you."

"Well, sir, do as you will with me;" 
and then she added, in a low voice, 
"oh, heavens, what will befall me?"

"Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not 
be alarmed; though you suffer; though 
you lose sight, hearing, consciousness, 
fear nothing; though you should awake 
and be ignorant where you are, still do 
not fear; even though you should find 
yourself in a sepulchral vault or 
coffin. Reassure yourself, then, and 
say to yourself: `At this moment, a 
friend, a father, who lives for my 
happiness and that of Maximilian, 
watches over me!'"

"Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!"

"Valentine, would you rather denounce 
your stepmother?"

"I would rather die a hundred times -- 
oh, yes, die!"

"No, you will not die; but will you 
promise me, whatever happens, that you 
will not complain, but hope?"

"I will think of Maximilian!"

"You are my own darling child, 
Valentine! I alone can save you, and I 
will." Valentine in the extremity of 
her terror joined her hands, -- for she 
felt that the moment had arrived to ask 
for courage, -- and began to pray, and 
while uttering little more than 
incoherent words, she forgot that her 
white shoulders had no other covering 
than her long hair, and that the 
pulsations of her heart could he seen 
through the lace of her nightdress. 
Monte Cristo gently laid his hand on 
the young girl's arm, drew the velvet 
coverlet close to her throat, and said 
with a paternal smile, -- "My child, 
believe in my devotion to you as you 
believe in the goodness of providence 
and the love of Maximilian."

Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket 
the little emerald box, raised the 
golden lid, and took from it a pastille 
about the size of a pea, which he 
placed in her hand. She took it, and 
looked attentively on the count; there 
was an expression on the face of her 
intrepid protector which commanded her 
veneration. She evidently interrogated 
him by her look. "Yes," said he. 
Valentine carried the pastille to her 
mouth, and swallowed it. "And now, my 
dear child, adieu for the present. I 
will try and gain a little sleep, for 
you are saved."

"Go," said Valentine, "whatever 
happens, I promise you not to fear."

Monte Cristo for some time kept his 
eyes fixed on the young girl, who 
gradually fell asleep, yielding to the 
effects of the narcotic the count had 
given her. Then he took the glass, 
emptied three parts of the contents in 
the fireplace, that it might be 
supposed Valentine had taken it, and 
replaced it on the table; then he 
disappeared, after throwing a farewell 
glance on Valentine, who slept with the 
confidence and innocence of an angel. 

 Chapter 102 Valentine.

The night-light continued to burn on 
the chimney-piece, exhausting the last 
drops of oil which floated on the 
surface of the water. The globe of the 
lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the 
flame, brightening before it expired, 
threw out the last flickerings which in 
an inanimate object have been so often 
compared with the convulsions of a 
human creature in its final agonies. A 
dull and dismal light was shed over the 
bedclothes and curtains surrounding the 
young girl. All noise in the streets 
had ceased, and the silence was 
frightful. It was then that the door of 
Edward's room opened, and a head we 
have before noticed appeared in the 
glass opposite; it was Madame de 
Villefort, who came to witness the 
effects of the drink she had prepared. 
She stopped in the doorway, listened 
for a moment to the flickering of the 
lamp, the only sound in that deserted 
room, and then advanced to the table to 
see if Valentine's glass were empty. It 
was still about a quarter full, as we 
before stated. Madame de Villefort 
emptied the contents into the ashes, 
which she disturbed that they might the 
more readily absorb the liquid; then 
she carefully rinsed the glass, and 
wiping it with her handkerchief 
replaced it on the table.

If any one could have looked into the 
room just then he would have noticed 
the hesitation with which Madame de 
Villefort approached the bed and looked 
fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, 
the profound silence, and the gloomy 
thoughts inspired by the hour, and 
still more by her own conscience, all 
combined to produce a sensation of 
fear; the poisoner was terrified at the 
contemplation of her own work. At 
length she rallied, drew aside the 
curtain, and leaning over the pillow 
gazed intently on Valentine. The young 
girl no longer breathed, no breath 
issued through the half-closed teeth; 
the white lips no longer quivered -- 
the eyes were suffused with a bluish 
vapor, and the long black lashes rested 
on a cheek white as wax. Madame de 
Villefort gazed upon the face so 
expressive even in its stillness; then 
she ventured to raise the coverlet and 
press her hand upon the young girl's 
heart. It was cold and motionless. She 
only felt the pulsation in her own 
fingers, and withdrew her hand with a 
shudder. One arm was hanging out of the 
bed; from shoulder to elbow it was 
moulded after the arms of Germain 
Pillon's "Graces,"* but the fore-arm 
seemed to be slightly distorted by 
convulsion, and the hand, so delicately 
formed, was resting with stiff 
outstretched fingers on the framework 
of the bed. The nails, too, were 
turning blue.

* Germain Pillon was a famous French 
sculptor (1535-1598). His best known 
work is "The Three Graces," now in the 
Louvre.

Madame de Villefort had no longer any 
doubt; all was over -- she had 
consummated the last terrible work she 
had to accomplish. There was no more to 
do in the room, so the poisoner retired 
stealthily, as though fearing to hear 
the sound of her own footsteps; but as 
she withdrew she still held aside the 
curtain, absorbed in the irresistible 
attraction always exerted by the 
picture of death, so long as it is 
merely mysterious and does not excite 
disgust. Just then the lamp again 
flickered; the noise startled Madame de 
Villefort, who shuddered and dropped 
the curtain. Immediately afterwards the 
light expired, and the room was plunged 
in frightful obscurity, while the clock 
at that minute struck half-past four. 
Overpowered with agitation, the 
poisoner succeeded in groping her way 
to the door, and reached her room in an 
agony of fear.

The darkness lasted two hours longer; 
then by degrees a cold light crept 
through the Venetian blinds, until at 
length it revealed the objects in the 
room. About this time the nurse's cough 
was heard on the stairs and the woman 
entered the room with a cup in her 
hand. To the tender eye of a father or 
a lover, the first glance would have 
sufficed to reveal Valentine's 
condition; but to this hireling, 
Valentine only appeared to sleep. 
"Good," she exclaimed, approaching the 
table, "she has taken part of her 
draught; the glass is three-quarters 
empty."

Then she went to the fireplace and lit 
the fire, and although she had just 
left her bed, she could not resist the 
temptation offered by Valentine's 
sleep, so she threw herself into an 
arm-chair to snatch a little more rest. 
The clock striking eight awoke her. 
Astonished at the prolonged slumber of 
the patient, and frightened to see that 
the arm was still hanging out of the 
bed, she advanced towards Valentine, 
and for the first time noticed the 
white lips. She tried to replace the 
arm, but it moved with a frightful 
rigidity which could not deceive a 
sick-nurse. She screamed aloud; then 
running to the door exclaimed, -- 
"Help, help!"

"What is the matter?" asked M. 
d'Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, 
it being the hour he usually visited 
her.

"What is it?" asked Villefort, rushing 
from his room. "Doctor, do you hear 
them call for help?"

"Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in 
Valentine's room." But before the 
doctor and the father could reach the 
room, the servants who were on the same 
floor had entered, and seeing Valentine 
pale and motionless on her bed, they 
lifted up their hands towards heaven 
and stood transfixed, as though struck 
by lightening. "Call Madame de 
Villefort! -- wake Madame de 
Villefort!" cried the procureur from 
the door of his chamber, which 
apparently he scarcely dared to leave. 
But instead of obeying him, the 
servants stood watching M. d'Avrigny, 
who ran to Valentine, and raised her in 
his arms. "What? -- this one, too?" he 
exclaimed. "Oh, where will be the end?" 
Villefort rushed into the room. "What 
are you saying, doctor?" he exclaimed, 
raising his hands to heaven.

"I say that Valentine is dead!" replied 
d'Avrigny, in a voice terrible in its 
solemn calm.

M. de Villefort staggered and buried 
his head in the bed. On the exclamation 
of the doctor and the cry of the 
father, the servants all fled with 
muttered imprecations; they were heard 
running down the stairs and through the 
long passages, then there was a rush in 
the court, afterwards all was still; 
they had, one and all, deserted the 
accursed house. Just then, Madame de 
Villefort, in the act of slipping on 
her dressing-gown, threw aside the 
drapery and for a moment stood 
motionless, as though interrogating the 
occupants of the room, while she 
endeavored to call up some rebellious 
tears. On a sudden she stepped, or 
rather bounded, with outstretched arms, 
towards the table. She saw d'Avrigny 
curiously examining the glass, which 
she felt certain of having emptied 
during the night. It was now a third 
full, just as it was when she threw the 
contents into the ashes. The spectre of 
Valentine rising before the poisoner 
would have alarmed her less. It was, 
indeed, the same color as the draught 
she had poured into the glass, and 
which Valentine had drank; it was 
indeed the poison, which could not 
deceive M. d'Avrigny, which he now 
examined so closely; it was doubtless a 
miracle from heaven, that, 
notwithstanding her precautions, there 
should be some trace, some proof 
remaining to reveal the crime. While 
Madame de Villefort remained rooted to 
the spot like a statue of terror, and 
Villefort, with his head hidden in the 
bedclothes, saw nothing around him, 
d'Avrigny approached the window, that 
he might the better examine the 
contents of the glass, and dipping the 
tip of his finger in, tasted it. "Ah," 
he exclaimed, "it is no longer brucine 
that is used; let me see what it is!"

Then he ran to one of the cupboards in 
Valentine's room, which had been 
transformed into a medicine closet, and 
taking from its silver case a small 
bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little 
of it into the liquor, which 
immediately changed to a blood-red 
color. "Ah," exclaimed d'Avrigny, in a 
voice in which the horror of a judge 
unveiling the truth was mingled with 
the delight of a student making a 
discovery. Madame de Villefort was 
overpowered, her eyes first flashed and 
then swam, she staggered towards the 
door and disappeared. Directly 
afterwards the distant sound of a heavy 
weight falling on the ground was heard, 
but no one paid any attention to it; 
the nurse was engaged in watching the 
chemical analysis, and Villefort was 
still absorbed in grief. M. d'Avrigny 
alone had followed Madame de Villefort 
with his eyes, and watched her hurried 
retreat. He lifted up the drapery over 
the entrance to Edward's room, and his 
eye reaching as far as Madame de 
Villefort's apartment, he beheld her 
extended lifeless on the floor. "Go to 
the assistance of Madame de Villefort," 
he said to the nurse. "Madame de 
Villefort is ill."

"But Mademoiselle de Villefort " -- 
stammered the nurse.

"Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer 
requires help," said d'Avrigny, "since 
she is dead."

"Dead, -- dead!" groaned forth 
Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, 
which was the more terrible from the 
novelty of the sensation in the iron 
heart of that man.

"Dead!" repeated a third voice. "Who 
said Valentine was dead?"

The two men turned round, and saw 
Morrel standing at the door, pale and 
terror-stricken. This is what had 
happened. At the usual time, Morrel had 
presented himself at the little door 
leading to Noirtier's room. Contrary to 
custom, the door was open, and having 
no occasion to ring he entered. He 
waited for a moment in the hall and 
called for a servant to conduct him to 
M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the 
servants having, as we know, deserted 
the house. Morrel had no particular 
reason for uneasiness; Monte Cristo had 
promised him that Valentine should 
live, and so far he had always 
fulfilled his word. Every night the 
count had given him news, which was the 
next morning confirmed by Noirtier. 
Still this extraordinary silence 
appeared strange to him, and he called 
a second and third time; still no 
answer. Then he determined to go up. 
Noirtier's room was opened, like all 
the rest. The first thing he saw was 
the old man sitting in his arm-chair in 
his usual place, but his eyes expressed 
alarm, which was confirmed by the 
pallor which overspread his features.

"How are you, sir?" asked Morrel, with 
a sickness of heart.

"Well," answered the old man, by 
closing his eyes; but his appearance 
manifested increasing uneasiness.

"You are thoughtful, sir," continued 
Morrel; "you want something; shall I 
call one of the servants?"

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

Morrel pulled the bell, but though he 
nearly broke the cord no one answered. 
He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor 
and anguish expressed on his 
countenance momentarily increased.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, "why do they 
not come? Is any one ill in the house?" 
The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though 
they would start from their sockets. 
"What is the matter? You alarm me. 
Valentine? Valentine?"

"Yes, yes," signed Noirtier. Maximilian 
tried to speak, but he could articulate 
nothing; he staggered, and supported 
himself against the wainscot. Then he 
pointed to the door.

"Yes, yes, yes!" continued the old man. 
Maximilian rushed up the little 
staircase, while Noirtier's eyes seemed 
to say, -- "Quicker, quicker!"

In a minute the young man darted 
through several rooms, till at length 
he reached Valentine's. There was no 
occasion to push the door, it was wide 
open. A sob was the only sound he 
heard. He saw as though in a mist, a 
black figure kneeling and buried in a 
confused mass of white drapery. A 
terrible fear transfixed him. It was 
then he heard a voice exclaim 
"Valentine is dead!" and another voice 
which, like an echo repeated, -- "Dead, 
-- dead!" 

 Chapter 103 Maximilian.

Villefort rose, half ashamed of being 
surprised in such a paroxysm of grief. 
The terrible office he had held for 
twenty-five years had succeeded in 
making him more or less than man. His 
glance, at first wandering, fixed 
itself upon Morrel. "Who are you, sir," 
he asked, "that forget that this is not 
the manner to enter a house stricken 
with death? Go, sir, go!" But Morrel 
remained motionless; he could not 
detach his eyes from that disordered 
bed, and the pale corpse of the young 
girl who was lying on it. "Go! -- do 
you hear?" said Villefort, while 
d'Avrigny advanced to lead Morrel out. 
Maximilian stared for a moment at the 
corpse, gazed all around the room, then 
upon the two men; he opened his mouth 
to speak, but finding it impossible to 
give utterance to the innumerable ideas 
that occupied his brain, he went out, 
thrusting his hands through his hair in 
such a manner that Villefort and 
d'Avrigny, for a moment diverted from 
the engrossing topic, exchanged 
glances, which seemed to say, -- "He is 
mad!"

But in less than five minutes the 
staircase groaned beneath an 
extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen 
carrying, with superhuman strength, the 
arm-chair containing Noirtier 
up-stairs. When he reached the landing 
he placed the arm-chair on the floor 
and rapidly rolled it into Valentine's 
room. This could only have been 
accomplished by means of unnatural 
strength supplied by powerful 
excitement. But the most fearful 
spectacle was Noirtier being pushed 
towards the bed, his face expressing 
all his meaning, and his eyes supplying 
the want of every other faculty. That 
pale face and flaming glance appeared 
to Villefort like a frightful 
apparition. Each time he had been 
brought into contact with his father, 
something terrible had happened. "See 
what they have done!" cried Morrel, 
with one hand leaning on the back of 
the chair, and the other extended 
towards Valentine. "See, my father, 
see!"

Villefort drew back and looked with 
astonishment on the young man, who, 
almost a stranger to him, called 
Noirtier his father. At this moment the 
whole soul of the old man seemed 
centred in his eyes which became 
bloodshot; the veins of the throat 
swelled; his cheeks and temples became 
purple, as though he was struck with 
epilepsy; nothing was wanting to 
complete this but the utterance of a 
cry. And the cry issued from his pores, 
if we may thus speak -- a cry frightful 
in its silence. D'Avrigny rushed 
towards the old man and made him inhale 
a powerful restorative.

"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist 
hand of the paralytic, "they ask me who 
I am, and what right I have to be here. 
Oh, you know it, tell them, tell them!" 
And the young man's voice was choked by 
sobs. As for the old man, his chest 
heaved with his panting respiration. 
One could have thought that he was 
undergoing the agonies preceding death. 
At length, happier than the young man, 
who sobbed without weeping, tears 
glistened in the eyes of Noirtier. 
"Tell them," said Morrel in a hoarse 
voice, "tell them that I am her 
betrothed. Tell them she was my 
beloved, my noble girl, my only 
blessing in the world. Tell them -- oh, 
tell them, that corpse belongs to me!"

The young man overwhelmed by the weight 
of his anguish, fell heavily on his 
knees before the bed, which his fingers 
grasped with convulsive energy. 
D'Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of 
this touching emotion, turned away; and 
Villefort, without seeking any further 
explanation, and attracted towards him 
by the irresistible magnetism which 
draws us towards those who have loved 
the people for whom we mourn, extended 
his hand towards the young man. But 
Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the 
hand of Valentine, and unable to weep 
vented his agony in groans as he bit 
the sheets. For some time nothing was 
heard in that chamber but sobs, 
exclamations, and prayers. At length 
Villefort, the most composed of all, 
spoke: "Sir," said he to Maximilian, 
"you say you loved Valentine, that you 
were betrothed to her. I knew nothing 
of this engagement, of this love, yet 
I, her father, forgive you, for I see 
that your grief is real and deep; and 
besides my own sorrow is too great for 
anger to find a place in my heart. But 
you see that the angel whom you hoped 
for has left this earth -- she has 
nothing more to do with the adoration 
of men. Take a last farewell, sir, of 
her sad remains; take the hand you 
expected to possess once more within 
your own, and then separate yourself 
from her forever. Valentine now 
requires only the ministrations of the 
priest."

"You are mistaken, sir," exclaimed 
Morrel, raising himself on one knee, 
his heart pierced by a more acute pang 
than any he had yet felt -- "you are 
mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, 
not only requires a priest, but an 
avenger. You, M. de Villefort, send for 
the priest; I will be the avenger."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked 
Villefort, trembling at the new idea 
inspired by the delirium of Morrel.

"I tell you, sir, that two persons 
exist in you; the father has mourned 
sufficiently, now let the procureur 
fulfil his office."

The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and 
d'Avrigny approached.

"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all 
that passed through the minds of the 
witnesses to the scene, "I know what I 
am saying, and you know as well as I do 
what I am about to say -- Valentine has 
been assassinated!" Villefort hung his 
head, d'Avrigny approached nearer, and 
Noirtier said "Yes" with his eyes. 
"Now, sir," continued Morrel, "in these 
days no one can disappear by violent 
means without some inquiries being made 
as to the cause of her disappearance, 
even were she not a young, beautiful, 
and adorable creature like Valentine. 
Mr. Procureur," said Morrel with 
increasing vehemence, "no mercy is 
allowed; I denounce the crime; it is 
your place to seek the assassin." The 
young man's implacable eyes 
interrogated Villefort, who, on his 
side, glanced from Noirtier to 
d'Avrigny. But instead of finding 
sympathy in the eyes of the doctor and 
his father, he only saw an expression 
as inflexible as that of Maximilian. 
"Yes," indicated the old man.

"Assuredly," said d'Avrigny.

"Sir," said Villefort, striving to 
struggle against this triple force and 
his own emotion, -- "sir, you are 
deceived; no one commits crimes here. I 
am stricken by fate. It is horrible, 
indeed, but no one assassinates."

The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with 
rage, and d'Avrigny prepared to speak. 
Morrel, however, extended his arm, and 
commanded silence. "And I say that 
murders are committed here," said 
Morrel, whose voice, though lower in 
tone, lost none of its terrible 
distinctness: "I tell you that this is 
the fourth victim within the last four 
months. I tell you, Valentine's life 
was attempted by poison four days ago, 
though she escaped, owing to the 
precautions of M. Noirtier. I tell you 
that the dose has been double, the 
poison changed, and that this time it 
has succeeded. I tell you that you know 
these things as well as I do, since 
this gentleman has forewarned you, both 
as a doctor and as a friend."

"Oh, you rave, sir," exclaimed 
Villefort, in vain endeavoring to 
escape the net in which he was taken.

"I rave?" said Morrel; "well, then, I 
appeal to M. d'Avrigny himself. Ask 
him, sir, if he recollects the words he 
uttered in the garden of this house on 
the night of Madame de Saint-Meran's 
death. You thought yourselves alone, 
and talked about that tragical death, 
and the fatality you mentioned then is 
the same which has caused the murder of 
Valentine." Villefort and d'Avrigny 
exchanged looks. "Yes, yes," continued 
Morrel; "recall the scene, for the 
words you thought were only given to 
silence and solitude fell into my ears. 
Certainly, after witnessing the 
culpable indolence manifested by M. de 
Villefort towards his own relations, I 
ought to have denounced him to the 
authorities; then I should not have 
been an accomplice to thy death, as I 
now am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but 
the accomplice shall become the 
avenger. This fourth murder is apparent 
to all, and if thy father abandon thee, 
Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, 
that shall pursue the assassin." And 
this time, as though nature had at 
least taken compassion on the vigorous 
frame, nearly bursting with its own 
strength, the words of Morrel were 
stifled in his throat; his breast 
heaved; the tears, so long rebellious, 
gushed from his eyes; and he threw 
himself weeping on his knees by the 
side of the bed.

Then d'Avrigny spoke. "And I, too," he 
exclaimed in a low voice, "I unite with 
M. Morrel in demanding justice for 
crime; my blood boils at the idea of 
having encouraged a murderer by my 
cowardly concession."

"Oh, merciful heavens!" murmured 
Villefort. Morrel raised his head, and 
reading the eyes of the old man, which 
gleamed with unnatural lustre, -- 
"Stay," he said, "M. Noirtier wishes to 
speak."

"Yes," indicated Noirtier, with an 
expression the more terrible, from all 
his faculties being centred in his 
glance.

"Do you know the assassin?" asked 
Morrel.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"And will you direct us?" exclaimed the 
young man. "Listen, M. d'Avrigny, 
listen!" Noirtier looked upon Morrel 
with one of those melancholy smiles 
which had so often made Valentine 
happy, and thus fixed his attention. 
Then, having riveted the eyes of his 
interlocutor on his own, he glanced 
towards the door.

"Do you wish me to leave?" said Morrel, 
sadly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!"

The old man's eyes remained fixed on 
the door.

"May I, at least, return?" asked Morrel.

"Yes."

"Must I leave alone?"

"No."

"Whom am I to take with me? The 
procureur?"

"No."

"The doctor?"

"Yes."

"You wish to remain alone with M. de 
Villefort?"

"Yes."

"But can he understand you?"

"Yes."

"Oh," said Villefort, inexpressibly 
delighted to think that the inquiries 
were to be made by him alone, -- "oh, 
be satisfied, I can understand my 
father." D'Avrigny took the young man's 
arm, and led him out of the room. A 
more than deathlike silence then 
reigned in the house. At the end of a 
quarter of an hour a faltering footstep 
was heard, and Villefort appeared at 
the door of the apartment where 
d'Avrigny and Morrel had been staying, 
one absorbed in meditation, the other 
in grief. "You can come," he said, and 
led them back to Noirtier. Morrel 
looked attentively on Villefort. His 
face was livid, large drops rolled down 
his face, and in his fingers he held 
the fragments of a quill pen which he 
had torn to atoms.

"Gentlemen," he said in a hoarse voice, 
"give me your word of honor that this 
horrible secret shall forever remain 
buried amongst ourselves!" The two men 
drew back.

"I entreat you." -- continued Villefort.

"But," said Morrel, "the culprit -- the 
murderer -- the assassin."

"Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice 
will be done," said Villefort. "My 
father has revealed the culprit's name; 
my father thirsts for revenge as much 
as you do, yet even he conjures you as 
I do to keep this secret. Do you not, 
father?"

"Yes," resolutely replied Noirtier. 
Morrel suffered an exclamation of 
horror and surprise to escape him. "Oh, 
sir," said Villefort, arresting 
Maximilian by the arm, "if my father, 
the inflexible man, makes this request, 
it is because he knows, be assured, 
that Valentine will be terribly 
revenged. Is it not so, father?" The 
old man made a sign in the affirmative. 
Villefort continued: "He knows me, and 
I have pledged my word to him. Rest 
assured, gentlemen, that within three 
days, in a less time than justice would 
demand, the revenge I shall have taken 
for the murder of my child will be such 
as to make the boldest heart tremble;" 
and as he spoke these words he ground 
his teeth, and grasped the old man's 
senseless hand.

"Will this promise be fulfilled, M. 
Noirtier?" asked Morrel, while 
d'Avrigny looked inquiringly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier with an 
expression of sinister joy.

"Swear, then," said Villefort, joining 
the hands of Morrel and d'Avrigny, 
"swear that you will spare the honor of 
my house, and leave me to avenge my 
child." D'Avrigny turned round and 
uttered a very feeble "Yes," but 
Morrel, disengaging his hand, rushed to 
the bed, and after having pressed the 
cold lips of Valentine with his own, 
hurriedly left, uttering a long, deep 
groan of despair and anguish. We have 
before stated that all the servants had 
fled. M. de Villefort was therefore 
obliged to request M. d'Avrigny to 
superintend all the arrangements 
consequent upon a death in a large 
city, more especially a death under 
such suspicious circumstances.

It was something terrible to witness 
the silent agony, the mute despair of 
Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled 
down his cheeks. Villefort retired to 
his study, and d'Avrigny left to summon 
the doctor of the mayoralty, whose 
office it is to examine bodies after 
decease, and who is expressly named 
"the doctor of the dead." M. Noirtier 
could not be persuaded to quit his 
grandchild. At the end of a quarter of 
an hour M. d'Avrigny returned with his 
associate; they found the outer gate 
closed, and not a servant remaining in 
the house; Villefort himself was 
obliged to open to them. But he stopped 
on the landing; he had not the courage 
to again visit the death chamber. The 
two doctors, therefore, entered the 
room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, 
pale, motionless, and silent as the 
corpse. The district doctor approached 
with the indifference of a man 
accustomed to spend half his time 
amongst the dead; he then lifted the 
sheet which was placed over the face, 
and just unclosed the lips.

"Alas," said d'Avrigny, "she is indeed 
dead, poor child!"

"Yes," answered the doctor laconically, 
dropping the sheet he had raised. 
Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, 
rattling sound; the old man's eyes 
sparkled, and the good doctor 
understood that he wished to behold his 
child. He therefore approached the bed, 
and while his companion was dipping the 
fingers with which he had touched the 
lips of the corpse in chloride of lime, 
he uncovered the calm and pale face, 
which looked like that of a sleeping 
angel. A tear, which appeared in the 
old man's eye, expressed his thanks to 
the doctor. The doctor of the dead then 
laid his permit on the corner of the 
table, and having fulfilled his duty, 
was conducted out by d'Avrigny. 
Villefort met them at the door of his 
study; having in a few words thanked 
the district doctor, he turned to 
d'Avrigny, and said, -- "And now the 
priest."

"Is there any particular priest you 
wish to pray with Valentine?" asked 
d'Avrigny.

"No." said Villefort; "fetch the 
nearest."

"The nearest," said the district 
doctor, "is a good Italian abbe, who 
lives next door to you. Shall I call on 
him as I pass?"

"D'Avrigny," said Villefort, "be so 
kind, I beseech you, as to accompany 
this gentleman. Here is the key of the 
door, so that you can go in and out as 
you please; you will bring the priest 
with you, and will oblige me by 
introducing him into my child's room."

"Do you wish to see him?"

"I only wish to be alone. You will 
excuse me, will you not? A priest can 
understand a father's grief." And M. de 
Villefort, giving the key to d'Avrigny, 
again bade farewell to the strange 
doctor, and retired to his study, where 
he began to work. For some temperaments 
work is a remedy for all afflictions. 
As the doctors entered the street, they 
saw a man in a cassock standing on the 
threshold of the next door. "This is 
the abbe of whom I spoke," said the 
doctor to d'Avrigny. D'Avrigny accosted 
the priest. "Sir," he said, "are you 
disposed to confer a great obligation 
on an unhappy father who has just lost 
his daughter? I mean M. de Villefort, 
the king's attorney."

"Ah," said the priest, in a marked 
Italian accent; "yes, I have heard that 
death is in that house."

"Then I need not tell you what kind of 
service he requires of you."

"I was about to offer myself, sir," 
said the priest; "it is our mission to 
forestall our duties."

"It is a young girl."

"I know it, sir; the servants who fled 
from the house informed me. I also know 
that her name is Valentine, and I have 
already prayed for her."

"Thank you, sir," said d'Avrigny; 
"since you have commenced your sacred 
office, deign to continue it. Come and 
watch by the dead, and all the wretched 
family will be grateful to you."

"I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate 
to say that no prayers will be more 
fervent than mine." D'Avrigny took the 
priest's hand, and without meeting 
Villefort, who was engaged in his 
study, they reached Valentine's room, 
which on the following night was to be 
occupied by the undertakers. On 
entering the room, Noirtier's eyes met 
those of the abbe, and no doubt he read 
some particular expression in them, for 
he remained in the room. D'Avrigny 
recommended the attention of the priest 
to the living as well as to the dead, 
and the abbe promised to devote his 
prayers to Valentine and his attentions 
to Noirtier. In order, doubtless, that 
he might not be disturbed while 
fulfilling his sacred mission, the 
priest rose as soon as d'Avrigny 
departed, and not only bolted the door 
through which the doctor had just left, 
but also that leading to Madame de 
Villefort's room. 

 Chapter 104 Danglars Signature.

The next morning dawned dull and 
cloudy. During the night the 
undertakers had executed their 
melancholy office, and wrapped the 
corpse in the winding-sheet, which, 
whatever may be said about the equality 
of death, is at least a last proof of 
the luxury so pleasing in life. This 
winding-sheet was nothing more than a 
beautiful piece of cambric, which the 
young girl had bought a fortnight 
before. During the evening two men, 
engaged for the purpose, had carried 
Noirtier from Valentine's room into his 
own, and contrary to all expectation 
there was no difficulty in withdrawing 
him from his child. The Abbe Busoni had 
watched till daylight, and then left 
without calling any one. D'Avrigny 
returned about eight o'clock in the 
morning; he met Villefort on his way to 
Noirtier's room, and accompanied him to 
see how the old man had slept. They 
found him in the large arm-chair, which 
served him for a bed, enjoying a calm, 
nay, almost a smiling sleep. They both 
stood in amazement at the door.

"See," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, 
"nature knows how to alleviate the 
deepest sorrow. No one can say that M. 
Noirtier did not love his child, and 
yet he sleeps."

"Yes, you are right," replied 
Villefort, surprised; "he sleeps, 
indeed! And this is the more strange, 
since the least contradiction keeps him 
awake all night."

"Grief has stunned him," replied 
d'Avrigny; and they both returned 
thoughtfully to the procureur's study.

"See, I have not slept," said 
Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed; 
"grief does not stun me. I have not 
been in bed for two nights; but then 
look at my desk; see what I have 
written during these two days and 
nights. I have filled those papers, and 
have made out the accusation against 
the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work, 
-- my passion, my joy, my delight, -- 
it is for thee to alleviate my 
sorrows!" and he convulsively grasped 
the hand of d'Avrigny.

"Do you require my services now?" asked 
d'Avrigny.

"No," said Villefort; "only return 
again at eleven o'clock; at twelve the 
-- the -- oh, heavens, my poor, poor 
child!" and the procureur again 
becoming a man, lifted up his eyes and 
groaned.

"Shall you be present in the reception 
room?"

"No; I have a cousin who has undertaken 
this sad office. I shall work, doctor 
-- when I work I forget everything." 
And, indeed, no sooner had the doctor 
left the room, than he was again 
absorbed in study. On the doorsteps 
d'Avrigny met the cousin whom Villefort 
had mentioned, a personage as 
insignificant in our story as in the 
world he occupied -- one of those 
beings designed from their birth to 
make themselves useful to others. He 
was punctual, dressed in black, with 
crape around his hat, and presented 
himself at his cousin's with a face 
made up for the occasion, and which he 
could alter as might be required. At 
twelve o'clock the mourning-coaches 
rolled into the paved court, and the 
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore was filled 
with a crowd of idlers, equally pleased 
to witness the festivities or the 
mourning of the rich, and who rush with 
the same avidity to a funeral 
procession as to the marriage of a 
duchess.

Gradually the reception-room filled, 
and some of our old friends made their 
appearance -- we mean Debray, 
Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp, 
accompanied by all the leading men of 
the day at the bar, in literature, or 
the army, for M. de Villefort moved in 
the first Parisian circles, less owing 
to his social position than to his 
personal merit. The cousin standing at 
the door ushered in the guests, and it 
was rather a relief to the indifferent 
to see a person as unmoved as 
themselves, and who did not exact a 
mournful face or force tears, as would 
have been the case with a father, a 
brother, or a lover. Those who were 
acquainted soon formed into little 
groups. One of them was made of Debray, 
Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp.

"Poor girl," said Debray, like the 
rest, paying an involuntary tribute to 
the sad event, -- "poor girl, so young, 
so rich, so beautiful! Could you have 
imagined this scene, Chateau-Renaud, 
when we saw her, at the most three 
weeks ago, about to sign that contract?"

"Indeed, no," said Chateau-Renaud -- 
"Did you know her?"

"I spoke to her once or twice at Madame 
de Morcerf's, among the rest; she 
appeared to me charming, though rather 
melancholy. Where is her stepmother? Do 
you know?"

"She is spending the day with the wife 
of the worthy gentleman who is 
receiving us."

"Who is he?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The gentleman who receives us? Is he a 
deputy?"

"Oh, no. I am condemned to witness 
those gentlemen every day," said 
Beauchamp; "but he is perfectly unknown 
to me."

"Have you mentioned this death in your 
paper?"

"It has been mentioned, but the article 
is not mine; indeed, I doubt if it will 
please M. Villefort, for it says that 
if four successive deaths had happened 
anywhere else than in the house of the 
king's attorney, he would have 
interested himself somewhat more about 
it."

"Still," said Chateau-Renaud, "Dr. 
d'Avrigny, who attends my mother, 
declares he is in despair about it. But 
whom are you seeking, Debray?"

"I am seeking the Count of Monte 
Cristo" said the young man.

"I met him on the boulevard, on my way 
here," said Beauchamp. "I think he is 
about to leave Paris; he was going to 
his banker."

"His banker? Danglars is his banker, is 
he not?" asked Chateau-Renaud of Debray.

"I believe so," replied the secretary 
with slight uneasiness. "But Monte 
Cristo is not the only one I miss here; 
I do not see Morrel."

"Morrel? Do they know him?" asked 
Chateau-Renaud. "I think he has only 
been introduced to Madame de Villefort."

"Still, he ought to have been here," 
said Debray; "I wonder what will be 
talked about to-night; this funeral is 
the news of the day. But hush, here 
comes our minister of justice; he will 
feel obliged to make some little speech 
to the cousin," and the three young men 
drew near to listen. Beauchamp told the 
truth when he said that on his way to 
the funeral he had met Monte Cristo, 
who was directing his steps towards the 
Rue de la Chausse d'Antin, to M. 
Danglars'.

The banker saw the carriage of the 
count enter the court yard, and 
advanced to meet him with a sad, though 
affable smile. "Well," said he, 
extending his hand to Monte Cristo, "I 
suppose you have come to sympathize 
with me, for indeed misfortune has 
taken possession of my house. When I 
perceived you, I was just asking myself 
whether I had not wished harm towards 
those poor Morcerfs, which would have 
justified the proverb of `He who wishes 
misfortunes to happen to others 
experiences them himself.' Well, on my 
word of honor, I answered, `No!' I 
wished no ill to Morcerf; he was a 
little proud, perhaps, for a man who 
like myself has risen from nothing; but 
we all have our faults. Do you know, 
count, that persons of our time of life 
-- not that you belong to the class, 
you are still a young man, -- but as I 
was saying, persons of our time of life 
have been very unfortunate this year. 
For example, look at the puritanical 
procureur, who has just lost his 
daughter, and in fact nearly all his 
family, in so singular a manner; 
Morcerf dishonored and dead; and then 
myself covered with ridicule through 
the villany of Benedetto; besides" --

"Besides what?" asked the Count.

"Alas, do you not know?"

"What new calamity?"

"My daughter" --

"Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Eugenie has left us!"

"Good heavens, what are you telling me?"

"The truth, my dear count. Oh, how 
happy you must be in not having either 
wife or children!"

"Do you think so?"

"Indeed I do."

"And so Mademoiselle Danglars" --

"She could not endure the insult 
offered to us by that wretch, so she 
asked permission to travel."

"And is she gone?"

"The other night she left."

"With Madame Danglars?"

"No, with a relation. But still, we 
have quite lost our dear Eugenie; for I 
doubt whether her pride will ever allow 
her to return to France."

"Still, baron," said Monte Cristo, 
"family griefs, or indeed any other 
affliction which would crush a man 
whose child was his only treasure, are 
endurable to a millionaire. 
Philosophers may well say, and 
practical men will always support the 
opinion, that money mitigates many 
trials; and if you admit the efficacy 
of this sovereign balm, you ought to be 
very easily consoled -- you, the king 
of finance, the focus of immeasurable 
power."

Danglars looked at him askance, as 
though to ascertain whether he spoke 
seriously. "Yes," he answered, "if a 
fortune brings consolation, I ought to 
be consoled; I am rich."

"So rich, dear sir, that your fortune 
resembles the pyramids; if you wished 
to demolish them you could not, and if 
it were possible, you would not dare!" 
Danglars smiled at the good-natured 
pleasantry of the count. "That reminds 
me," he said, "that when you entered I 
was on the point of signing five little 
bonds; I have already signed two: will 
you allow me to do the same to the 
others?"

"Pray do so."

There was a moment's silence, during 
which the noise of the banker's pen was 
alone heard, while Monte Cristo 
examined the gilt mouldings on the 
ceiling. "Are they Spanish, Haitian, or 
Neapolitan bonds?" said Monte Cristo. 
"No," said Danglars, smiling, "they are 
bonds on the bank of France, payable to 
bearer. Stay, count," he added, "you, 
who may he called the emperor, if I 
claim the title of king of finance, 
have you many pieces of paper of this 
size, each worth a million?" The count 
took into his hands the papers, which 
Danglars had so proudly presented to 
him, and read: --

"To the Governor of the Bank. Please 
pay to my order, from the fund 
deposited by me, the sum of a million, 
and charge the same to my account.

"Baron Danglars."

"One, two, three, four, five," said 
Monte Cristo; "five millions -- why 
what a Croesus you are!"

"This is how I transact business," said 
Danglars.

"It is really wonderful," said the 
count; "above all, if, as I suppose, it 
is payable at sight."

"It is, indeed, said Danglars.

"It is a fine thing to have such 
credit; really, it is only in France 
these things are done. Five millions on 
five little scraps of paper! -- it must 
be seen to be believed."

"You do not doubt it?"

"No!"

"You say so with an accent -- stay, you 
shall be convinced; take my clerk to 
the bank, and you will see him leave it 
with an order on the Treasury for the 
same sum."

"No," said Monte Cristo folding the 
five notes, "most decidedly not; the 
thing is so curious, I will make the 
experiment myself. I am credited on you 
for six millions. I have drawn nine 
hundred thousand francs, you therefore 
still owe me five millions and a 
hundred thousand francs. I will take 
the five scraps of paper that I now 
hold as bonds, with your signature 
alone, and here is a receipt in full 
for the six millions between us. I had 
prepared it beforehand, for I am much 
in want of money to-day." And Monte 
Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket 
with one hand, while with the other he 
held out the receipt to Danglars. If a 
thunderbolt had fallen at the banker's 
feet, he could not have experienced 
greater terror.

"What," he stammered, "do you mean to 
keep that money? Excuse me, excuse me, 
but I owe this money to the charity 
fund, -- a deposit which I promised to 
pay this morning."

"Oh, well, then," said Monte Cristo, "I 
am not particular about these five 
notes, pay me in a different form; I 
wished, from curiosity, to take these, 
that I might be able to say that 
without any advice or preparation the 
house of Danglars had paid me five 
millions without a minute's delay; it 
would have been remarkable. But here 
are your bonds; pay me differently;" 
and he held the bonds towards Danglars, 
who seized them like a vulture 
extending its claws to withhold the 
food that is being wrested from its 
grasp. Suddenly he rallied, made a 
violent effort to restrain himself, and 
then a smile gradually widened the 
features of his disturbed countenance.

"Certainly," he said, "your receipt is 
money."

"Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, 
the house of Thomson & French would 
make no more difficulty about paying 
the money on my receipt than you have 
just done."

"Pardon me, count, pardon me."

"Then I may keep this money?"

"Yes," said Danglars, while the 
perspiration started from the roots of 
his hair. "Yes, keep it -- keep it."

Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his 
pocket with that indescribable 
expression which seemed to say, "Come, 
reflect; if you repent there is till 
time."

"No," said Danglars, "no, decidedly no; 
keep my signatures. But you know none 
are so formal as bankers in transacting 
business; I intended this money for the 
charity fund, and I seemed to be 
robbing them if I did not pay them with 
these precise bonds. How absurd -- as 
if one crown were not as good as 
another. Excuse me;" and he began to 
laugh loudly, but nervously.

"Certainly, I excuse you," said Monte 
Cristo graciously, "and pocket them." 
And he placed the bonds in his 
pocket-book.

"But," said Danglars, "there is still a 
sum of one hundred thousand francs?"

"Oh, a mere nothing," said Monte 
Cristo. "The balance would come to 
about that sum; but keep it, and we 
shall be quits."

"Count." said Danglars, "are you 
speaking seriously?"

"I never joke with bankers," said Monte 
Cristo in a freezing manner, which 
repelled impertinence; and he turned to 
the door, just as the valet de chambre 
announced, -- "M. de Boville, 
receiver-general of the charities."

"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo; "I think I 
arrived just in time to obtain your 
signatures, or they would have been 
disputed with me."

Danglars again became pale, and 
hastened to conduct the count out. 
Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious 
bow with M. de Boville, who was 
standing in the waiting-room, and who 
was introduced into Danglars' room as 
soon as the count had left. The count's 
sad face was illumined by a faint 
smile, as he noticed the portfolio 
which the receiver-general held in his 
hand. At the door he found his 
carriage, and was immediately driven to 
the bank. Meanwhile Danglars, 
repressing all emotion, advanced to 
meet the receiver-general. We need not 
say that a smile of condescension was 
stamped upon his lips. "Good-morning, 
creditor," said he; "for I wager 
anything it is the creditor who visits 
me."

"You are right, baron," answered M. de 
Boville; "the charities present 
themselves to you through me: the 
widows and orphans depute me to receive 
alms to the amount of five millions 
from you."

"And yet they say orphans are to be 
pitied," said Danglars, wishing to 
prolong the jest. "Poor things!"

"Here I am in their name," said M. de 
Boville; "but did you receive my letter 
yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I have brought my receipt."

"My dear M. de Boville, your widows and 
orphans must oblige me by waiting 
twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte 
Cristo whom you just saw leaving here 
-- you did see him, I think?"

"Yes; well?"

"Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just 
carried off their five millions."

"How so?"

"The count has an unlimited credit upon 
me; a credit opened by Thomson & 
French, of Rome; he came to demand five 
millions at once, which I paid him with 
checks on the bank. My funds are 
deposited there, and you can understand 
that if I draw out ten millions on the 
same day it will appear rather strange 
to the governor. Two days will be a 
different thing," said Danglars, 
smiling.

"Come," said Boville, with a tone of 
entire incredulity, "five millions to 
that gentleman who just left, and who 
bowed to me as though he knew me?"

"Perhaps he knows you, though you do 
not know him; M. de Monte Cristo knows 
everybody."

"Five millions!"

"Here is his receipt. Believe your own 
eyes." M. de Boville took the paper 
Danglars presented him, and read: --

"Received of Baron Danglars the sum of 
five million one hundred thousand 
francs, to be repaid on demand by the 
house of Thomson & French of Rome."

"It is really true," said M. de Boville.

"Do you know the house of Thomson & 
French?"

"Yes, I once had business to transact 
with it to the amount of 200,000 
francs; but since then I have not heard 
it mentioned."

"It is one of the best houses in 
Europe," said Danglars, carelessly 
throwing down the receipt on his desk.

"And he had five millions in your hands 
alone! Why, this Count of Monte Cristo 
must be a nabob?"

"Indeed I do not know what he is; he 
has three unlimited credits -- one on 
me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; 
and, you see," he added carelessly, "he 
has given me the preference, by leaving 
a balance of 100,000 francs." M. de 
Boville manifested signs of 
extraordinary admiration. "I must visit 
him," he said, "and obtain some pious 
grant from him."

"Oh, you may make sure of him; his 
charities alone amount to 20,000 francs 
a month."

"It is magnificent! I will set before 
him the example of Madame de Morcerf 
and her son."

"What example?"

"They gave all their fortune to the 
hospitals."

"What fortune?"

"Their own -- M. de Morcerf's, who is 
deceased."

"For what reason?"

"Because they would not spend money so 
guiltily acquired."

"And what are they to live upon?"

"The mother retires into the country, 
and the son enters the army."

"Well, I must confess, these are 
scruples."

"I registered their deed of gift 
yesterday."

"And how much did they possess?"

"Oh, not much -- from twelve to 
thirteen hundred thousand francs. But 
to return to our millions."

"Certainly," said Danglars, in the most 
natural tone in the world. "Are you 
then pressed for this money?"

"Yes; for the examination of our cash 
takes place to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Why did you not tell me so 
before? Why, it is as good as a 
century! At what hour does the 
examination take place?"

"At two o'clock."

"Send at twelve," said Danglars, 
smiling. M. de Boville said nothing, 
but nodded his head, and took up the 
portfolio. "Now I think of it, you can 
do better," said Danglars.

"How do you mean?"

"The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is 
as good as money; take it to 
Rothschild's or Lafitte's, and they 
will take it off your hands at once."

"What, though payable at Rome?"

"Certainly; it will only cost you a 
discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs." The 
receiver started back. "Ma foi," he 
said, "I prefer waiting till to-morrow. 
What a proposition!"

"I thought, perhaps," said Danglars 
with supreme impertinence, "that you 
had a deficiency to make up?"

"Indeed," said the receiver.

"And if that were the case it would be 
worth while to make some sacrifice."

"Thank you, no, sir "

"Then it will be to-morrow."

"Yes; but without fail."

"Ah, you are laughing at me; send 
to-morrow at twelve, and the bank shall 
be notified."

"I will come myself."

"Better still, since it will afford me 
the pleasure of seeing you." They shook 
hands. "By the way," said M. de 
Boville, "are you not going to the 
funeral of poor Mademoiselle de 
Villefort, which I met on my road here?"

"No," said the banker; "I have appeared 
rather ridiculous since that affair of 
Benedetto, so I remain in the 
background."

"Bah, you are wrong. How were you to 
blame in that affair?"

"Listen -- when one bears an 
irreproachable name, as I do, one is 
rather sensitive."

"Everybody pities you, sir; and, above 
all, Mademoiselle Danglars!"

"Poor Eugenie!" said Danglars; "do you 
know she is going to embrace a 
religious life?"

"No."

"Alas, it is unhappily but too true. 
The day after the event, she decided on 
leaving Paris with a nun of her 
acquaintance; they are gone to seek a 
very strict convent in Italy or Spain."

"Oh, it is terrible!" and M. de Boville 
retired with this exclamation, after 
expressing acute sympathy with the 
father. But he had scarcely left before 
Danglars, with an energy of action 
those can alone understand who have 
seen Robert Macaire represented by 
Frederic,* exclaimed, -- "Fool!" Then 
enclosing Monte Cristo's receipt in a 
little pocket-book, he added: -- "Yes, 
come at twelve o'clock; I shall then be 
far away." Then he double-locked his 
door, emptied all his drawers, 
collected about fifty thousand francs 
in bank-notes, burned several papers, 
left others exposed to view, and then 
commenced writing a letter which he 
addressed:

"To Madame la Baronne Danglars."

* Frederic Lemaitre -- French actor 
(1800-1876). Robert Macaire is the hero 
of two favorite melodramas -- "Chien de 
Montargis" and "Chien d'Aubry" -- and 
the name is applied to bold criminals 
as a term of derision.

"I will place it on her table myself 
to-night," he murmured. Then taking a 
passport from his drawer he said, -- 
"Good, it is available for two months 
longer." 

 Chapter 105 The Cemetery of 
Pere-la-Chaise.

M. de Boville had indeed met the 
funeral procession which was taking 
Valentine to her last home on earth. 
The weather was dull and stormy, a cold 
wind shook the few remaining yellow 
leaves from the boughs of the trees, 
and scattered them among the crowd 
which filled the boulevards. M. de 
Villefort, a true Parisian, considered 
the cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise alone 
worthy of receiving the mortal remains 
of a Parisian family; there alone the 
corpses belonging to him would be 
surrounded by worthy associates. He had 
therefore purchased a vault, which was 
quickly occupied by members of his 
family. On the front of the monument 
was inscribed: "The families of 
Saint-Meran and Villefort," for such 
had been the last wish expressed by 
poor Renee, Valentine's mother. The 
pompous procession therefore wended its 
way towards Pere-la-Chaise from the 
Faubourg Saint-Honore. Having crossed 
Paris, it passed through the Faubourg 
du Temple, then leaving the exterior 
boulevards, it reached the cemetery. 
More than fifty private carriages 
followed the twenty mourning-coaches, 
and behind them more than five hundred 
persons joined in the procession on 
foot.

These last consisted of all the young 
people whom Valentine's death had 
struck like a thunderbolt, and who, 
notwithstanding the raw chilliness of 
the season, could not refrain from 
paying a last tribute to the memory of 
the beautiful, chaste, and adorable 
girl, thus cut off in the flower of her 
youth. As they left Paris, an equipage 
with four horses, at full speed, was 
seen to draw up suddenly; it contained 
Monte Cristo. The count left the 
carriage and mingled in the crowd who 
followed on foot. Chateau-Renaud 
perceived him and immediately alighting 
from his coupe, joined him.

The count looked attentively through 
every opening in the crowd; he was 
evidently watching for some one, but 
his search ended in disappointment. 
"Where is Morrel?" he asked; "do either 
of these gentlemen know where he is?"

"We have already asked that question," 
said Chateau-Renaud, "for none of us 
has seen him." The count was silent, 
but continued to gaze around him. At 
length they arrived at the cemetery. 
The piercing eye of Monte Cristo 
glanced through clusters of bushes and 
trees, and was soon relieved from all 
anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide 
between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo 
recognized him whom he sought. One 
funeral is generally very much like 
another in this magnificent metropolis. 
Black figures are seen scattered over 
the long white avenues; the silence of 
earth and heaven is alone broken by the 
noise made by the crackling branches of 
hedges planted around the monuments; 
then follows the melancholy chant of 
the priests, mingled now and then with 
a sob of anguish, escaping from some 
woman concealed behind a mass of 
flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed 
passed rapidly behind the tomb of 
Abelard and Heloise, placed itself 
close to the heads of the horses 
belonging to the hearse, and following 
the undertaker's men, arrived with them 
at the spot appointed for the burial. 
Each person's attention was occupied. 
Monte Cristo saw nothing but the 
shadow, which no one else observed. 
Twice the count left the ranks to see 
whether the object of his interest had 
any concealed weapon beneath his 
clothes. When the procession stopped, 
this shadow was recognized as Morrel, 
who, with his coat buttoned up to his 
throat, his face livid, and 
convulsively crushing his hat between 
his fingers, leaned against a tree, 
situated on an elevation commanding the 
mausoleum, so that none of the funeral 
details could escape his observation. 
Everything was conducted in the usual 
manner. A few men, the least impressed 
of all by the scene, pronounced a 
discourse, some deploring this 
premature death, others expatiating on 
the grief of the father, and one very 
ingenious person quoting the fact that 
Valentine had solicited pardon of her 
father for criminals on whom the arm of 
justice was ready to fall -- until at 
length they exhausted their stores of 
metaphor and mournful speeches.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or 
rather he only saw Morrel, whose 
calmness had a frightful effect on 
those who knew what was passing in his 
heart. "See," said Beauchamp, pointing 
out Morrel to Debray. "What is he doing 
up there?" And they called 
Chateau-Renaud's attention to him.

"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, 
shuddering.

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, 
slowly; "I think he is violently 
agitated. He is very susceptible."

"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew 
Mademoiselle de Villefort; you said so 
yourself."

"True. Still I remember he danced three 
times with her at Madame de Morcerf's. 
Do you recollect that ball, count, 
where you produced such an effect?"

"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo, 
without even knowing of what or to whom 
he was speaking, so much was he 
occupied in watching Morrel, who was 
holding his breath with emotion. "The 
discourse is over; farewell, 
gentlemen," said the count. And he 
disappeared without anyone seeing 
whither he went. The funeral being 
over, the guests returned to Paris. 
Chateau-Renaud looked for a moment for 
Morrel; but while they were watching 
the departure of the count, Morrel had 
quitted his post, and Chateau-Renaud, 
failing in his search, joined Debray 
and Beauchamp.

Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a 
large tomb and awaited the arrival of 
Morrel, who by degrees approached the 
tomb now abandoned by spectators and 
workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, 
but before it reached the spot occupied 
by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced 
yet nearer, still unperceived. The 
young man knelt down. The count, with 
outstretched neck and glaring eyes, 
stood in an attitude ready to pounce 
upon Morrel upon the first occasion. 
Morrel bent his head till it touched 
the stone, then clutching the grating 
with both hands, he murmured, -- "Oh, 
Valentine!" The count's heart was 
pierced by the utterance of these two 
words; he stepped forward, and touching 
the young man's shoulder, said, -- "I 
was looking for you, my friend." Monte 
Cristo expected a burst of passion, but 
he was deceived, for Morrel turning 
round, said calmly, --

"You see I was praying." The 
scrutinizing glance of the count 
searched the young man from head to 
foot. He then seemed more easy.

"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he 
asked.

"No, thank you."

"Do you wish anything?"

"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew 
without opposition, but it was only to 
place himself in a situation where he 
could watch every movement of Morrel, 
who at length arose, brushed the dust 
from his knees, and turned towards 
Paris, without once looking back. He 
walked slowly down the Rue de la 
Roquette. The count, dismissing his 
carriage, followed him about a hundred 
paces behind. Maximilian crossed the 
canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the 
boulevards. Five minutes after the door 
had been closed on Morrel's entrance, 
it was again opened for the count. 
Julie was at the entrance of the 
garden, where she was attentively 
watching Penelon, who, entering with 
zeal into his profession of gardener, 
was very busy grafting some Bengal 
roses. "Ah, count," she exclaimed, with 
the delight manifested by every member 
of the family whenever he visited the 
Rue Meslay.

"Maximilian has just returned, has he 
not, madame?" asked the count.

"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, 
call Emmanuel."

"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to 
Maximilian's room this instant," 
replied Monte Cristo, "I have something 
of the greatest importance to tell him."

"Go, then," she said with a charming 
smile, which accompanied him until he 
had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran 
up the staircase conducting from the 
ground-floor to Maximilian's room; when 
he reached the landing he listened 
attentively, but all was still. Like 
many old houses occupied by a single 
family, the room door was panelled with 
glass; but it was locked, Maximilian 
was shut in, and it was impossible to 
see what was passing in the room, 
because a red curtain was drawn before 
the glass. The count's anxiety was 
manifested by a bright color which 
seldom appeared on the face of that 
imperturbable man.

"What shall I do!" he uttered, and 
reflected for a moment; "shall I ring? 
No, the sound of a bell, announcing a 
visitor, will but accelerate the 
resolution of one in Maximilian's 
situation, and then the bell would be 
followed by a louder noise." Monte 
Cristo trembled from head to foot and 
as if his determination had been taken 
with the rapidity of lightning, he 
struck one of the panes of glass with 
his elbow; the glass was shivered to 
atoms, then withdrawing the curtain he 
saw Morrel, who had been writing at his 
desk, bound from his seat at the noise 
of the broken window.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the 
count, "there is nothing the matter, 
but I slipped down and broke one of 
your panes of glass with my elbow. 
Since it is opened, I will take 
advantage of it to enter your room; do 
not disturb yourself -- do not disturb 
yourself!" And passing his hand through 
the broken glass, the count opened the 
door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, 
came to meet Monte Cristo less with the 
intention of receiving him than to 
exclude his entry. "Ma foi," said Monte 
Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all 
your servant's fault; your stairs are 
so polished, it is like walking on 
glass."

"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked 
Morrel.

"I believe not. But what are you about 
there? You were writing."

"I?"

"Your fingers are stained with ink."

"Ah, true, I was writing. I do 
sometimes, soldier though I am."

Monte Cristo advanced into the room; 
Maximilian was obliged to let him pass, 
but he followed him. "You were 
writing?" said Monte Cristo with a 
searching look.

"I have already had the honor of 
telling you I was," said Morrel.

The count looked around him. "Your 
pistols are beside your desk," said 
Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger 
to the pistols on the table.

"I am on the point of starting on a 
journey," replied Morrel disdainfully.

"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in 
a tone of exquisite sweetness.

"Sir?"

"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not 
make a hasty resolution, I entreat you."

"I make a hasty resolution?" said 
Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; "is 
there anything extraordinary in a 
journey?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "let us 
both lay aside the mask we have 
assumed. You no more deceive me with 
that false calmness than I impose upon 
you with my frivolous solicitude. You 
can understand, can you not, that to 
have acted as I have done, to have 
broken that glass, to have intruded on 
the solitude of a friend -- you can 
understand that, to have done all this, 
I must have been actuated by real 
uneasiness, or rather by a terrible 
conviction. Morrel, you are going to 
destroy yourself!"

"Indeed, count," said Morrel, 
shuddering; "what has put this into 
your head?"

"I tell you that you are about to 
destroy yourself," continued the count, 
"and here is proof of what I say;" and, 
approaching the desk, he removed the 
sheet of paper which Morrel had placed 
over the letter he had begun, and took 
the latter in his hands.

Morrel rushed forward to tear it from 
him, but Monte Cristo perceiving his 
intention, seized his wrist with his 
iron grasp. "You wish to destroy 
yourself," said the count; "you have 
written it."

"Well," said Morrel, changing his 
expression of calmness for one of 
violence -- "well, and if I do intend 
to turn this pistol against myself, who 
shall prevent me -- who will dare 
prevent me? All my hopes are blighted, 
my heart is broken, my life a burden, 
everything around me is sad and 
mournful; earth has become distasteful 
to me, and human voices distract me. It 
is a mercy to let me die, for if I live 
I shall lose my reason and become mad. 
When, sir, I tell you all this with 
tears of heartfelt anguish, can you 
reply that I am wrong, can you prevent 
my putting an end to my miserable 
existence? Tell me, sir, could you have 
the courage to do so?"

"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with 
a calmness which contrasted strangely 
with the young man's excitement; "yes, 
I would do so."

"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with 
increasing anger and reproach -- "you, 
who have deceived me with false hopes, 
who have cheered and soothed me with 
vain promises, when I might, if not 
have saved her, at least have seen her 
die in my arms! You, who pretend to 
understand everything, even the hidden 
sources of knowledge, -- and who enact 
the part of a guardian angel upon 
earth, and could not even find an 
antidote to a poison administered to a 
young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would 
inspire me with pity, were you not 
hateful in my eyes."

"Morrel" --

"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the 
mask, and I will do so, be satisfied! 
When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I 
answered you -- my heart was softened; 
when you arrived here, I allowed you to 
enter. But since you abuse my 
confidence, since you have devised a 
new torture after I thought I had 
exhausted them all, then, Count of 
Monte Cristo my pretended benefactor -- 
then, Count of Monte Cristo, the 
universal guardian, be satisfied, you 
shall witness the death of your 
friend;" and Morrel, with a maniacal 
laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.

"And I again repeat, you shall not 
commit suicide."

"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, 
with another struggle, which, like the 
first, failed in releasing him from the 
count's iron grasp.

"I will prevent you."

"And who are you, then, that arrogate 
to yourself this tyrannical right over 
free and rational beings?"

"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo. 
"Listen; I am the only man in the world 
having the right to say to you, 
`Morrel, your father's son shall not 
die to-day;'" and Monte Cristo, with an 
expression of majesty and sublimity, 
advanced with arms folded toward the 
young man, who, involuntarily overcome 
by the commanding manner of this man, 
recoiled a step.

"Why do you mention my father?" 
stammered he; "why do you mingle a 
recollection of him with the affairs of 
today?"

"Because I am he who saved your 
father's life when he wished to destroy 
himself, as you do to-day -- because I 
am the man who sent the purse to your 
young sister, and the Pharaon to old 
Morrel -- because I am the Edmond 
Dantes who nursed you, a child, on my 
knees." Morrel made another step back, 
staggering, breathless, crushed; then 
all his strength give way, and he fell 
prostrate at the feet of Monte Cristo. 
Then his admirable nature underwent a 
complete and sudden revulsion; he 
arose, rushed out of the room and to 
the stairs, exclaiming energetically, 
"Julie, Julie -- Emmanuel, Emmanuel!"

Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, 
but Maximilian would have died rather 
than relax his hold of the handle of 
the door, which he closed upon the 
count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the 
servants, ran up in alarm on hearing 
the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized 
their hands, and opening the door 
exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs, 
"On your knees -- on your knees -- he 
is our benefactor -- the saviour of our 
father! He is" --

He would have added "Edmond Dantes," 
but the count seized his arm and 
prevented him. Julie threw herself into 
the arms of the count; Emmanuel 
embraced him as a guardian angel; 
Morrel again fell on his knees, and 
struck the ground with his forehead. 
Then the iron-hearted man felt his 
heart swell in his breast; a flame 
seemed to rush from his throat to his 
eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a 
while nothing was heard in the room but 
a succession of sobs, while the incense 
from their grateful hearts mounted to 
heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered 
from her deep emotion when she rushed 
out of the room, descended to the next 
floor, ran into the drawing-room with 
childlike joy and raised the crystal 
globe which covered the purse given by 
the unknown of the Allees de Meillan. 
Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice 
said to the count, "Oh, count, how 
could you, hearing us so often speak of 
our unknown benefactor, seeing us pay 
such homage of gratitude and adoration 
to his memory, -- how could you 
continue so long without discovering 
yourself to us? Oh, it was cruel to us, 
and -- dare I say it? -- to you also."

"Listen, my friends," said the count -- 
"I may call you so since we have really 
been friends for the last eleven years 
-- the discovery of this secret has 
been occasioned by a great event which 
you must never know. I wish to bury it 
during my whole life in my own bosom, 
but your brother Maximilian wrested it 
from me by a violence he repents of 
now, I am sure." Then turning around, 
and seeing that Morrel, still on his 
knees, had thrown himself into an 
arm-chair, be added in a low voice, 
pressing Emmanuel's hand significantly, 
"Watch over him."

"Why so?" asked the young man, 
surprised.

"I cannot explain myself; but watch 
over him." Emmanuel looked around the 
room and caught sight of the pistols; 
his eyes rested on the weapons, and he 
pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his 
head. Emmanuel went towards the 
pistols. "Leave them," said Monte 
Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he 
took his hand; the tumultuous agitation 
of the young man was succeeded by a 
profound stupor. Julie returned, 
holding the silken purse in her hands, 
while tears of joy rolled down her 
cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.

"Here is the relic," she said; "do not 
think it will be less dear to us now we 
are acquainted with our benefactor!"

"My child," said Monte Cristo, 
coloring, "allow me to take back that 
purse? Since you now know my face, I 
wish to be remembered alone through the 
affection I hope you will grant me.

"Oh," said Julie, pressing the purse to 
her heart, "no, no, I beseech you do 
not take it, for some unhappy day you 
will leave us, will you not?"

"You have guessed rightly, madame," 
replied Monte Cristo, smiling; "in a 
week I shall have left this country, 
where so many persons who merit the 
vengeance of heaven lived happily, 
while my father perished of hunger and 
grief." While announcing his departure, 
the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and 
remarked that the words, "I shall have 
left this country," had failed to rouse 
him from his lethargy. He then saw that 
he must make another struggle against 
the grief of his friend, and taking the 
hands of Emmanuel and Julie, which he 
pressed within his own, he said with 
the mild authority of a father, "My 
kind friends, leave me alone with 
Maximilian." Julie saw the means 
offered of carrying off her precious 
relic, which Monte Cristo had 
forgotten. She drew her husband to the 
door. "Let us leave them," she said. 
The count was alone with Morrel, who 
remained motionless as a statue.

"Come," said Monte-Cristo, touching his 
shoulder with his finger, "are you a 
man again, Maximilian?"

"Yes; for I begin to suffer again."

The count frowned, apparently in gloomy 
hesitation.

"Maximilian, Maximilian," he said, "the 
ideas you yield to are unworthy of a 
Christian."

"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said 
Morrel, raising his head, and smiling 
with a sweet expression on the count; 
"I shall no longer attempt my life."

"Then we are to have no more pistols -- 
no more despair?"

"No; I have found a better remedy for 
my grief than either a bullet or a 
knife."

"Poor fellow, what is it?"

"My grief will kill me of itself."

"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an 
expression of melancholy equal to his 
own, "listen to me. One day, in a 
moment of despair like yours, since it 
led to a similar resolution, I also 
wished to kill myself; one day your 
father, equally desperate, wished to 
kill himself too. If any one had said 
to your father, at the moment he raised 
the pistol to his head -- if any one 
had told me, when in my prison I pushed 
back the food I had not tasted for 
three days -- if anyone had said to 
either of us then, `Live -- the day 
will come when you will be happy, and 
will bless life!' -- no matter whose 
voice had spoken, we should have heard 
him with the smile of doubt, or the 
anguish of incredulity, -- and yet how 
many times has your father blessed life 
while embracing you -- how often have I 
myself" --

"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting 
the count, "you had only lost your 
liberty, my father had only lost his 
fortune, but I have lost Valentine."

"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with 
that expression which sometimes made 
him so eloquent and persuasive -- "look 
at me. There are no tears in my eyes, 
nor is there fever in my veins, yet I 
see you suffer -- you, Maximilian, whom 
I love as my own son. Well, does not 
this tell you that in grief, as in 
life, there is always something to look 
forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, 
if I order you to live, Morrel, it is 
in the conviction that one day you will 
thank me for having preserved your 
life."

"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh, 
heavens -- what are you saying, count? 
Take care. But perhaps you have never 
loved!"

"Child!" replied the count.

"I mean, as I love. You see, I have 
been a soldier ever since I attained 
manhood. I reached the age of 
twenty-nine without loving, for none of 
the feelings I before then experienced 
merit the apellation of love. Well, at 
twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two 
years I have loved her, for two years I 
have seen written in her heart, as in a 
book, all the virtues of a daughter and 
wife. Count, to possess Valentine would 
have been a happiness too infinite, too 
ecstatic, too complete, too divine for 
this world, since it has been denied 
me; but without Valentine the earth is 
desolate."

"I have told you to hope," said the 
count.

"Then have a care, I repeat, for you 
seek to persuade me, and if you succeed 
I should lose my reason, for I should 
hope that I could again behold 
Valentine." The count smiled. "My 
friend, my father," said Morrel with 
excitement, "have a care, I again 
repeat, for the power you wield over me 
alarms me. Weigh your words before you 
speak, for my eyes have already become 
brighter, and my heart beats strongly; 
be cautious, or you will make me 
believe in supernatural agencies. I 
must obey you, though you bade me call 
forth the dead or walk upon the water."

"Hope, my friend," repeated the count.

"Ah," said Morrel, falling from the 
height of excitement to the abyss of 
despair -- "ah, you are playing with 
me, like those good, or rather selfish 
mothers who soothe their children with 
honeyed words, because their screams 
annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong 
to caution you; do not fear, I will 
bury my grief so deep in my heart, I 
will disguise it so, that you shall not 
even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, 
my friend, adieu!"

"On the contrary," said the count, 
"after this time you must live with me 
-- you must not leave me, and in a week 
we shall have left France behind us."

"And you still bid me hope?"

"I tell you to hope, because I have a 
method of curing you."

"Count, you render me sadder than 
before, if it be possible. You think 
the result of this blow has been to 
produce an ordinary grief, and you 
would cure it by an ordinary remedy -- 
change of scene." And Morrel dropped 
his head with disdainful incredulity. 
"What can I say more?" asked Monte 
Cristo. "I have confidence in the 
remedy I propose, and only ask you to 
permit me to assure you of its 
efficacy."

"Count, you prolong my agony."

"Then," said the count, "your feeble 
spirit will not even grant me the trial 
I request? Come -- do you know of what 
the Count of Monte Cristo is capable? 
do you know that he holds terrestrial 
beings under his control? nay, that he 
can almost work a miracle? Well, wait 
for the miracle I hope to accomplish, 
or" --

"Or?" repeated Morrel.

"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you 
ungrateful."

"Have pity on me, count!"

"I feel so much pity towards you, 
Maximilian, that -- listen to me 
attentively -- if I do not cure you in 
a month, to the day, to the very hour, 
mark my words, Morrel, I will place 
loaded pistols before you, and a cup of 
the deadliest Italian poison -- a 
poison more sure and prompt than that 
which has killed Valentine."

"Will you promise me?"

"Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered 
like yourself, and also contemplated 
suicide; indeed, often since misfortune 
has left me I have longed for the 
delights of an eternal sleep."

"But you are sure you will promise me 
this?" said Morrel, intoxicated. "I not 
only promise, but swear it!" said Monte 
Cristo extending his hand.

"In a month, then, on your honor, if I 
am not consoled, you will let me take 
my life into my own hands, and whatever 
may happen you will not call me 
ungrateful?"

"In a month, to the day, the very hour 
and the date are sacred, Maximilian. I 
do not know whether you remember that 
this is the 5th of September; it is ten 
years to-day since I saved your 
father's life, who wished to die." 
Morrel seized the count's hand and 
kissed it; the count allowed him to pay 
the homage he felt due to him. "In a 
month you will find on the table, at 
which we shall be then sitting, good 
pistols and a delicious draught; but, 
on the other hand, you must promise me 
not to attempt your life before that 
time."

"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo 
drew the young man towards him, and 
pressed him for some time to his heart. 
"And now," he said, "after to-day, you 
will come and live with me; you can 
occupy Haidee's apartment, and my 
daughter will at least be replaced by 
my son."

"Haidee?" said Morrel, "what has become 
of her?"

"She departed last night."

"To leave you?"

"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready 
then to join me at the Champs Elysees, 
and lead me out of this house without 
any one seeing my departure." 
Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed 
with childlike reverence. 

 Chapter 106 Dividing the Proceeds.

The apartment on the second floor of 
the house in the Rue 
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where Albert de 
Morcerf had selected a home for his 
mother, was let to a very mysterious 
person. This was a man whose face the 
concierge himself had never seen, for 
in the winter his chin was buried in 
one of the large red handkerchiefs worn 
by gentlemen's coachmen on a cold 
night, and in the summer he made a 
point of always blowing his nose just 
as he approached the door. Contrary to 
custom, this gentleman had not been 
watched, for as the report ran that he 
was a person of high rank, and one who 
would allow no impertinent 
interference, his incognito was 
strictly respected.

His visits were tolerably regular, 
though occasionally he appeared a 
little before or after his time, but 
generally, both in summer and winter, 
he took possession of his apartment 
about four o'clock, though he never 
spent the night there. At half-past 
three in the winter the fire was 
lighted by the discreet servant, who 
had the superintendence of the little 
apartment, and in the summer ices were 
placed on the table at the same hour. 
At four o'clock, as we have already 
stated, the mysterious personage 
arrived. Twenty minutes afterwards a 
carriage stopped at the house, a lady 
alighted in a black or dark blue dress, 
and always thickly veiled; she passed 
like a shadow through the lodge, and 
ran up-stairs without a sound escaping 
under the touch of her light foot. No 
one ever asked her where she was going. 
Her face, therefore, like that of the 
gentleman, was perfectly unknown to the 
two concierges, who were perhaps 
unequalled throughout the capital for 
discretion. We need not say she stopped 
at the second floor. Then she tapped in 
a peculiar manner at a door, which 
after being opened to admit her was 
again fastened, and curiosity 
penetrated no farther. They used the 
same precautions in leaving as in 
entering the house. The lady always 
left first, and as soon as she had 
stepped into her carriage, it drove 
away, sometimes towards the right hand, 
sometimes to the left; then about 
twenty minutes afterwards the gentleman 
would also leave, buried in his cravat 
or concealed by his handkerchief.

The day after Monte Cristo had called 
upon Danglars, the mysterious lodger 
entered at ten o'clock in the morning 
instead of four in the afternoon. 
Almost directly afterwards, without the 
usual interval of time, a cab arrived, 
and the veiled lady ran hastily 
up-stairs. The door opened, but before 
it could be closed, the lady exclaimed: 
"Oh, Lucien -- oh, my friend!" The 
concierge therefore heard for the first 
time that the lodger's name was Lucien; 
still, as he was the very perfection of 
a door-keeper, he made up his mind not 
to tell his wife. "Well, what is the 
matter, my dear?" asked the gentleman 
whose name the lady's agitation 
revealed; "tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?"

"Of course, you know you can do so. But 
what can be the matter? Your note of 
this morning has completely bewildered 
me. This precipitation -- this unusual 
appointment. Come, ease me of my 
anxiety, or else frighten me at once."

"Lucien, a great event has happened!" 
said the lady, glancing inquiringly at 
Lucien, -- "M. Danglars left last 
night!"

"Left? -- M. Danglars left? Where has 
he gone?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean? Has he gone 
intending not to return?"

"Undoubtedly; -- at ten o'clock at 
night his horses took him to the 
barrier of Charenton; there a 
post-chaise was waiting for him -- he 
entered it with his valet de chambre, 
saying that he was going to 
Fontainebleau."

"Then what did you mean" --

"Stay -- he left a letter for me."

"A letter?"

"Yes; read it." And the baroness took 
from her pocket a letter which she gave 
to Debray. Debray paused a moment 
before reading, as if trying to guess 
its contents, or perhaps while making 
up his mind how to act, whatever it 
might contain. No doubt his ideas were 
arranged in a few minutes, for he began 
reading the letter which caused so much 
uneasiness in the heart of the 
baroness, and which ran as follows: --

"Madame and most faithful wife."

Debray mechanically stopped and looked 
at the baroness, whose face became 
covered with blushes. "Read," she said.

Debray continued: --

"When you receive this, you will no 
longer have a husband. Oh, you need not 
be alarmed, you will only have lost him 
as you have lost your daughter; I mean 
that I shall be travelling on one of 
the thirty or forty roads leading out 
of France. I owe you some explanations 
for my conduct, and as you are a woman 
that can perfectly understand me, I 
will give them. Listen, then. I 
received this morning five millions 
which I paid away; almost directly 
afterwards another demand for the same 
sum was presented to me; I put this 
creditor off till to-morrow and I 
intend leaving to-day, to escape that 
to-morrow, which would be rather too 
unpleasant for me to endure. You 
understand this, do you not, my most 
precious wife? I say you understand 
this, because you are as conversant 
with my affairs as I am; indeed, I 
think you understand them better, since 
I am ignorant of what has become of a 
considerable portion of my fortune, 
once very tolerable, while I am sure, 
madame, that you know perfectly well. 
For women have infallible instincts; 
they can even explain the marvellous by 
an algebraic calculation they have 
invented; but I, who only understand my 
own figures, know nothing more than 
that one day these figures deceived me. 
Have you admired the rapidity of my 
fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at 
the sudden fusion of my ingots? I 
confess I have seen nothing but the 
fire; let us hope you have found some 
gold among the ashes. With this 
consoling idea, I leave you, madame, 
and most prudent wife, without any 
conscientious reproach for abandoning 
you; you have friends left, and the 
ashes I have already mentioned, and 
above all the liberty I hasten to 
restore to you. And here, madame, I 
must add another word of explanation. 
So long as I hoped you were working for 
the good of our house and for the 
fortune of our daughter, I 
philosophically closed my eyes; but as 
you have transformed that house into a 
vast ruin I will not be the foundation 
of another man's fortune. You were rich 
when I married you, but little 
respected. Excuse me for speaking so 
very candidly, but as this is intended 
only for ourselves, I do not see why I 
should weigh my words. I have augmented 
our fortune, and it has continued to 
increase during the last fifteen years, 
till extraordinary and unexpected 
catastrophes have suddenly overturned 
it, -- without any fault of mine, I can 
honestly declare. You, madame, have 
only sought to increase your own, and I 
am convinced that you have succeeded. I 
leave you, therefore, as I took you, -- 
rich, but little respected. Adieu! I 
also intend from this time to work on 
my own account. Accept my 
acknowledgments for the example you 
have set me, and which I intend 
following.

"Your very devoted husband,

"Baron Danglars."

The baroness had watched Debray while 
he read this long and painful letter, 
and saw him, notwithstanding his 
self-control, change color once or 
twice. When he had ended the perusal, 
he folded the letter and resumed his 
pensive attitude. "Well?" asked Madame 
Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be 
understood.

"Well, madame?" unhesitatingly repeated 
Debray.

"With what ideas does that letter 
inspire you?"

"Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it 
inspires me with the idea that M. 
Danglars has left suspiciously."

"Certainly; but is this all you have to 
say to me?"

"I do not understand you," said Debray 
with freezing coldness.

"He is gone! Gone, never to return!"

"Oh, madame, do not think that!"

"I tell you he will never return. I 
know his character; he is inflexible in 
any resolutions formed for his own 
interests. If he could have made any 
use of me, he would have taken me with 
him; he leaves me in Paris, as our 
separation will conduce to his benefit; 
-- therefore he has gone, and I am free 
forever," added Madame Danglars, in the 
same supplicating tone. Debray, instead 
of answering, allowed her to remain in 
an attitude of nervous inquiry. "Well?" 
she said at length, "do you not answer 
me?"

"I have but one question to ask you, -- 
what do you intend to do?"

"I was going to ask you," replied the 
baroness with a beating heart.

"Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of 
me?"

"Yes; I do wish to ask your advice," 
said Madame Danglars with anxious 
expectation.

"Then if you wish to take my advice," 
said the young man coldly, "I would 
recommend you to travel."

"To travel!" she murmured.

"Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you 
are rich, and perfectly free. In my 
opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is 
absolutely necessary after the double 
catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars' 
broken contract and M. Danglars' 
disappearance. The world will think you 
abandoned and poor, for the wife of a 
bankrupt would never be forgiven, were 
she to keep up an appearance of 
opulence. You have only to remain in 
Paris for about a fortnight, telling 
the world you are abandoned, and 
relating the details of this desertion 
to your best friends, who will soon 
spread the report. Then you can quit 
your house, leaving your jewels and 
giving up your jointure, and every 
one's mouth will be filled with praises 
of your disinterestedness. They will 
know you are deserted, and think you 
also poor, for I alone know your real 
financial position, and am quite ready 
to give up my accounts as an honest 
partner." The dread with which the pale 
and motionless baroness listened to 
this, was equalled by the calm 
indifference with which Debray had 
spoken. "Deserted?" she repeated; "ah, 
yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are 
right, sir, and no one can doubt my 
position." These were the only words 
that this proud and violently enamoured 
woman could utter in response to Debray.

"But then you are rich, -- very rich, 
indeed," continued Debray, taking out 
some papers from his pocket-book, which 
he spread upon the table. Madame 
Danglars did not see them; she was 
engaged in stilling the beatings of her 
heart, and restraining the tears which 
were ready to gush forth. At length a 
sense of dignity prevailed, and if she 
did not entirely master her agitation, 
she at least succeeded in preventing 
the fall of a single tear. "Madame," 
said Debray, "it is nearly six months 
since we have been associated. You 
furnished a principal of 100,000 
francs. Our partnership began in the 
month of April. In May we commenced 
operations, and in the course of the 
month gained 450,000 francs. In June 
the profit amounted to 900,000. In July 
we added 1,700,000 francs, -- it was, 
you know, the month of the Spanish 
bonds. In August we lost 300,000 francs 
at the beginning of the month, but on 
the 13th we made up for it, and we now 
find that our accounts, reckoning from 
the first day of partnership up to 
yesterday, when I closed them, showed a 
capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 
1,200,000 for each of us. Now, madame," 
said Debray, delivering up his accounts 
in the methodical manner of a 
stockbroker, "there are still 80,000 
francs, the interest of this money, in 
my hands."

"But," said the baroness, "I thought 
you never put the money out to 
interest."

"Excuse me, madame," said Debray 
coldly, "I had your permission to do 
so, and I have made use of it. There 
are, then, 40,000 francs for your 
share, besides the 100,000 you 
furnished me to begin with, making in 
all 1,340,000 francs for your portion. 
Now, madame, I took the precaution of 
drawing out your money the day before 
yesterday; it is not long ago, you see, 
and I was in continual expectation of 
being called on to deliver up my 
accounts. There is your money, -- half 
in bank-notes, the other half in checks 
payable to bearer. I say there, for as 
I did not consider my house safe 
enough, or lawyers sufficiently 
discreet, and as landed property 
carries evidence with it, and moreover 
since you have no right to possess 
anything independent of your husband, I 
have kept this sum, now your whole 
fortune, in a chest concealed under 
that closet, and for greater security I 
myself concealed it there.

"Now, madame," continued Debray, first 
opening the closet, then the chest; -- 
"now, madame, here are 800 notes of 
1,000 francs each, resembling, as you 
see, a large book bound in iron; to 
this I add a certificate in the funds 
of 25,000 francs; then, for the odd 
cash, making I think about 110,000 
francs, here is a check upon my banker, 
who, not being M. Danglars, will pay 
you the amount, you may rest assured." 
Madame Danglars mechanically took the 
check, the bond, and the heap of 
bank-notes. This enormous fortune made 
no great appearance on the table. 
Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, 
but with her breast heaving with 
concealed emotion, placed the 
bank-notes in her bag, put the 
certificate and check into her 
pocket-book, and then, standing pale 
and mute, awaited one kind word of 
consolation. But she waited in vain.

"Now, madame," said Debray, "you have a 
splendid fortune, an income of about 
60,000 livres a year, which is enormous 
for a woman who cannot keep an 
establishment here for a year, at 
least. You will be able to indulge all 
your fancies; besides, should you find 
your income insufficient, you can, for 
the sake of the past, madame, make use 
of mine; and I am ready to offer you 
all I possess, on loan."

"Thank you, sir -- thank you," replied 
the baroness; "you forget that what you 
have just paid me is much more than a 
poor woman requires, who intends for 
some time, at least, to retire from the 
world."

Debray was, for a moment, surprised, 
but immediately recovering himself, he 
bowed with an air which seemed to say, 
"As you please, madame."

Madame Danglars had until then, 
perhaps, hoped for something; but when 
she saw the careless bow of Debray, and 
the glance by which it was accompanied, 
together with his significant silence, 
she raised her head, and without 
passion or violence or even hesitation, 
ran down-stairs, disdaining to address 
a last farewell to one who could thus 
part from her. "Bah," said Debray, when 
she had left, "these are fine projects! 
She will remain at home, read novels, 
and speculate at cards, since she can 
no longer do so on the Bourse." Then 
taking up his account book, he 
cancelled with the greatest care all 
the entries of the amounts he had just 
paid away. "I have 1,060,000 francs 
remaining," he said. "What a pity 
Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! She 
suited me in every respect, and I would 
have married her." And he calmly waited 
until the twenty minutes had elapsed 
after Madame Danglars' departure before 
he left the house. During this time he 
occupied himself in making figures, 
with his watch by his side.

Asmodeus -- that diabolical personage, 
who would have been created by every 
fertile imagination if Le Sage had not 
acquired the priority in his great 
masterpiece -- would have enjoyed a 
singular spectacle, if he had lifted up 
the roof of the little house in the Rue 
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, while Debray 
was casting up his figures. Above the 
room in which Debray had been dividing 
two millions and a half with Madame 
Danglars was another, inhabited by 
persons who have played too prominent a 
part in the incidents we have related 
for their appearance not to create some 
interest. Mercedes and Albert were in 
that room. Mercedes was much changed 
within the last few days; not that even 
in her days of fortune she had ever 
dressed with the magnificent display 
which makes us no longer able to 
recognize a woman when she appears in a 
plain and simple attire; nor indeed, 
had she fallen into that state of 
depression where it is impossible to 
conceal the garb of misery; no, the 
change in Mercedes was that her eye no 
longer sparkled, her lips no longer 
smiled, and there was now a hesitation 
in uttering the words which formerly 
sprang so fluently from her ready wit.

It was not poverty which had broken her 
spirit; it was not a want of courage 
which rendered her poverty burdensome. 
Mercedes, although deposed from the 
exalted position she had occupied, lost 
in the sphere she had now chosen, like 
a person passing from a room splendidly 
lighted into utter darkness, appeared 
like a queen, fallen from her palace to 
a hovel, and who, reduced to strict 
necessity, could neither become 
reconciled to the earthen vessels she 
was herself forced to place upon the 
table, nor to the humble pallet which 
had become her bed. The beautiful 
Catalane and noble countess had lost 
both her proud glance and charming 
smile, because she saw nothing but 
misery around her; the walls were hung 
with one of the gray papers which 
economical landlords choose as not 
likely to show the dirt; the floor was 
uncarpeted; the furniture attracted the 
attention to the poor attempt at 
luxury; indeed, everything offended 
eyes accustomed to refinement and 
elegance.

Madame de Morcerf had lived there since 
leaving her house; the continual 
silence of the spot oppressed her; 
still, seeing that Albert continually 
watched her countenance to judge the 
state of her feelings, she constrained 
herself to assume a monotonous smile of 
the lips alone, which, contrasted with 
the sweet and beaming expression that 
usually shone from her eyes, seemed 
like "moonlight on a statue," -- 
yielding light without warmth. Albert, 
too, was ill at ease; the remains of 
luxury prevented him from sinking into 
his actual position. If he wished to go 
out without gloves, his hands appeared 
too white; if he wished to walk through 
the town, his boots seemed too highly 
polished. Yet these two noble and 
intelligent creatures, united by the 
indissoluble ties of maternal and 
filial love, had succeeded in tacitly 
understanding one another, and 
economizing their stores, and Albert 
had been able to tell his mother 
without extorting a change of 
countenance, -- "Mother, we have no 
more money."

Mercedes had never known misery; she 
had often, in her youth, spoken of 
poverty, but between want and 
necessity, those synonymous words, 
there is a wide difference. Amongst the 
Catalans, Mercedes wished for a 
thousand things, but still she never 
really wanted any. So long as the nets 
were good, they caught fish; and so 
long as they sold their fish, they were 
able to buy twine for new nets. And 
then, shut out from friendship, having 
but one affection, which could not be 
mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, 
she thought of herself -- of no one but 
herself. Upon the little she earned she 
lived as well as she could; now there 
were two to be supported, and nothing 
to live upon.

Winter approached. Mercedes had no fire 
in that cold and naked room -- she, who 
was accustomed to stoves which heated 
the house from the hall to the boudoir; 
she had not even one little flower -- 
she whose apartment had been a 
conservatory of costly exotics. But she 
had her son. Hitherto the excitement of 
fulfilling a duty had sustained them. 
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes 
renders us unconscious to the things of 
earth. But the excitement had calmed 
down, and they felt themselves obliged 
to descend from dreams to reality; 
after having exhausted the ideal, they 
found they must talk of the actual.

"Mother," exclaimed Albert, just as 
Madame Danglars was descending the 
stairs, "let us reckon our riches, if 
you please; I want capital to build my 
plans upon."

"Capital -- nothing!" replied Mercedes 
with a mournful smile.

"No, mother, -- capital 3,000 francs. 
And I have an idea of our leading a 
delightful life upon this 3,000 francs."

"Child!" sighed Mercedes.

"Alas, dear mother," said the young 
man, "I have unhappily spent too much 
of your money not to know the value of 
it. These 3,000 francs are enormous, 
and I intend building upon this 
foundation a miraculous certainty for 
the future."

"You say this, my dear boy; but do you 
think we ought to accept these 3,000 
francs?" said Mercedes, coloring.

"I think so," answered Albert in a firm 
tone. "We will accept them the more 
readily, since we have them not here; 
you know they are buried in the garden 
of the little house in the Allees de 
Meillan, at Marseilles. With 200 francs 
we can reach Marseilles."

"With 200 francs? -- are you sure, 
Albert?"

"Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries 
respecting the diligences and 
steamboats, and my calculations are 
made. You will take your place in the 
coupe to Chalons. You see, mother, I 
treat you handsomely for thirty-five 
francs." Albert then took a pen, and 
wrote: --

 Frs. Coupe, thirty-five francs 
............................ 35 From 
Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the 
steamboat -- six francs 
........................................
. 6 From Lyons to Avignon (still by 
steamboat), sixteen francs 
....................................... 
16 From Avignon to Marseilles, seven 
franc................ 7 Expenses on the 
road, about fifty francs ............. 
50 
Total...................................
............. 114 frs.

"Let us put down 120," added Albert, 
smiling. "You see I am generous, am I 
not, mother?"

"But you, my poor child?"

"I? do you not see that I reserve 
eighty francs for myself? A young man 
does not require luxuries; besides, I 
know what travelling is."

"With a post-chaise and valet de 
chambre?"

"Any way, mother."

"Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?"

"Here they are, and 200 more besides. 
See, I have sold my watch for 100 
francs, and the guard and seals for 
300. How fortunate that the ornaments 
were worth more than the watch. Still 
the same story of superfluities! Now I 
think we are rich, since instead of the 
114 francs we require for the journey 
we find ourselves in possession of 250."

"But we owe something in this house?"

"Thirty francs; but I pay that out of 
my 150 francs, -- that is understood, 
-- and as I require only eighty francs 
for my journey, you see I am 
overwhelmed with luxury. But that is 
not all. What do you say to this, 
mother?"

And Albert took out of a little 
pocket-book with golden clasps, a 
remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps 
a tender souvenir from one of the 
mysterious and veiled ladies who used 
to knock at his little door, -- Albert 
took out of this pocket-book a note of 
1,000 francs.

"What is this?" asked Mercedes.

"A thousand francs."

"But whence have you obtained them?"

"Listen to me, mother, and do not yield 
too much to agitation." And Albert, 
rising, kissed his mother on both 
cheeks, then stood looking at her. "You 
cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I 
think you!" said the young man, 
impressed with a profound feeling of 
filial love. "You are, indeed, the most 
beautiful and most noble woman I ever 
saw!"

"Dear child!" said Mercedes, 
endeavoring in vain to restrain a tear 
which glistened in the corner of her 
eye. "Indeed, you only wanted 
misfortune to change my love for you to 
admiration. I am not unhappy while I 
possess my son!"

"Ah, just so," said Albert; "here 
begins the trial. Do you know the 
decision we have come to, mother?"

"Have we come to any?"

"Yes; it is decided that you are to 
live at Marseilles, and that I am to 
leave for Africa, where I will earn for 
myself the right to use the name I now 
bear, instead of the one I have thrown 
aside." Mercedes sighed. "Well, mother, 
I yesterday engaged myself as 
substitute in the Spahis,"* added the 
young man, lowering his eyes with a 
certain feeling of shame, for even he 
was unconscious of the sublimity of his 
self-abasement. "I thought my body was 
my own, and that I might sell it. I 
yesterday took the place of another. I 
sold myself for more than I thought I 
was worth," he added, attempting to 
smile; "I fetched 2,000 francs."

* The Spahis are French cavalry 
reserved for service in Africa.

"Then these 1,000 francs" -- said 
Mercedes, shuddering --

"Are the half of the sum, mother; the 
other will be paid in a year."

Mercedes raised her eyes to heaven with 
an expression it would be impossible to 
describe, and tears, which had hitherto 
been restrained, now yielded to her 
emotion, and ran down her cheeks.

"The price of his blood!" she murmured.

"Yes, if I am killed," said Albert, 
laughing. "But I assure you, mother, I 
have a strong intention of defending my 
person, and I never felt half so strong 
an inclination to live as I do now."

"Merciful heavens!"

"Besides, mother, why should you make 
up your mind that I am to be killed? 
Has Lamoriciere, that Ney of the South, 
been killed? Has Changarnier been 
killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has 
Morrel, whom we know, been killed? 
Think of your joy, mother, when you see 
me return with an embroidered uniform! 
I declare, I expect to look magnificent 
in it, and chose that regiment only 
from vanity." Mercedes sighed while 
endeavoring to smile; the devoted 
mother felt that she ought not to allow 
the whole weight of the sacrifice to 
fall upon her son. "Well, now you 
understand, mother!" continued Albert; 
"here are more than 4,000 francs 
settled on you; upon these you can live 
at least two years."

"Do you think so?" said Mercedes. These 
words were uttered in so mournful a 
tone that their real meaning did not 
escape Albert; he felt his heart beat, 
and taking his mother's hand within his 
own he said, tenderly, --

"Yes, you will live!"

"I shall live! -- then you will not 
leave me, Albert?"

"Mother, I must go," said Albert in a 
firm, calm voice; "you love me too well 
to wish me to remain useless and idle 
with you; besides, I have signed."

"You will obey your own wish and the 
will of heaven!"

"Not my own wish, mother, but reason -- 
necessity. Are we not two despairing 
creatures? What is life to you? -- 
Nothing. What is life to me? -- Very 
little without you, mother; for believe 
me, but for you I should have ceased to 
live on the day I doubted my father and 
renounced his name. Well, I will live, 
if you promise me still to hope; and if 
you grant me the care of your future 
prospects, you will redouble my 
strength. Then I will go to the 
governor of Algeria; he has a royal 
heart, and is essentially a soldier; I 
will tell him my gloomy story. I will 
beg him to turn his eyes now and then 
towards me, and if he keep his word and 
interest himself for me, in six months 
I shall be an officer, or dead. If I am 
an officer, your fortune is certain, 
for I shall have money enough for both, 
and, moreover, a name we shall both be 
proud of, since it will be our own. If 
I am killed -- well then mother, you 
can also die, and there will be an end 
of our misfortunes."

"It is well," replied Mercedes, with 
her eloquent glance; "you are right, my 
love; let us prove to those who are 
watching our actions that we are worthy 
of compassion."

"But let us not yield to gloomy 
apprehensions," said the young man; "I 
assure you we are, or rather we shall 
be, very happy. You are a woman at once 
full of spirit and resignation; I have 
become simple in my tastes, and am 
without passion, I hope. Once in 
service, I shall be rich -- once in M. 
Dantes' house, you will be at rest. Let 
us strive, I beseech you, -- let us 
strive to be cheerful."

"Yes, let us strive, for you ought to 
live, and to be happy, Albert."

"And so our division is made, mother," 
said the young man, affecting ease of 
mind. "We can now part; come, I shall 
engage your passage."

"And you, my dear boy?"

"I shall stay here for a few days 
longer; we must accustom ourselves to 
parting. I want recommendations and 
some information relative to Africa. I 
will join you again at Marseilles."

"Well, be it so -- let us part," said 
Mercedes, folding around her shoulders 
the only shawl she had taken away, and 
which accidentally happened to be a 
valuable black cashmere. Albert 
gathered up his papers hastily, rang 
the bell to pay the thirty francs he 
owed to the landlord, and offering his 
arm to his mother, they descended the 
stairs. Some one was walking down 
before them, and this person, hearing 
the rustling of a silk dress, turned 
around. "Debray!" muttered Albert.

"You, Morcerf?" replied the secretary, 
resting on the stairs. Curiosity had 
vanquished the desire of preserving his 
incognito, and he was recognized. It 
was, indeed, strange in this unknown 
spot to find the young man whose 
misfortunes had made so much noise in 
Paris.

"Morcerf!" repeated Debray. Then 
noticing in the dim light the still 
youthful and veiled figure of Madame de 
Morcerf: -- "Pardon me," he added with 
a smile, "I leave you, Albert." Albert 
understood his thoughts. "Mother," he 
said, turning towards Mercedes, "this 
is M. Debray, secretary of the minister 
for the interior, once a friend of 
mine."

"How once?" stammered Debray; "what do 
you mean?"

"I say so, M. Debray, because I have no 
friends now, and I ought not to have 
any. I thank you for having recognized 
me, sir." Debray stepped forward, and 
cordially pressed the hand of his 
interlocutor. "Believe me, dear 
Albert," he said, with all the emotion 
he was capable of feeling, -- "believe 
me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, 
and if in any way I can serve you, I am 
yours."

"Thank you, sir," said Albert, smiling. 
"In the midst of our misfortunes, we 
are still rich enough not to require 
assistance from any one. We are leaving 
Paris, and when our journey is paid, we 
shall have 5,000 francs left." The 
blood mounted to the temples of Debray, 
who held a million in his pocket-book, 
and unimaginative as he was he could 
not help reflecting that the same house 
had contained two women, one of whom, 
justly dishonored, had left it poor 
with 1,500,000 francs under her cloak, 
while the other, unjustly stricken, but 
sublime in her misfortune, was yet rich 
with a few deniers. This parallel 
disturbed his usual politeness, the 
philosophy he witnessed appalled him, 
he muttered a few words of general 
civility and ran down-stairs.

That day the minister's clerks and the 
subordinates had a great deal to put up 
with from his ill-humor. But that same 
night, he found himself the possessor 
of a fine house, situated on the 
Boulevard de la Madeleine, and an 
income of 50,000 livres. The next day, 
just as Debray was signing the deed, 
that is about five o'clock in the 
afternoon, Madame de Morcerf, after 
having affectionately embraced her son, 
entered the coupe of the diligence, 
which closed upon her. A man was hidden 
in Lafitte's banking-house, behind one 
of the little arched windows which are 
placed above each desk; he saw Mercedes 
enter the diligence, and he also saw 
Albert withdraw. Then he passed his 
hand across his forehead, which was 
clouded with doubt. "Alas," he 
exclaimed, "how can I restore the 
happiness I have taken away from these 
poor innocent creatures? God help me!" 

 Chapter 107 The Lions' Den.

One division of La Force, in which the 
most dangerous and desperate prisoners 
are confined, is called the court of 
Saint-Bernard. The prisoners, in their 
expressive language, have named it the 
"Lions' Den," probably because the 
captives possess teeth which frequently 
gnaw the bars, and sometimes the 
keepers also. It is a prison within a 
prison; the walls are double the 
thickness of the rest. The gratings are 
every day carefully examined by 
jailers, whose herculean proportions 
and cold pitiless expression prove them 
to have been chosen to reign over their 
subjects for their superior activity 
and intelligence. The court-yard of 
this quarter is enclosed by enormous 
walls, over which the sun glances 
obliquely, when it deigns to penetrate 
into this gulf of moral and physical 
deformity. On this paved yard are to be 
seen, -- pacing to and fro from morning 
till night, pale, careworn, and 
haggard, like so many shadows, -- the 
men whom justice holds beneath the 
steel she is sharpening. There, 
crouched against the side of the wall 
which attracts and retains the most 
heat, they may be seen sometimes 
talking to one another, but more 
frequently alone, watching the door, 
which sometimes opens to call forth one 
from the gloomy assemblage, or to throw 
in another outcast from society.

The court of Saint-Bernard has its own 
particular apartment for the reception 
of guests; it is a long rectangle, 
divided by two upright gratings placed 
at a distance of three feet from one 
another to prevent a visitor from 
shaking hands with or passing anything 
to the prisoners. It is a wretched, 
damp, nay, even horrible spot, more 
especially when we consider the 
agonizing conferences which have taken 
place between those iron bars. And yet, 
frightful though this spot may be, it 
is looked upon as a kind of paradise by 
the men whose days are numbered; it is 
so rare for them to leave the Lions' 
Den for any other place than the 
barrier Saint-Jacques or the galleys!

In the court which we have attempted to 
describe, and from which a damp vapor 
was rising, a young man with his hands 
in his pockets, who had excited much 
curiosity among the inhabitants of the 
"Den," might be seen walking. The cut 
of his clothes would have made him pass 
for an elegant man, if those clothes 
had not been torn to shreds; still they 
did not show signs of wear, and the 
fine cloth, beneath the careful hands 
of the prisoner, soon recovered its 
gloss in the parts which were still 
perfect, for the wearer tried his best 
to make it assume the appearance of a 
new coat. He bestowed the same 
attention upon the cambric front of a 
shirt, which had considerably changed 
in color since his entrance into the 
prison, and he polished his varnished 
boots with the corner of a handkerchief 
embroidered with initials surmounted by 
a coronet. Some of the inmates of the 
"Lions' Den" were watching the 
operations of the prisoner's toilet 
with considerable interest. "See, the 
prince is pluming himself," said one of 
the thieves. "He's a fine looking 
fellow," said another; "if he had only 
a comb and hair-grease, he'd take the 
shine off the gentlemen in white kids."

"His coat looks almost new, and his 
boots shine like a nigger's face. It's 
pleasant to have such well-dressed 
comrades; but didn't those gendarmes 
behave shameful? -- must 'a been 
jealous, to tear such clothes!"

"He looks like a big-bug," said 
another; "dresses in fine style. And, 
then, to be here so young! Oh, what 
larks!" Meanwhile the object of this 
hideous admiration approached the 
wicket, against which one of the 
keepers was leaning. "Come, sir," he 
said, "lend me twenty francs; you will 
soon be paid; you run no risks with me. 
Remember, I have relations who possess 
more millions than you have deniers. 
Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty 
francs, so that I may buy a 
dressing-gown; it is intolerable always 
to be in a coat and boots! And what a 
coat, sir, for a prince of the 
Cavalcanti!" The keeper turned his 
back, and shrugged his shoulders; he 
did not even laugh at what would have 
caused any one else to do so; he had 
heard so many utter the same things, -- 
indeed, he heard nothing else.

"Come," said Andrea, "you are a man 
void of compassion; I'll have you 
turned out." This made the keeper turn 
around, and he burst into a loud laugh. 
The prisoners then approached and 
formed a circle. "I tell you that with 
that wretched sum," continued Andrea, 
"I could obtain a coat, and a room in 
which to receive the illustrious 
visitor I am daily expecting."

"Of course -- of course," said the 
prisoners; -- "any one can see he's a 
gentleman!"

"Well, then, lend him the twenty 
francs," said the keeper, leaning on 
the other shoulder; "surely you will 
not refuse a comrade!"

"I am no comrade of these people," said 
the young man, proudly, "you have no 
right to insult me thus."

The thieves looked at one another with 
low murmurs, and a storm gathered over 
the head of the aristocratic prisoner, 
raised less by his own words than by 
the manner of the keeper. The latter, 
sure of quelling the tempest when the 
waves became too violent, allowed them 
to rise to a certain pitch that he 
might be revenged on the importunate 
Andrea, and besides it would afford him 
some recreation during the long day. 
The thieves had already approached 
Andrea, some screaming, "La savate -- 
La savate!"* a cruel operation, which 
consists in cuffing a comrade who may 
have fallen into disgrace, not with an 
old shoe, but with an iron-heeled one. 
Others proposed the "anguille," another 
kind of recreation, in which a 
handkerchief is filled with sand, 
pebbles, and two-sous pieces, when they 
have them, which the wretches beat like 
a flail over the head and shoulders of 
the unhappy sufferer. "Let us horsewhip 
the fine gentleman!" said others.

* Savate: an old shoe.

But Andrea, turning towards them, 
winked his eyes, rolled his tongue 
around his cheeks, and smacked his lips 
in a manner equivalent to a hundred 
words among the bandits when forced to 
be silent. It was a Masonic sign 
Caderousse had taught him. He was 
immediately recognized as one of them; 
the handkerchief was thrown down, and 
the iron-heeled shoe replaced on the 
foot of the wretch to whom it belonged. 
Some voices were heard to say that the 
gentleman was right; that he intended 
to be civil, in his way, and that they 
would set the example of liberty of 
conscience, -- and the mob retired. The 
keeper was so stupefied at this scene 
that he took Andrea by the hands and 
began examining his person, attributing 
the sudden submission of the inmates of 
the Lions' Den to something more 
substantial than mere fascination. 
Andrea made no resistance, although he 
protested against it. Suddenly a voice 
was heard at the wicket. "Benedetto!" 
exclaimed an inspector. The keeper 
relaxed his hold. "I am called," said 
Andrea. "To the visitors' room!" said 
the same voice.

"You see some one pays me a visit. Ah, 
my dear sir, you will see whether a 
Cavalcanti is to be treated like a 
common person!" And Andrea, gliding 
through the court like a black shadow, 
rushed out through the wicket, leaving 
his comrades, and even the keeper, lost 
in wonder. Certainly a call to the 
visitors' room had scarcely astonished 
Andrea less than themselves, for the 
wily youth, instead of making use of 
his privilege of waiting to be claimed 
on his entry into La Force, had 
maintained a rigid silence. 
"Everything," he said, "proves me to be 
under the protection of some powerful 
person, -- this sudden fortune, the 
facility with which I have overcome all 
obstacles, an unexpected family and an 
illustrious name awarded to me, gold 
showered down upon me, and the most 
splendid alliances about to be entered 
into. An unhappy lapse of fortune and 
the absence of my protector have cast 
me down, certainly, but not forever. 
The hand which has retreated for a 
while will be again stretched forth to 
save me at the very moment when I shall 
think myself sinking into the abyss. 
Why should I risk an imprudent step? It 
might alienate my protector. He has two 
means of extricating me from this 
dilemma, -- the one by a mysterious 
escape, managed through bribery; the 
other by buying off my judges with 
gold. I will say and do nothing until I 
am convinced that he has quite 
abandoned me, and then" --

Andrea had formed a plan which was 
tolerably clever. The unfortunate youth 
was intrepid in the attack, and rude in 
the defence. He had borne with the 
public prison, and with privations of 
all sorts; still, by degrees nature, or 
rather custom, had prevailed, and he 
suffered from being naked, dirty, and 
hungry. It was at this moment of 
discomfort that the inspector's voice 
called him to the visiting-room. Andrea 
felt his heart leap with joy. It was 
too soon for a visit from the examining 
magistrate, and too late for one from 
the director of the prison, or the 
doctor; it must, then, be the visitor 
he hoped for. Behind the grating of the 
room into which Andrea had been led, he 
saw, while his eyes dilated with 
surprise, the dark and intelligent face 
of M. Bertuccio, who was also gazing 
with sad astonishment upon the iron 
bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow 
which moved behind the other grating.

"Ah," said Andrea, deeply affected.

"Good morning, Benedetto," said 
Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice.

"You -- you?" said the young man, 
looking fearfully around him.

"Do you not recognize me, unhappy 
child?"

"Silence, -- be silent!" said Andrea, 
who knew the delicate sense of hearing 
possessed by the walls; "for heaven's 
sake, do not speak so loud!"

"You wish to speak with me alone, do 
you not?" said Bertuccio.

"Oh, yes."

"That is well." And Bertuccio, feeling 
in his pocket, signed to a keeper whom 
he saw through the window of the wicket.

"Read?" he said.

"What is that?" asked Andrea.

"An order to conduct you to a room, and 
to leave you there to talk to me."

"Oh," cried Andrea, leaping with joy. 
Then he mentally added, -- "Still my 
unknown protector! I am not forgotten. 
They wish for secrecy, since we are to 
converse in a private room. I 
understand, Bertuccio has been sent by 
my protector."

The keeper spoke for a moment with an 
official, then opened the iron gates 
and conducted Andrea to a room on the 
first floor. The room was whitewashed, 
as is the custom in prisons, but it 
looked quite brilliant to a prisoner, 
though a stove, a bed, a chair, and a 
table formed the whole of its sumptuous 
furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the 
chair, Andrea threw himself upon the 
bed; the keeper retired.

"Now," said the steward, "what have you 
to tell me?"

"And you?" said Andrea.

"You speak first."

"Oh, no. You must have much to tell me, 
since you have come to seek me."

"Well, be it so. You have continued 
your course of villany; you have robbed 
-- you have assassinated."

"Well, I should say! If you had me 
taken to a private room only to tell me 
this, you might have saved yourself the 
trouble. I know all these things. But 
there are some with which, on the 
contrary, I am not acquainted. Let us 
talk of those, if you please. Who sent 
you?"

"Come, come, you are going on quickly, 
M. Benedetto!"

"Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense 
with useless words. Who sends you?"

"No one."

"How did you know I was in prison?"

"I recognized you, some time since, as 
the insolent dandy who so gracefully 
mounted his horse in the Champs 
Elysees."

"Oh, the Champs Elysees? Ah, yes; we 
burn, as they say at the game of 
pincette. The Champs Elysees? Come, let 
us talk a little about my father."

"Who, then, am I?"

"You, sir? -- you are my adopted 
father. But it was not you, I presume, 
who placed at my disposal 100,000 
francs, which I spent in four or five 
months; it was not you who manufactured 
an Italian gentleman for my father; it 
was not you who introduced me into the 
world, and had me invited to a certain 
dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am 
eating at this moment, in company with 
the most distinguished people in Paris 
-- amongst the rest with a certain 
procureur, whose acquaintance I did 
very wrong not to cultivate, for he 
would have been very useful to me just 
now; -- it was not you, in fact, who 
bailed me for one or two millions, when 
the fatal discovery of my little secret 
took place. Come, speak, my worthy 
Corsican, speak!"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"I will help you. You were speaking of 
the Champs Elysees just now, worthy 
foster-father."

"Well?"

"Well, in the Champs Elysees there 
resides a very rich gentleman."

"At whose house you robbed and 
murdered, did you not?"

"I believe I did."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"'Tis you who have named him, as M. 
Racine says. Well, am I to rush into 
his arms, and strain him to my heart, 
crying, `My father, my father!' like 
Monsieur Pixerecourt."*

"Do not let us jest," gravely replied 
Bertuccio, "and dare not to utter that 
name again as you have pronounced it."

* Guilbert de Pixerecourt, French 
dramatist (1775-1844).

"Bah," said Andrea, a little overcome, 
by the solemnity of Bertuccio's manner, 
"why not?"

"Because the person who bears it is too 
highly favored by heaven to be the 
father of such a wretch as you."

"Oh, these are fine words."

"And there will be fine doings, if you 
do not take care."

"Menaces -- I do not fear them. I will 
say" --

"Do you think you are engaged with a 
pygmy like yourself?" said Bertuccio, 
in so calm a tone, and with so 
steadfast a look, that Andrea was moved 
to the very soul. "Do you think you 
have to do with galley-slaves, or 
novices in the world? Benedetto, you 
are fallen into terrible hands; they 
are ready to open for you -- make use 
of them. Do not play with the 
thunderbolt they have laid aside for a 
moment, but which they can take up 
again instantly, if you attempt to 
intercept their movements."

"My father -- I will know who my father 
is," said the obstinate youth; "I will 
perish if I must, but I will know it. 
What does scandal signify to me? What 
possessions, what reputation, what 
`pull,' as Beauchamp says, -- have I? 
You great people always lose something 
by scandal, notwithstanding your 
millions. Come, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah," cried Benedetto, his eyes 
sparkling with joy. Just then the door 
opened, and the jailer, addressing 
himself to Bertuccio, said, -- "Excuse 
me, sir, but the examining magistrate 
is waiting for the prisoner."

"And so closes our interview," said 
Andrea to the worthy steward; "I wish 
the troublesome fellow were at the 
devil!"

"I will return to-morrow," said 
Bertuccio.

"Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. 
Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns for me 
at the gate that I may have some things 
I am in need of!"

"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio. 
Andrea extended his hand; Bertuccio 
kept his own in his pocket, and merely 
jingled a few pieces of money. "That's 
what I mean," said Andrea, endeavoring 
to smile, quite overcome by the strange 
tranquillity of Bertuccio. "Can I be 
deceived?" he murmured, as he stepped 
into the oblong and grated vehicle 
which they call "the salad basket." 
"Never mind, we shall see! To-morrow, 
then!" he added, turning towards 
Bertuccio.

"To-morrow!" replied the steward. 

 Chapter 108 The Judge.

We remember that the Abbe Busoni 
remained alone with Noirtier in the 
chamber of death, and that the old man 
and the priest were the sole guardians 
of the young girl's body. Perhaps it 
was the Christian exhortations of the 
abbe, perhaps his kind charity, perhaps 
his persuasive words, which had 
restored the courage of Noirtier, for 
ever since he had conversed with the 
priest his violent despair had yielded 
to a calm resignation which surprised 
all who knew his excessive affection 
for Valentine. M. de Villefort had not 
seen his father since the morning of 
the death. The whole establishment had 
been changed; another valet was engaged 
for himself, a new servant for 
Noirtier, two women had entered Madame 
de Villefort's service, -- in fact, 
everywhere, to the concierge and 
coachmen, new faces were presented to 
the different masters of the house, 
thus widening the division which had 
always existed between the members of 
the same family.

The assizes, also, were about to begin, 
and Villefort, shut up in his room, 
exerted himself with feverish anxiety 
in drawing up the case against the 
murderer of Caderousse. This affair, 
like all those in which the Count of 
Monte Cristo had interfered, caused a 
great sensation in Paris. The proofs 
were certainly not convincing, since 
they rested upon a few words written by 
an escaped galley-slave on his 
death-bed, and who might have been 
actuated by hatred or revenge in 
accusing his companion. But the mind of 
the procureur was made up; he felt 
assured that Benedetto was guilty, and 
he hoped by his skill in conducting 
this aggravated case to flatter his 
self-love, which was about the only 
vulnerable point left in his frozen 
heart.

The case was therefore prepared owing 
to the incessant labor of Villefort, 
who wished it to be the first on the 
list in the coming assizes. He had been 
obliged to seclude himself more than 
ever, to evade the enormous number of 
applications presented to him for the 
purpose of obtaining tickets of 
admission to the court on the day of 
trial. And then so short a time had 
elapsed since the death of poor 
Valentine, and the gloom which 
overshadowed the house was so recent, 
that no one wondered to see the father 
so absorbed in his professional duties, 
which were the only means he had of 
dissipating his grief.

Once only had Villefort seen his 
father; it was the day after that upon 
which Bertuccio had paid his second 
visit to Benedetto, when the latter was 
to learn his father's name. The 
magistrate, harassed and fatigued, had 
descended to the garden of his house, 
and in a gloomy mood, similar to that 
in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest 
poppies, he began knocking off with his 
cane the long and dying branches of the 
rose-trees, which, placed along the 
avenue, seemed like the spectres of the 
brilliant flowers which had bloomed in 
the past season. More than once he had 
reached that part of the garden where 
the famous boarded gate stood 
overlooking the deserted enclosure, 
always returning by the same path, to 
begin his walk again, at the same pace 
and with the same gesture, when he 
accidentally turned his eyes towards 
the house, whence he heard the noisy 
play of his son, who had returned from 
school to spend the Sunday and Monday 
with his mother. While doing so, he 
observed M. Noirtier at one of the open 
windows, where the old man had been 
placed that he might enjoy the last 
rays of the sun which yet yielded some 
heat, and was now shining upon the 
dying flowers and red leaves of the 
creeper which twined around the balcony.

The eye of the old man was riveted upon 
a spot which Villefort could scarcely 
distinguish. His glance was so full of 
hate, of ferocity, and savage 
impatience, that Villefort turned out 
of the path he had been pursuing, to 
see upon what person this dark look was 
directed. Then he saw beneath a thick 
clump of linden-trees, which were 
nearly divested of foliage, Madame de 
Villefort sitting with a book in her 
hand, the perusal of which she 
frequently interrupted to smile upon 
her son, or to throw back his elastic 
ball, which he obstinately threw from 
the drawing-room into the garden. 
Villefort became pale; he understood 
the old man's meaning. Noirtier 
continued to look at the same object, 
but suddenly his glance was transferred 
from the wife to the husband, and 
Villefort himself had to submit to the 
searching investigation of eyes, which, 
while changing their direction and even 
their language, had lost none of their 
menacing expression. Madame de 
Villefort, unconscious of the passions 
that exhausted their fire over her 
head, at that moment held her son's 
ball, and was making signs to him to 
reclaim it with a kiss. Edward begged 
for a long while, the maternal kiss 
probably not offering sufficient 
recompense for the trouble he must take 
to obtain it; however at length he 
decided, leaped out of the window into 
a cluster of heliotropes and daisies, 
and ran to his mother, his forehead 
streaming with perspiration. Madame de 
Villefort wiped his forehead, pressed 
her lips upon it, and sent him back 
with the ball in one hand and some 
bonbons in the other.

Villefort, drawn by an irresistible 
attraction, like that of the bird to 
the serpent, walked towards the house. 
As he approached it, Noirtier's gaze 
followed him, and his eyes appeared of 
such a fiery brightness that Villefort 
felt them pierce to the depths of his 
heart. In that earnest look might be 
read a deep reproach, as well as a 
terrible menace. Then Noirtier raised 
his eyes to heaven, as though to remind 
his son of a forgotten oath. "It is 
well, sir," replied Villefort from 
below, -- "it is well; have patience 
but one day longer; what I have said I 
will do." Noirtier seemed to be calmed 
by these words, and turned his eyes 
with indifference to the other side. 
Villefort violently unbuttoned his 
great-coat, which seemed to strangle 
him, and passing his livid hand across 
his forehead, entered his study.

The night was cold and still; the 
family had all retired to rest but 
Villefort, who alone remained up, and 
worked till five o'clock in the 
morning, reviewing the last 
interrogatories made the night before 
by the examining magistrates, compiling 
the depositions of the witnesses, and 
putting the finishing stroke to the 
deed of accusation, which was one of 
the most energetic and best conceived 
of any he had yet delivered.

The next day, Monday, was the first 
sitting of the assizes. The morning 
dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort 
saw the dim gray light shine upon the 
lines he had traced in red ink. The 
magistrate had slept for a short time 
while the lamp sent forth its final 
struggles; its flickerings awoke him, 
and he found his fingers as damp and 
purple as though they had been dipped 
in blood. He opened the window; a 
bright yellow streak crossed the sky, 
and seemed to divide in half the 
poplars, which stood out in black 
relief on the horizon. In the 
clover-fields beyond the 
chestnut-trees, a lark was mounting up 
to heaven, while pouring out her clear 
morning song. The damps of the dew 
bathed the head of Villefort, and 
refreshed his memory. "To-day," he said 
with an effort, -- "to-day the man who 
holds the blade of justice must strike 
wherever there is guilt." Involuntarily 
his eyes wandered towards the window of 
Noirtier's room, where he had seen him 
the preceding night. The curtain was 
drawn, and yet the image of his father 
was so vivid to his mind that he 
addressed the closed window as though 
it had been open, and as if through the 
opening he had beheld the menacing old 
man. "Yes," he murmured, -- "yes, be 
satisfied."

His head dropped upon his chest, and in 
this position he paced his study; then 
he threw himself, dressed as he was, 
upon a sofa, less to sleep than to rest 
his limbs, cramped with cold and study. 
By degrees every one awoke. Villefort, 
from his study, heard the successive 
noises which accompany the life of a 
house, -- the opening and shutting of 
doors, the ringing of Madame de 
Villefort's bell, to summon the 
waiting-maid, mingled with the first 
shouts of the child, who rose full of 
the enjoyment of his age. Villefort 
also rang; his new valet brought him 
the papers, and with them a cup of 
chocolate.

"What are you bringing me?" said he.

"A cup of chocolate."

"I did not ask for it. Who has paid me 
this attention?"

"My mistress, sir. She said you would 
have to speak a great deal in the 
murder case, and that you should take 
something to keep up your strength;" 
and the valet placed the cup on the 
table nearest to the sofa, which was, 
like all the rest, covered with papers. 
The valet then left the room. Villefort 
looked for an instant with a gloomy 
expression, then, suddenly, taking it 
up with a nervous motion, he swallowed 
its contents at one draught. It might 
have been thought that he hoped the 
beverage would be mortal, and that he 
sought for death to deliver him from a 
duty which he would rather die than 
fulfil. He then rose, and paced his 
room with a smile it would have been 
terrible to witness. The chocolate was 
inoffensive, for M. de Villefort felt 
no effects. The breakfast-hour arrived, 
but M. de Villefort was not at table. 
The valet re-entered.

"Madame de Villefort wishes to remind 
you, sir," he said, "that eleven 
o'clock has just struck, and that the 
trial commences at twelve."

"Well," said Villefort, "what then?"

"Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is 
quite ready, and wishes to know if she 
is to accompany you, sir?"

"Where to?"

"To the Palais."

"What to do?"

"My mistress wishes much to be present 
at the trial."

"Ah," said Villefort, with a startling 
accent; "does she wish that?" -- The 
man drew back and said, "If you wish to 
go alone, sir, I will go and tell my 
mistress." Villefort remained silent 
for a moment, and dented his pale 
cheeks with his nails. "Tell your 
mistress," he at length answered, "that 
I wish to speak to her, and I beg she 
will wait for me in her own room."

"Yes, sir."

"Then come to dress and shave me."

"Directly, sir." The valet re-appeared 
almost instantly, and, having shaved 
his master, assisted him to dress 
entirely in black. When he had 
finished, he said, --

"My mistress said she should expect 
you, sir, as soon as you had finished 
dressing."

"I am going to her." And Villefort, 
with his papers under his arm and hat 
in hand, directed his steps toward the 
apartment of his wife. At the door he 
paused for a moment to wipe his damp, 
pale brow. He then entered the room. 
Madame de Villefort was sitting on an 
ottoman and impatiently turning over 
the leaves of some newspapers and 
pamphlets which young Edward, by way of 
amusing himself, was tearing to pieces 
before his mother could finish reading 
them. She was dressed to go out, her 
bonnet was placed beside her on a 
chair, and her gloves were on her hands.

"Ah, here you are, monsieur," she said 
in her naturally calm voice; "but how 
pale you are! Have you been working all 
night? Why did you not come down to 
breakfast? Well, will you take me, or 
shall I take Edward?" Madame de 
Villefort had multiplied her questions 
in order to gain one answer, but to all 
her inquiries M. de Villefort remained 
mute and cold as a statue. "Edward," 
said Villefort, fixing an imperious 
glance on the child, "go and play in 
the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to 
speak to your mamma." Madame de 
Villefort shuddered at the sight of 
that cold countenance, that resolute 
tone, and the awfully strange 
preliminaries. Edward raised his head, 
looked at his mother, and then, finding 
that she did not confirm the order, 
began cutting off the heads of his 
leaden soldiers.

"Edward," cried M. de Villefort, so 
harshly that the child started up from 
the floor, "do you hear me? -- Go!" The 
child, unaccustomed to such treatment, 
arose, pale and trembling; it would be 
difficult to say whether his emotion 
were caused by fear or passion. His 
father went up to him, took him in his 
arms, and kissed his forehead. "Go," he 
said: "go, my child." Edward ran out. 
M. de Villefort went to the door, which 
he closed behind the child, and bolted. 
"Dear me!" said the young woman, 
endeavoring to read her husband's 
inmost thoughts, while a smile passed 
over her countenance which froze the 
impassibility of Villefort; "what is 
the matter?"

"Madame, where do you keep the poison 
you generally use?" said the 
magistrate, without any introduction, 
placing himself between his wife and 
the door.

Madame de Villefort must have 
experienced something of the sensation 
of a bird which, looking up, sees the 
murderous trap closing over its head. A 
hoarse, broken tone, which was neither 
a cry nor a sigh, escaped from her, 
while she became deadly pale. 
"Monsieur," she said, "I -- I do not 
understand you." And, in her first 
paroxysm of terror, she had raised 
herself from the sofa, in the next, 
stronger very likely than the other, 
she fell down again on the cushions. "I 
asked you," continued Villefort, in a 
perfectly calm tone, "where you conceal 
the poison by the aid of which you have 
killed my father-in-law, M. de 
Saint-Meran, my mother-in-law, Madame 
de Saint-Meran, Barrois, and my 
daughter Valentine."

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Madame de 
Villefort, clasping her hands, "what do 
you say?"

"It is not for you to interrogate, but 
to answer."

"Is it to the judge or to the husband?" 
stammered Madame de Villefort. "To the 
judge -- to the judge, madame!" It was 
terrible to behold the frightful pallor 
of that woman, the anguish of her look, 
the trembling of her whole frame. "Ah, 
sir," she muttered, "ah, sir," and this 
was all.

"You do not answer, madame!" exclaimed 
the terrible interrogator. Then he 
added, with a smile yet more terrible 
than his anger, "It is true, then; you 
do not deny it!" She moved forward. 
"And you cannot deny it!" added 
Villefort, extending his hand toward 
her, as though to seize her in the name 
of justice. "You have accomplished 
these different crimes with impudent 
address, but which could only deceive 
those whose affections for you blinded 
them. Since the death of Madame de 
Saint-Meran, I have known that a 
poisoner lived in my house. M. 
d'Avrigny warned me of it. After the 
death of Barrois my suspicions were 
directed towards an angel, -- those 
suspicions which, even when there is no 
crime, are always alive in my heart; 
but after the death of Valentine, there 
has been no doubt in my mind, madame, 
and not only in mine, but in those of 
others; thus your crime, known by two 
persons, suspected by many, will soon 
become public, and, as I told you just 
now, you no longer speak to the 
husband, but to the judge."

The young woman hid her face in her 
hands. "Oh, sir," she stammered, "I 
beseech you, do not believe 
appearances."

"Are you, then, a coward?" cried 
Villefort, in a contemptuous voice. 
"But I have always observed that 
poisoners were cowards. Can you be a 
coward, -- you who have had the courage 
to witness the death of two old men and 
a young girl murdered by you?"

"Sir! sir!"

"Can you be a coward?" continued 
Villefort, with increasing excitement, 
"you, who could count, one by one, the 
minutes of four death agonies? You, who 
have arranged your infernal plans, and 
removed the beverages with a talent and 
precision almost miraculous? Have you, 
then, who have calculated everything 
with such nicety, have you forgotten to 
calculate one thing -- I mean where the 
revelation of your crimes will lead you 
to? Oh, it is impossible -- you must 
have saved some surer, more subtle and 
deadly poison than any other, that you 
might escape the punishment that you 
deserve. You have done this -- I hope 
so, at least." Madame de Villefort 
stretched out her hands, and fell on 
her knees.

"I understand," he said, "you confess; 
but a confession made to the judges, a 
confession made at the last moment, 
extorted when the crime cannot be 
denied, diminishes not the punishment 
inflicted on the guilty!"

"The punishment?" exclaimed Madame de 
Villefort, "the punishment, monsieur? 
Twice you have pronounced that word!"

"Certainly. Did you hope to escape it 
because you were four times guilty? Did 
you think the punishment would be 
withheld because you are the wife of 
him who pronounces it? -- No, madame, 
no; the scaffold awaits the poisoner, 
whoever she may be, unless, as I just 
said, the poisoner has taken the 
precaution of keeping for herself a few 
drops of her deadliest potion." Madame 
de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a 
hideous and uncontrollable terror 
spread over her distorted features. 
"Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame," 
said the magistrate; "I will not 
dishonor you, since that would be 
dishonor to myself; no, if you have 
heard me distinctly, you will 
understand that you are not to die on 
the scaffold."

"No, I do not understand; what do you 
mean?" stammered the unhappy woman, 
completely overwhelmed. "I mean that 
the wife of the first magistrate in the 
capital shall not, by her infamy, soil 
an unblemished name; that she shall 
not, with one blow, dishonor her 
husband and her child."

"No, no -- oh, no!"

"Well, madame, it will be a laudable 
action on your part, and I will thank 
you for it!"

"You will thank me -- for what?"

"For what you have just said."

"What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I 
no longer understand anything. Oh, my 
God, my God!" And she rose, with her 
hair dishevelled, and her lips foaming.

"Have you answered the question I put 
to you on entering the room? -- where 
do you keep the poison you generally 
use, madame?" Madame de Villefort 
raised her arms to heaven, and 
convulsively struck one hand against 
the other. "No, no," she vociferated, 
"no, you cannot wish that!"

"What I do not wish, madame, is that 
you should perish on the scaffold. Do 
you understand?" asked Villefort.

"Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!"

"What I require is, that justice be 
done. I am on the earth to punish, 
madame," he added, with a flaming 
glance; "any other woman, were it the 
queen herself, I would send to the 
executioner; but to you I shall be 
merciful. To you I will say, `Have you 
not, madame, put aside some of the 
surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?'"

"Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!"

"She is cowardly," said Villefort.

"Reflect that I am your wife!"

"You are a poisoner."

"In the name of heaven!"

"No!"

"In the name of the love you once bore 
me!"

"No, no!"

"In the name of our child! Ah, for the 
sake of our child, let me live!"

"No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I 
allow you to live, you will perhaps 
kill him, as you have the others!"

"I? -- I kill my boy?" cried the 
distracted mother, rushing toward 
Villefort; "I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!" 
and a frightful, demoniac laugh 
finished the sentence, which was lost 
in a hoarse rattle. Madame de Villefort 
fell at her husband's feet. He 
approached her. "Think of it, madame," 
he said; "if, on my return, justice his 
not been satisfied, I will denounce you 
with my own mouth, and arrest you with 
my own hands!" She listened, panting, 
overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone 
lived, and glared horribly. "Do you 
understand me?" he said. "I am going 
down there to pronounce the sentence of 
death against a murderer. If I find you 
alive on my return, you shall sleep 
to-night in the conciergerie." Madame 
de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave 
way, and she sunk on the carpet. The 
king's attorney seemed to experience a 
sensation of pity; he looked upon her 
less severely, and, bowing to her, said 
slowly, "Farewell, madame, farewell!" 
That farewell struck Madame de 
Villefort like the executioner's knife. 
She fainted. The procureur went out, 
after having double-locked the door. 

 Chapter 109 The Assizes.

The Benedetto affair, as it was called 
at the Palais, and by people in 
general, had produced a tremendous 
sensation. Frequenting the Cafe de 
Paris, the Boulevard de Gand, and the 
Bois de Boulogne, during his brief 
career of splendor, the false 
Cavalcanti had formed a host of 
acquaintances. The papers had related 
his various adventures, both as the man 
of fashion and the galley-slave; and as 
every one who had been personally 
acquainted with Prince Andrea 
Cavalcanti experienced a lively 
curiosity in his fate, they all 
determined to spare no trouble in 
endeavoring to witness the trial of M. 
Benedetto for the murder of his comrade 
in chains. In the eyes of many, 
Benedetto appeared, if not a victim to, 
at least an instance of, the 
fallibility of the law. M. Cavalcanti, 
his father, had been seen in Paris, and 
it was expected that he would re-appear 
to claim the illustrious outcast. Many, 
also, who were not aware of the 
circumstances attending his withdrawal 
from Paris, were struck with the worthy 
appearance, the gentlemanly bearing, 
and the knowledge of the world 
displayed by the old patrician, who 
certainly played the nobleman very 
well, so long as he said nothing, and 
made no arithmetical calculations. As 
for the accused himself, many 
remembered him as being so amiable, so 
handsome, and so liberal, that they 
chose to think him the victim of some 
conspiracy, since in this world large 
fortunes frequently excite the 
malevolence and jealousy of some 
unknown enemy. Every one, therefore, 
ran to the court; some to witness the 
sight, others to comment upon it. From 
seven o'clock in the morning a crowd 
was stationed at the iron gates, and an 
hour before the trial commenced the 
hall was full of the privileged. Before 
the entrance of the magistrates, and 
indeed frequently afterwards, a court 
of justice, on days when some especial 
trial is to take place, resembles a 
drawing-room where many persons 
recognize each other and converse if 
they can do so without losing their 
seats; or, if they are separated by too 
great a number of lawyers, communicate 
by signs.

It was one of the magnificent autumn 
days which make amends for a short 
summer; the clouds which M. de 
Villefort had perceived at sunrise had 
all disappeared as if by magic, and one 
of the softest and most brilliant days 
of September shone forth in all its 
splendor.

Beauchamp, one of the kings of the 
press, and therefore claiming the right 
of a throne everywhere, was eying 
everybody through his monocle. He 
perceived Chateau-Renaud and Debray, 
who had just gained the good graces of 
a sergeant-at-arms, and who had 
persuaded the latter to let them stand 
before, instead of behind him, as they 
ought to have done. The worthy sergeant 
had recognized the minister's secretary 
and the millionnaire, and, by way of 
paying extra attention to his noble 
neighbors, promised to keep their 
places while they paid a visit to 
Beauchamp.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "we shall see 
our friend!"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Debray. "That 
worthy prince. Deuce take those Italian 
princes!"

"A man, too, who could boast of Dante 
for a genealogist, and could reckon 
back to the `Divine Comedy.'"

"A nobility of the rope!" said 
Chateau-Renaud phlegmatically.

"He will be condemned, will he not?" 
asked Debray of Beauchamp.

"My dear fellow, I think we should ask 
you that question; you know such news 
much better than we do. Did you see the 
president at the minister's last night?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Something which will surprise you."

"Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it 
is a long time since that has happened."

"Well, he told me that Benedetto, who 
is considered a serpent of subtlety and 
a giant of cunning, is really but a 
very commonplace, silly rascal, and 
altogether unworthy of the experiments 
that will be made on his phrenological 
organs after his death."

"Bah," said Beauchamp, "he played the 
prince very well."

"Yes, for you who detest those unhappy 
princes, Beauchamp, and are always 
delighted to find fault with them; but 
not for me, who discover a gentleman by 
instinct, and who scent out an 
aristocratic family like a very 
bloodhound of heraldry."

"Then you never believed in the 
principality?"

"Yes. -- in the principality, but not 
in the prince."

"Not so bad," said Beauchamp; "still, I 
assure you, he passed very well with 
many people; I saw him at the 
ministers' houses."

"Ah, yes," said Chateau-Renaud. "The 
idea of thinking ministers understand 
anything about princes!"

"There is something in what you have 
just said," said Beauchamp, laughing.

"But," said Debray to Beauchamp, "if I 
spoke to the president, you must have 
been with the procureur."

"It was an impossibility; for the last 
week M. de Villefort has secluded 
himself. It is natural enough; this 
strange chain of domestic afflictions, 
followed by the no less strange death 
of his daughter" --

"Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp?"

"Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this 
has been unobserved at the minister's?" 
said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass 
in his eye, where he tried to make it 
remain.

"My dear sir," said Chateau-Renaud, 
"allow me to tell you that you do not 
understand that manoeuvre with the 
eye-glass half so well as Debray. Give 
him a lesson, Debray."

"Stay," said Beauchamp, "surely I am 
not deceived."

"What is it?"

"It is she!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"They said she had left."

"Mademoiselle Eugenie?" said 
Chateau-Renaud; "has she returned?"

"No, but her mother."

"Madame Danglars? Nonsense! 
Impossible!" said Chateau-Renaud; "only 
ten days after the flight of her 
daughter, and three days from the 
bankruptcy of her husband?"

Debray colored slightly, and followed 
with his eyes the direction of 
Beauchamp's glance. "Come," he said, 
"it is only a veiled lady, some foreign 
princess, perhaps the mother of 
Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking 
on a very interesting topic, Beauchamp."

"I?"

"Yes; you were telling us about the 
extraordinary death of Valentine."

"Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that 
Madame de Villefort is not here?"

"Poor, dear woman," said Debray, "she 
is no doubt occupied in distilling balm 
for the hospitals, or in making 
cosmetics for herself or friends. Do 
you know she spends two or three 
thousand crowns a year in this 
amusement? But I wonder she is not 
here. I should have been pleased to see 
her, for I like her very much."

"And I hate her," said Chateau-Renaud.

"Why?"

"I do not know. Why do we love? Why do 
we hate? I detest her, from antipathy."

"Or, rather, by instinct."

"Perhaps so. But to return to what you 
were saying, Beauchamp."

"Well, do you know why they die so 
multitudinously at M. de Villefort's?"

"`Multitudinously' [drv] is good," said 
Chateau-Renaud.

"My good fellow, you'll find the word 
in Saint-Simon."

"But the thing itself is at M. de 
Villefort's; but let's get back to the 
subject."

"Talking of that," said Debray, "Madame 
was making inquiries about that house, 
which for the last three months has 
been hung with black."

"Who is Madame?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"The minister's wife, pardieu!"

"Oh, your pardon! I never visit 
ministers; I leave that to the princes."

"Really, You were only before 
sparkling, but now you are brilliant; 
take compassion on us, or, like 
Jupiter, you will wither us up."

"I will not speak again," said 
Chateau-Renaud; "pray have compassion 
upon me, and do not take up every word 
I say."

"Come, let us endeavor to get to the 
end of our story, Beauchamp; I told you 
that yesterday Madame made inquiries of 
me upon the subject; enlighten me, and 
I will then communicate my information 
to her."

"Well, gentlemen, the reason people die 
so multitudinously (I like the word) at 
M. de Villefort's is that there is an 
assassin in the house!" The two young 
men shuddered, for the same idea had 
more than once occurred to them. "And 
who is the assassin;" they asked 
together.

"Young Edward!" A burst of laughter 
from the auditors did not in the least 
disconcert the speaker, who continued, 
-- "Yes, gentlemen; Edward, the infant 
phenomenon, who is quite an adept in 
the art of killing."

"You are jesting."

"Not at all. I yesterday engaged a 
servant, who had just left M. de 
Villefort -- I intend sending him away 
to-morrow, for he eats so enormously, 
to make up for the fast imposed upon 
him by his terror in that house. Well, 
now listen."

"We are listening."

"It appears the dear child has obtained 
possession of a bottle containing some 
drug, which he every now and then uses 
against those who have displeased him. 
First, M. and Madame de Saint-Meran 
incurred his displeasure, so he poured 
out three drops of his elixir -- three 
drops were sufficient; then followed 
Barrois, the old servant of M. 
Noirtier, who sometimes rebuffed this 
little wretch -- he therefore received 
the same quantity of the elixir; the 
same happened to Valentine, of whom he 
was jealous; he gave her the same dose 
as the others, and all was over for her 
as well as the rest."

"Why, what nonsense are you telling 
us?" said Chateau-Renaud.

"Yes, it is an extraordinary story," 
said Beauchamp; "is it not?"

"It is absurd," said Debray.

"Ah," said Beauchamp, "you doubt me? 
Well, you can ask my servant, or rather 
him who will no longer be my servant 
to-morrow, it was the talk of the 
house."

"And this elixir, where is it? what is 
it?"

"The child conceals it."

"But where did he find it?"

"In his mother's laboratory."

"Does his mother then, keep poisons in 
her laboratory?"

"How can I tell? You are questioning me 
like a king's attorney. I only repeat 
what I have been told, and like my 
informant I can do no more. The poor 
devil would eat nothing, from fear."

"It is incredible!"

"No, my dear fellow, it is not at all 
incredible. You saw the child pass 
through the Rue Richelieu last year, 
who amused himself with killing his 
brothers and sisters by sticking pins 
in their ears while they slept. The 
generation who follow us are very 
precocious."

"Come, Beauchamp," said Chateau-Renaud, 
"I will bet anything you do not believe 
a word of all you have been telling us."

"I do not see the Count of Monte Cristo 
here."

"He is worn out," said Debray; 
"besides, he could not well appear in 
public, since he has been the dupe of 
the Cavalcanti, who, it appears, 
presented themselves to him with false 
letters of credit, and cheated him out 
of 100,000 francs upon the hypothesis 
of this principality."

"By the way, M. de Chateau-Renaud," 
asked Beauchamp, "how is Morrel?"

"Ma foi, I have called three times 
without once seeing him. Still, his 
sister did not seem uneasy, and told me 
that though she had not seen him for 
two or three days, she was sure he was 
well."

"Ah, now I think of it, the Count of 
Monte Cristo cannot appear in the 
hall," said Beauchamp.

"Why not?"

"Because he is an actor in the drama."

"Has he assassinated any one, then?"

"No, on the contrary, they wished to 
assassinate him. You know that it was 
in leaving his house that M. de 
Caderousse was murdered by his friend 
Benedetto. You know that the famous 
waistcoat was found in his house, 
containing the letter which stopped the 
signature of the marriage-contract. Do 
you see the waistcoat? There it is, all 
blood-stained, on the desk, as a 
testimony of the crime."

"Ah, very good."

"Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; 
let us go back to our places." A noise 
was heard in the hall; the sergeant 
called his two patrons with an 
energetic "hem!" and the door-keeper 
appearing, called out with that shrill 
voice peculiar to his order, ever since 
the days of Beaumarchais, "The court, 
gentlemen!" 

 Chapter 110 The Indictment.

The judges took their places in the 
midst of the most profound silence; the 
jury took their seats; M. de Villefort, 
the object of unusual attention, and we 
had almost said of general admiration, 
sat in the arm-chair and cast a 
tranquil glance around him. Every one 
looked with astonishment on that grave 
and severe face, whose calm expression 
personal griefs had been unable to 
disturb, and the aspect of a man who 
was a stranger to all human emotions 
excited something very like terror.

"Gendarmes," said the president, "lead 
in the accused."

At these words the public attention 
became more intense, and all eyes were 
turned towards the door through which 
Benedetto was to enter. The door soon 
opened and the accused appeared. The 
same impression was experienced by all 
present, and no one was deceived by the 
expression of his countenance. His 
features bore no sign of that deep 
emotion which stops the beating of the 
heart and blanches the cheek. His 
hands, gracefully placed, one upon his 
hat, the other in the opening of his 
white waistcoat, were not at all 
tremulous; his eye was calm and even 
brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the 
hall when he glanced at the whole body 
of magistrates and assistants; his eye 
rested longer on the president, and 
still more so on the king's attorney. 
By the side of Andrea was stationed the 
lawyer who was to conduct his defence, 
and who had been appointed by the 
court, for Andrea disdained to pay any 
attention to those details, to which he 
appeared to attach no importance. The 
lawyer was a young man with light hair 
whose face expressed a hundred times 
more emotion than that which 
characterized the prisoner.

The president called for the 
indictment, revised as we know, by the 
clever and implacable pen of Villefort. 
During the reading of this, which was 
long, the public attention was 
continually drawn towards Andrea, who 
bore the inspection with Spartan 
unconcern. Villefort had never been so 
concise and eloquent. The crime was 
depicted in the most vivid colors; the 
former life of the prisoner, his 
transformation, a review of his life 
from the earliest period, were set 
forth with all the talent that a 
knowledge of human life could furnish 
to a mind like that of the procureur. 
Benedetto was thus forever condemned in 
public opinion before the sentence of 
the law could be pronounced. Andrea 
paid no attention to the successive 
charges which were brought against him. 
M. de Villefort, who examined him 
attentively, and who no doubt practiced 
upon him all the psychological studies 
he was accustomed to use, in vain 
endeavored to make him lower his eyes, 
notwithstanding the depth and 
profundity of his gaze. At length the 
reading of the indictment was ended.

"Accused," said the president, "your 
name and surname?" Andrea arose. 
"Excuse me, Mr. President," he said, in 
a clear voice, "but I see you are going 
to adopt a course of questions through 
which I cannot follow you. I have an 
idea, which I will explain by and by, 
of making an exception to the usual 
form of accusation. Allow me, then, if 
you please, to answer in different 
order, or I will not do so at all." The 
astonished president looked at the 
jury, who in turn looked at Villefort. 
The whole assembly manifested great 
surprise, but Andrea appeared quite 
unmoved. "Your age?" said the 
president; "will you answer that 
question?"

"I will answer that question, as well 
as the rest, Mr. President, but in its 
turn."

"Your age?" repeated the president.

"I am twenty-one years old, or rather I 
shall be in a few days, as I was born 
the night of the 27th of September, 
1817." M. de Villefort, who was busy 
taking down some notes, raised his head 
at the mention of this date. "Where 
were you born?" continued the president.

"At Auteuil, near Paris." M. de 
Villefort a second time raised his 
head, looked at Benedetto as if he had 
been gazing at the head of Medusa, and 
became livid. As for Benedetto, he 
gracefully wiped his lips with a fine 
cambric pocket-handkerchief. "Your 
profession?"

"First I was a forger," answered 
Andrea, as calmly as possible; "then I 
became a thief, and lately have become 
an assassin." A murmur, or rather 
storm, of indignation burst from all 
parts of the assembly. The judges 
themselves appeared to be stupefied, 
and the jury manifested tokens of 
disgust for cynicism so unexpected in a 
man of fashion. M. de Villefort pressed 
his hand upon his brow, which, at first 
pale, had become red and burning; then 
he suddenly arose and looked around as 
though he had lost his senses -- he 
wanted air.

"Are you looking for anything, Mr. 
Procureur?" asked Benedetto, with his 
most ingratiating smile. M. de 
Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or 
rather threw himself down again upon 
his chair. "And now, prisoner, will you 
consent to tell your name?" said the 
president. "The brutal affectation with 
which you have enumerated and 
classified your crimes calls for a 
severe reprimand on the part of the 
court, both in the name of morality, 
and for the respect due to humanity. 
You appear to consider this a point of 
honor, and it may be for this reason, 
that you have delayed acknowledging 
your name. You wished it to be preceded 
by all these titles."

"It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, 
how entirely you have read my 
thoughts," said Benedetto, in his 
softest voice and most polite manner. 
"This is, indeed, the reason why I 
begged you to alter the order of the 
questions." The public astonishment had 
reached its height. There was no longer 
any deceit or bravado in the manner of 
the accused. The audience felt that a 
startling revelation was to follow this 
ominous prelude.

"Well," said the president; "your name?"

"I cannot tell you my name, since I do 
not know it; but I know my father's, 
and can tell it to you."

A painful giddiness overwhelmed 
Villefort; great drops of acrid sweat 
fell from his face upon the papers 
which he held in his convulsed hand.

"Repeat your father's name," said the 
president. Not a whisper, not a breath, 
was heard in that vast assembly; every 
one waited anxiously.

"My father is king's attorney," replied 
Andrea calmly.

"King's attorney?" said the president, 
stupefied, and without noticing the 
agitation which spread over the face of 
M. de Villefort; "king's attorney?"

"Yes; and if you wish to know his name, 
I will tell it, -- he is named 
Villefort." The explosion, which had 
been so long restrained from a feeling 
of respect to the court of justice, now 
burst forth like thunder from the 
breasts of all present; the court 
itself did not seek to restrain the 
feelings of the audience. The 
exclamations, the insults addressed to 
Benedetto, who remained perfectly 
unconcerned, the energetic gestures, 
the movement of the gendarmes, the 
sneers of the scum of the crowd always 
sure to rise to the surface in case of 
any disturbance -- all this lasted five 
minutes, before the door-keepers and 
magistrates were able to restore 
silence. In the midst of this tumult 
the voice of the president was heard to 
exclaim, -- "Are you playing with 
justice, accused, and do you dare set 
your fellow-citizens an example of 
disorder which even in these times his 
never been equalled?"

Several persons hurried up to M. de 
Villefort, who sat half bowed over in 
his chair, offering him consolation, 
encouragement, and protestations of 
zeal and sympathy. Order was 
re-established in the hall, except that 
a few people still moved about and 
whispered to one another. A lady, it 
was said, had just fainted; they had 
supplied her with a smelling-bottle, 
and she had recovered. During the scene 
of tumult, Andrea had turned his 
smiling face towards the assembly; 
then, leaning with one hand on the 
oaken rail of the dock, in the most 
graceful attitude possible, he said: 
"Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea 
of insulting the court, or of making a 
useless disturbance in the presence of 
this honorable assembly. They ask my 
age; I tell it. They ask where I was 
born; I answer. They ask my name, I 
cannot give it, since my parents 
abandoned me. But though I cannot give 
my own name, not possessing one, I can 
tell them my father's. Now I repeat, my 
father is named M. de Villefort, and I 
am ready to prove it."

There was an energy, a conviction, and 
a sincerity in the manner of the young 
man, which silenced the tumult. All 
eyes were turned for a moment towards 
the procureur, who sat as motionless as 
though a thunderbolt had changed him 
into a corpse. "Gentlemen," said 
Andrea, commanding silence by his voice 
and manner; "I owe you the proofs and 
explanations of what I have said."

"But," said the irritated president, 
"you called yourself Benedetto, 
declared yourself an orphan, and 
claimed Corsica as your country."

"I said anything I pleased, in order 
that the solemn declaration I have just 
made should not be withheld, which 
otherwise would certainly have been the 
case. I now repeat that I was born at 
Auteuil on the night of the 27th of 
September, 1817, and that I am the son 
of the procureur, M. de Villefort. Do 
you wish for any further details? I 
will give them. I was born in No. 28, 
Rue de la Fontaine, in a room hung with 
red damask; my father took me in his 
arms, telling my mother I was dead, 
wrapped me in a napkin marked with an H 
and an N, and carried me into a garden, 
where he buried me alive."

A shudder ran through the assembly when 
they saw that the confidence of the 
prisoner increased in proportion to the 
terror of M. de Villefort. "But how 
have you become acquainted with all 
these details?" asked the president.

"I will tell you, Mr. President. A man 
who had sworn vengeance against my 
father, and had long watched his 
opportunity to kill him, had introduced 
himself that night into the garden in 
which my father buried me. He was 
concealed in a thicket; he saw my 
father bury something in the ground, 
and stabbed him; then thinking the 
deposit might contain some treasure he 
turned up the ground, and found me 
still living. The man carried me to the 
foundling asylum, where I was 
registered under the number 37. Three 
months afterwards, a woman travelled 
from Rogliano to Paris to fetch me, and 
having claimed me as her son, carried 
me away. Thus, you see, though born in 
Paris, I was brought up in Corsica."

There was a moment's silence, during 
which one could have fancied the hall 
empty, so profound was the stillness. 
"Proceed," said the president.

"Certainly, I might have lived happily 
amongst those good people, who adored 
me, but my perverse disposition 
prevailed over the virtues which my 
adopted mother endeavored to instil 
into my heart. I increased in 
wickedness till I committed crime. One 
day when I cursed providence for making 
me so wicked, and ordaining me to such 
a fate, my adopted father said to me, 
`Do not blaspheme, unhappy child, the 
crime is that of your father, not 
yours, -- of your father, who consigned 
you to hell if you died, and to misery 
if a miracle preserved you alive.' 
After that I ceased to blaspheme, but I 
cursed my father. That is why I have 
uttered the words for which you blame 
me; that is why I have filled this 
whole assembly with horror. If I have 
committed an additional crime, punish 
me, but if you will allow that ever 
since the day of my birth my fate has 
been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then 
pity me."

"But your mother?" asked the president.

"My mother thought me dead; she is not 
guilty. I did not even wish to know her 
name, nor do I know it." Just then a 
piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst 
from the centre of the crowd, who 
encircled the lady who had before 
fainted, and who now fell into a 
violent fit of hysterics. She was 
carried out of the hall, the thick veil 
which concealed her face dropped off, 
and Madame Danglars was recognized. 
Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, 
the ringing sensation in his ears, and 
the madness which turned his brain, 
Villefort rose as he perceived her. 
"The proofs, the proofs!" said the 
president; "remember this tissue of 
horrors must be supported by the 
clearest proofs "

"The proofs?" said Benedetto, laughing; 
"do you want proofs?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, 
and then ask me for proofs."

Every one turned towards the procureur, 
who, unable to bear the universal gaze 
now riveted on him alone, advanced 
staggering into the midst of the 
tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and 
his face indented with the mark of his 
nails. The whole assembly uttered a 
long murmur of astonishment. "Father," 
said Benedetto, "I am asked for proofs, 
do you wish me to give them?"

"No, no, it is useless," stammered M. 
de Villefort in a hoarse voice; "no, it 
is useless!"

"How useless?" cried the president, 
"what do you mean?"

"I mean that I feel it impossible to 
struggle against this deadly weight 
which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I 
am in the hands of an avenging God! We 
need no proofs; everything relating to 
this young man is true." A dull, gloomy 
silence, like that which precedes some 
awful phenomenon of nature, pervaded 
the assembly, who shuddered in dismay. 
"What, M. de Villefort," cried the 
president, "do you yield to an 
hallucination? What, are you no longer 
in possession of your senses? This 
strange, unexpected, terrible 
accusation has disordered your reason. 
Come, recover."

The procureur dropped his head; his 
teeth chattered like those of a man 
under a violent attack of fever, and 
yet he was deadly pale.

"I am in possession of all my senses, 
sir," he said; "my body alone suffers, 
as you may suppose. I acknowledge 
myself guilty of all the young man has 
brought against me, and from this hour 
hold myself under the authority of the 
procureur who will succeed me."

And as he spoke these words with a 
hoarse, choking voice, he staggered 
towards the door, which was 
mechanically opened by a door-keeper. 
The whole assembly were dumb with 
astonishment at the revelation and 
confession which had produced a 
catastrophe so different from that 
which had been expected during the last 
fortnight by the Parisian world.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "let them now 
say that drama is unnatural!"

"Ma foi!" said Chateau-Renaud, "I would 
rather end my career like M. de 
Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite 
delightful compared with this 
catastrophe."

"And moreover, it kills," said 
Beauchamp.

"And to think that I had an idea of 
marrying his daughter," said Debray. 
"She did well to die, poor girl!"

"The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen," 
said the president; "fresh inquiries 
will be made, and the case will be 
tried next session by another 
magistrate." As for Andrea, who was 
calm and more interesting than ever, he 
left the hall, escorted by gendarmes, 
who involuntarily paid him some 
attention. "Well, what do you think of 
this, my fine fellow?" asked Debray of 
the sergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis 
into his hand. "There will be 
extenuating circumstances," he replied. 

 Chapter 111 Expiation.

Notwithstanding the density of the 
crowd, M. de Villefort saw it open 
before him. There is something so 
awe-inspiring in great afflictions that 
even in the worst times the first 
emotion of a crowd has generally been 
to sympathize with the sufferer in a 
great catastrophe. Many people have 
been assassinated in a tumult, but even 
criminals have rarely been insulted 
during trial. Thus Villefort passed 
through the mass of spectators and 
officers of the Palais, and withdrew. 
Though he had acknowledged his guilt, 
he was protected by his grief. There 
are some situations which men 
understand by instinct, but which 
reason is powerless to explain; in such 
cases the greatest poet is he who gives 
utterance to the most natural and 
vehement outburst of sorrow. Those who 
hear the bitter cry are as much 
impressed as if they listened to an 
entire poem, and when the sufferer is 
sincere they are right in regarding his 
outburst as sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the 
state of stupor in which Villefort left 
the Palais. Every pulse beat with 
feverish excitement, every nerve was 
strained, every vein swollen, and every 
part of his body seemed to suffer 
distinctly from the rest, thus 
multiplying his agony a thousand-fold. 
He made his way along the corridors 
through force of habit; he threw aside 
his magisterial robe, not out of 
deference to etiquette, but because it 
was an unbearable burden, a veritable 
garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture. 
Having staggered as far as the Rue 
Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, 
awoke his sleeping coachman by opening 
the door himself, threw himself on the 
cushions, and pointed towards the 
Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage 
drove on. The weight of his fallen 
fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him; 
he could not foresee the consequences; 
he could not contemplate the future 
with the indifference of the hardened 
criminal who merely faces a contingency 
already familiar. God was still in his 
heart. "God," he murmured, not knowing 
what he said, -- "God -- God!" Behind 
the event that had overwhelmed him he 
saw the hand of God. The carriage 
rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while 
turning restlessly on the cushions, 
felt something press against him. He 
put out his hand to remove the object; 
it was a fan which Madame de Villefort 
had left in the carriage; this fan 
awakened a recollection which darted 
through his mind like lightning. He 
thought of his wife.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot 
iron were piercing his heart. During 
the last hour his own crime had alone 
been presented to his mind; now another 
object, not less terrible, suddenly 
presented itself. His wife! He had just 
acted the inexorable judge with her, he 
had condemned her to death, and she, 
crushed by remorse, struck with terror, 
covered with the shame inspired by the 
eloquence of his irreproachable virtue, 
-- she, a poor, weak woman, without 
help or the power of defending herself 
against his absolute and supreme will, 
-- she might at that very moment, 
perhaps, be preparing to die! An hour 
had elapsed since her condemnation; at 
that moment, doubtless, she was 
recalling all her crimes to her memory; 
she was asking pardon for her sins; 
perhaps she was even writing a letter 
imploring forgiveness from her virtuous 
husband -- a forgiveness she was 
purchasing with her death! Villefort 
again groaned with anguish and despair. 
"Ah," he exclaimed, "that woman became 
criminal only from associating with me! 
I carried the infection of crime with 
me, and she has caught it as she would 
the typhus fever, the cholera, the 
plague! And yet I have punished her -- 
I have dared to tell her -- I have -- 
`Repent and die!' But no, she must not 
die; she shall live, and with me. We 
will flee from Paris and go as far as 
the earth reaches. I told her of the 
scaffold; oh, heavens, I forgot that it 
awaits me also! How could I pronounce 
that word? Yes, we will fly; I will 
confess all to her, -- I will tell her 
daily that I also have committed a 
crime! -- Oh, what an alliance -- the 
tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of 
such as I am! She must live that my 
infamy may diminish hers." And 
Villefort dashed open the window in 
front of the carriage.

"Faster, faster!" he cried, in a tone 
which electrified the coachman. The 
horses, impelled by fear, flew towards 
the house.

"Yes, yes," repeated Villefort, as he 
approached his home -- "yes, that woman 
must live; she must repent, and educate 
my son, the sole survivor, with the 
exception of the indestructible old 
man, of the wreck of my house. She 
loves him; it was for his sake she has 
committed these crimes. We ought never 
to despair of softening the heart of a 
mother who loves her child. She will 
repent, and no one will know that she 
has been guilty. The events which have 
taken place in my house, though they 
now occupy the public mind, will be 
forgotten in time, or if, indeed, a few 
enemies should persist in remembering 
them, why then I will add them to my 
list of crimes. What will it signify if 
one, two, or three more are added? My 
wife and child shall escape from this 
gulf, carrying treasures with them; she 
will live and may yet be happy, since 
her child, in whom all her love is 
centred, will be with her. I shall have 
performed a good action, and my heart 
will be lighter." And the procureur 
breathed more freely than he had done 
for some time.

The carriage stopped at the door of the 
house. Villefort leaped out of the 
carriage, and saw that his servants 
were surprised at his early return; he 
could read no other expression on their 
features. Neither of them spoke to him; 
they merely stood aside to let him pass 
by, as usual, nothing more. As he 
passed by M. Noirtier's room, he 
perceived two figures through the 
half-open door; but he experienced no 
curiosity to know who was visiting his 
father: anxiety carried him on further.

"Come," he said, as he ascended the 
stairs leading to his wife's room, 
"nothing is changed here." He then 
closed the door of the landing. "No one 
must disturb us," he said; "I must 
speak freely to her, accuse myself, and 
say" -- he approached the door, touched 
the crystal handle, which yielded to 
his hand. "Not locked," he cried; "that 
is well." And he entered the little 
room in which Edward slept; for though 
the child went to school during the 
day, his mother could not allow him to 
be separated from her at night. With a 
single glance Villefort's eye ran 
through the room. "Not here," he said; 
"doubtless she is in her bedroom." He 
rushed towards the door, found it 
bolted, and stopped, shuddering. 
"Heloise!" he cried. He fancied he 
heard the sound of a piece of furniture 
being removed. "Heloise!" he repeated.

"Who is there?" answered the voice of 
her he sought. He thought that voice 
more feeble than usual.

"Open the door!" cried Villefort. 
"Open; it is I." But notwithstanding 
this request, notwithstanding the tone 
of anguish in which it was uttered, the 
door remained closed. Villefort burst 
it open with a violent blow. At the 
entrance of the room which led to her 
boudoir, Madame de Villefort was 
standing erect, pale, her features 
contracted, and her eyes glaring 
horribly. "Heloise, Heloise!" he said, 
"what is the matter? Speak!" The young 
woman extended her stiff white hands 
towards him. "It is done, monsieur," 
she said with a rattling noise which 
seemed to tear her throat. "What more 
do you want?" and she fell full length 
on the floor. Villefort ran to her and 
seized her hand, which convulsively 
clasped a crystal bottle with a golden 
stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead. 
Villefort, maddened with horror, 
stepped back to the threshhold of the 
door, fixing his eyes on the corpse: 
"My son!" he exclaimed suddenly, "where 
is my son? -- Edward, Edward!" and he 
rushed out of the room, still crying, 
"Edward, Edward!" The name was 
pronounced in such a tone of anguish 
that the servants ran up.

"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; 
"let him be removed from the house, 
that he may not see" --

"Master Edward is not down-stairs, 
sir," replied the valet.

"Then he must be playing in the garden; 
go and see."

"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for 
him half an hour ago; he went into her 
room, and has not been down-stairs 
since." A cold perspiration burst out 
on Villefort's brow; his legs trembled, 
and his thoughts flew about madly in 
his brain like the wheels of a 
disordered watch. "In Madame de 
Villefort's room?" he murmured and 
slowly returned, with one hand wiping 
his forehead, and with the other 
supporting himself against the wall. To 
enter the room he must again see the 
body of his unfortunate wife. To call 
Edward he must reawaken the echo of 
that room which now appeared like a 
sepulchre; to speak seemed like 
violating the silence of the tomb. His 
tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

"Edward!" he stammered -- "Edward!" The 
child did not answer. Where, then, 
could he be, if he had entered his 
mother's room and not since returned? 
He stepped forward. The corpse of 
Madame de Villefort was stretched 
across the doorway leading to the room 
in which Edward must be; those glaring 
eyes seemed to watch over the 
threshold, and the lips bore the stamp 
of a terrible and mysterious irony. 
Through the open door was visible a 
portion of the boudoir, containing an 
upright piano and a blue satin couch. 
Villefort stepped forward two or three 
paces, and beheld his child lying -- no 
doubt asleep -- on the sofa. The 
unhappy man uttered an exclamation of 
joy; a ray of light seemed to penetrate 
the abyss of despair and darkness. He 
had only to step over the corpse, enter 
the boudoir, take the child in his 
arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized 
man; he was a tiger hurt unto death, 
gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no 
longer feared realities, but phantoms. 
He leaped over the corpse as if it had 
been a burning brazier. He took the 
child in his arms, embraced him, shook 
him, called him, but the child made no 
response. He pressed his burning lips 
to the cheeks, but they were icy cold 
and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; 
he pressed his hand upon the heart, but 
it no longer beat, -- the child was 
dead. A folded paper fell from Edward's 
breast. Villefort, thunderstruck, fell 
upon his knees; the child dropped from 
his arms, and rolled on the floor by 
the side of its mother. He picked up 
the paper, and, recognizing his wife's 
writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its 
contents; it ran as follows: --

"You know that I was a good mother, 
since it was for my son's sake I became 
criminal. A good mother cannot depart 
without her son."

Villefort could not believe his eyes, 
-- he could not believe his reason; he 
dragged himself towards the child's 
body, and examined it as a lioness 
contemplates its dead cub. Then a 
piercing cry escaped from his breast, 
and he cried, "Still the hand of God." 
The presence of the two victims alarmed 
him; he could not bear solitude shared 
only by two corpses. Until then he had 
been sustained by rage, by his strength 
of mind, by despair, by the supreme 
agony which led the Titans to scale the 
heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He 
now arose, his head bowed beneath the 
weight of grief, and, shaking his damp, 
dishevelled hair, he who had never felt 
compassion for any one determined to 
seek his father, that he might have 
some one to whom he could relate his 
misfortunes, -- some one by whose side 
he might weep. He descended the little 
staircase with which we are acquainted, 
and entered Noirtier's room. The old 
man appeared to be listening 
attentively and as affectionately as 
his infirmities would allow to the Abbe 
Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as 
usual. Villefort, perceiving the abbe, 
passed his hand across his brow. He 
recollected the call he had made upon 
him after the dinner at Auteuil, and 
then the visit the abbe had himself 
paid to his house on the day of 
Valentine's death. "You here, sir!" he 
exclaimed; "do you, then, never appear 
but to act as an escort to death?"

Busoni turned around, and, perceiving 
the excitement depicted on the 
magistrate's face, the savage lustre of 
his eyes, he understood that the 
revelation had been made at the 
assizes; but beyond this he was 
ignorant. "I came to pray over the body 
of your daughter."

"And now why are you here?"

"I come to tell you that you have 
sufficiently repaid your debt, and that 
from this moment I will pray to God to 
forgive you, as I do."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Villefort, 
stepping back fearfully, "surely that 
is not the voice of the Abbe Busoni!"

"No!" The abbe threw off his wig, shook 
his head, and his hair, no longer 
confined, fell in black masses around 
his manly face.

"It is the face of the Count of Monte 
Cristo!" exclaimed the procureur, with 
a haggard expression.

"You are not exactly right, M. 
Procureur; you must go farther back."

"That voice, that voice! -- where did I 
first hear it?"

"You heard it for the first time at 
Marseilles, twenty-three years ago, the 
day of your marriage with Mademoiselle 
de Saint-Meran. Refer to your papers."

"You are not Busoni? -- you are not 
Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens -- you are, 
then, some secret, implacable, and 
mortal enemy! I must have wronged you 
in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to 
me!"

"Yes; you are now on the right path," 
said the count, crossing his arms over 
his broad chest; "search -- search!"

"But what have I done to you?" 
exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was 
balancing between reason and insanity, 
in that cloud which is neither a dream 
nor reality; "what have I done to you? 
Tell me, then! Speak!"

"You condemned me to a horrible, 
tedious death; you killed my father; 
you deprived me of liberty, of love, 
and happiness."

"Who are you, then? Who are you?"

"I am the spectre of a wretch you 
buried in the dungeons of the Chateau 
d'If. God gave that spectre the form of 
the Count of Monte Cristo when he at 
length issued from his tomb, enriched 
him with gold and diamonds, and led him 
to you!"

"Ah, I recognize you -- I recognize 
you!" exclaimed the king's attorney; 
"you are" --

"I am Edmond Dantes!"

"You are Edmond Dantes," cried 
Villefort, seizing the count by the 
wrist; "then come here!" And up the 
stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, 
ignorant of what had happened, followed 
him in astonishment, foreseeing some 
new catastrophe. "There, Edmond 
Dantes!" he said, pointing to the 
bodies of his wife and child, "see, are 
you well avenged?" Monte Cristo became 
pale at this horrible sight; he felt 
that he had passed beyond the bounds of 
vengeance, and that he could no longer 
say, "God is for and with me." With an 
expression of indescribable anguish he 
threw himself upon the body of the 
child, reopened its eyes, felt its 
pulse, and then rushed with him into 
Valentine's room, of which he 
double-locked the door. "My child," 
cried Villefort, "he carries away the 
body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, 
death to you!" and he tried to follow 
Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream 
he was transfixed to the spot, -- his 
eyes glared as though they were 
starting through the sockets; he griped 
the flesh on his chest until his nails 
were stained with blood; the veins of 
his temples swelled and boiled as 
though they would burst their narrow 
boundary, and deluge his brain with 
living fire. This lasted several 
minutes, until the frightful overturn 
of reason was accomplished; then 
uttering a loud cry followed by a burst 
of laughter, he rushed down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the 
door of Valentine's room opened, and 
Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a 
dull eye and heavy heart, all the noble 
features of that face, usually so calm 
and serene, were overcast by grief. In 
his arms he held the child, whom no 
skill had been able to recall to life. 
Bending on one knee, he placed it 
reverently by the side of its mother, 
with its head upon her breast. Then, 
rising, he went out, and meeting a 
servant on the stairs, he asked, "Where 
is M. de Villefort?"

The servant, instead of answering, 
pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo ran 
down the steps, and advancing towards 
the spot designated beheld Villefort, 
encircled by his servants, with a spade 
in his hand, and digging the earth with 
fury. "It is not here!" he cried. "It 
is not here!" And then he moved farther 
on, and began again to dig.

Monte Cristo approached him, and said 
in a low voice, with an expression 
almost humble, "Sir, you have indeed 
lost a son; but" --

Villefort interrupted him; he had 
neither listened nor heard. "Oh, I will 
find it," he cried; "you may pretend he 
is not here, but I will find him, 
though I dig forever!" Monte Cristo 
drew back in horror. "Oh," he said, "he 
is mad!" And as though he feared that 
the walls of the accursed house would 
crumble around him, he rushed into the 
street, for the first time doubting 
whether he had the right to do as he 
had done. "Oh, enough of this, -- 
enough of this," he cried; "let me save 
the last." On entering his house, he 
met Morrel, who wandered about like a 
ghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for 
return to the tomb. "Prepare yourself, 
Maximilian," he said with a smile; "we 
leave Paris to-morrow."

"Have you nothing more to do there?" 
asked Morrel.

"No," replied Monte Cristo; "God grant 
I may not have done too much already."

The next day they indeed left, 
accompanied only by Baptistin. Haidee 
had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio 
remained with Noirtier. 

 Chapter 112 The Departure.

The recent event formed the theme of 
conversation throughout all Paris. 
Emmanuel and his wife conversed with 
natural astonishment in their little 
apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the 
three successive, sudden, and most 
unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, 
Danglars, and Villefort. Maximilian, 
who was paying them a visit, listened 
to their conversation, or rather was 
present at it, plunged in his 
accustomed state of apathy. "Indeed," 
said Julie, "might we not almost fancy, 
Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, 
so happy but yesterday, had forgotten 
in their prosperity that an evil genius 
-- like the wicked fairies in 
Perrault's stories who present 
themselves unbidden at a wedding or 
baptism -- hovered over them, and 
appeared all at once to revenge himself 
for their fatal neglect?"

"What a dire misfortune!" said 
Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and 
Danglars.

"What dreadful sufferings!" said Julie, 
remembering Valentine, but whom, with a 
delicacy natural to women, she did not 
name before her brother.

"If the Supreme Being has directed the 
fatal blow," said Emmanuel, "it must be 
that he in his great goodness has 
perceived nothing in the past lives of 
these people to merit mitigation of 
their awful punishment."

"Do you not form a very rash judgment, 
Emmanuel?" said Julie. "When my father, 
with a pistol in his hand, was once on 
the point of committing suicide, had 
any one then said, `This man deserves 
his misery,' would not that person have 
been deceived?"

"Yes; but your father was not allowed 
to fall. A being was commissioned to 
arrest the fatal hand of death about to 
descend on him."

Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these 
words when the sound of the bell was 
heard, the well-known signal given by 
the porter that a visitor had arrived. 
Nearly at the same instant the door was 
opened and the Count of Monte Cristo 
appeared on the threshold. The young 
people uttered a cry of joy, while 
Maximilian raised his head, but let it 
fall again immediately. "Maximilian," 
said the count, without appearing to 
notice the different impressions which 
his presence produced on the little 
circle, "I come to seek you."

"To seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if 
awakening from a dream.

"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "has it not 
been agreed that I should take you with 
me, and did I not tell you yesterday to 
prepare for departure?"

"I am ready," said Maximilian; "I came 
expressly to wish them farewell."

"Whither are you going, count?" asked 
Julie.

"In the first instance to Marseilles, 
madame."

"To Marseilles!" exclaimed the young 
couple.

"Yes, and I take your brother with me."

"Oh, count." said Julie, "will you 
restore him to us cured of his 
melancholy?" -- Morrel turned away to 
conceal the confusion of his 
countenance.

"You perceive, then, that he is not 
happy?" said the count. "Yes," replied 
the young woman; "and fear much that he 
finds our home but a dull one."

"I will undertake to divert him," 
replied the count.

"I am ready to accompany you, sir," 
said Maximilian. "Adieu, my kind 
friends! Emmanuel -- Julie -- farewell!"

"How farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do 
you leave us thus, so suddenly, without 
any preparations for your journey, 
without even a passport?"

"Needless delays but increase the grief 
of parting," said Monte Cristo, "and 
Maximilian has doubtless provided 
himself with everything requisite; at 
least, I advised him to do so."

"I have a passport, and my clothes are 
ready packed," said Morrel in his 
tranquil but mournful manner.

"Good," said Monte Cristo, smiling; "in 
these prompt arrangements we recognize 
the order of a well-disciplined 
soldier."

"And you leave us," said Julie, "at a 
moment's warning? you do not give us a 
day -- no, not even an hour before your 
departure?"

"My carriage is at the door, madame, 
and I must be in Rome in five days."

"But does Maximilian go to Rome?" 
exclaimed Emmanuel.

"I am going wherever it may please the 
count to take me," said Morrel, with a 
smile full of grief; "I am under his 
orders for the next month."

"Oh, heavens, how strangely he 
expresses himself, count!" said Julie.

"Maximilian goes with me," said the 
count, in his kindest and most 
persuasive manner; "therefore do not 
make yourself uneasy on your brother's 
account."

"Once more farewell, my dear sister; 
Emmanuel, adieu!" Morrel repeated.

"His carelessness and indifference 
touch me to the heart," said Julie. 
"Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are 
certainly concealing something from us."

"Pshaw!" said Monte Cristo, "you will 
see him return to you gay, smiling, and 
joyful."

Maximilian cast a look of disdain, 
almost of anger, on the count.

"We must leave you," said Monte Cristo.

"Before you quit us, count," said 
Julie, "will you permit us to express 
to you all that the other day" --

"Madame," interrupted the count, taking 
her two hands in his, "all that you 
could say in words would never express 
what I read in your eyes; the thoughts 
of your heart are fully understood by 
mine. Like benefactors in romances, I 
should have left you without seeing you 
again, but that would have been a 
virtue beyond my strength, because I am 
a weak and vain man, fond of the 
tender, kind, and thankful glances of 
my fellow-creatures. On the eve of 
departure I carry my egotism so far as 
to say, `Do not forget me, my kind 
friends, for probably you will never 
see me again.'"

"Never see you again?" exclaimed 
Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled 
down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you 
again? It is not a man, then, but some 
angel that leaves us, and this angel is 
on the point of returning to heaven 
after having appeared on earth to do 
good."

"Say not so," quickly returned Monte 
Cristo -- "say not so, my friends; 
angels never err, celestial beings 
remain where they wish to be. Fate is 
not more powerful than they; it is they 
who, on the contrary, overcome fate. 
No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your 
admiration is as unmerited as your 
words are sacrilegious." And pressing 
his lips on the hand of Julie, who 
rushed into his arms, he extended his 
other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing 
himself from this abode of peace and 
happiness, he made a sign to 
Maximilian, who followed him passively, 
with the indifference which had been 
perceptible in him ever since the death 
of Valentine had so stunned him. 
"Restore my brother to peace and 
happiness," whispered Julie to Monte 
Cristo. And the count pressed her hand 
in reply, as he had done eleven years 
before on the staircase leading to 
Morrel's study.

"You still confide, then, in Sinbad the 
Sailor?" asked he, smiling.

"Oh, yes," was the ready answer.

"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put 
your trust in heaven." As we have 
before said, the postchaise was 
waiting; four powerful horses were 
already pawing the ground with 
impatience, while Ali, apparently just 
arrived from a long walk, was standing 
at the foot of the steps, his face 
bathed in perspiration. "Well," asked 
the count in Arabic, "have you been to 
see the old man?" Ali made a sign in 
the affirmative.

"And have you placed the letter before 
him, as I ordered you to do?"

The slave respectfully signalized that 
he had. "And what did he say, or rather 
do?" Ali placed himself in the light, 
so that his master might see him 
distinctly, and then imitating in his 
intelligent manner the countenance of 
the old man, he closed his eyes, as 
Noirtier was in the custom of doing 
when saying "Yes."

"Good; he accepts," said Monte Cristo. 
"Now let us go."

These words had scarcely escaped him, 
when the carriage was on its way, and 
the feet of the horses struck a shower 
of sparks from the pavement. Maximilian 
settled himself in his corner without 
uttering a word. Half an hour had 
passed when the carriage stopped 
suddenly; the count had just pulled the 
silken check-string, which was fastened 
to Ali's finger. The Nubian immediately 
descended and opened the carriage door. 
It was a lovely starlight night -- they 
had just reached the top of the hill 
Villejuif, from whence Paris appears 
like a sombre sea tossing its millions 
of phosphoric waves into light -- waves 
indeed more noisy, more passionate, 
more changeable, more furious, more 
greedy, than those of the tempestuous 
ocean, -- waves which never rest as 
those of the sea sometimes do, -- waves 
ever dashing, ever foaming, ever 
ingulfing what falls within their 
grasp. The count stood alone, and at a 
sign from his hand, the carriage went 
on for a short distance. With folded 
arms, he gazed for some time upon the 
great city. When he had fixed his 
piercing look on this modern Babylon, 
which equally engages the contemplation 
of the religious enthusiast, the 
materialist, and the scoffer, -- "Great 
city," murmured he, inclining his head, 
and joining his hands as if in prayer, 
"less than six months have elapsed 
since first I entered thy gates. I 
believe that the Spirit of God led my 
steps to thee and that he also enables 
me to quit thee in triumph; the secret 
cause of my presence within thy walls I 
have confided alone to him who only has 
had the power to read my heart. God 
only knows that I retire from thee 
without pride or hatred, but not 
without many regrets; he only knows 
that the power confided to me has never 
been made subservient to my personal 
good or to any useless cause. Oh, great 
city, it is in thy palpitating bosom 
that I have found that which I sought; 
like a patient miner, I have dug deep 
into thy very entrails to root out evil 
thence. Now my work is accomplished, my 
mission is terminated, now thou canst 
neither afford me pain nor pleasure. 
Adieu, Paris, adieu!"

His look wandered over the vast plain 
like that of some genius of the night; 
he passed his hand over his brow, got 
into the carriage, the door was closed 
on him, and the vehicle quickly 
disappeared down the other side of the 
hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust.

Ten leagues were passed and not a 
single word was uttered.

Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo 
was looking at the dreamer.

"Morrel," said the count to him at 
length, "do you repent having followed 
me?"

"No, count; but to leave Paris" --

"If I thought happiness might await you 
in Paris, Morrel, I would have left you 
there."

"Valentine reposes within the walls of 
Paris, and to leave Paris is like 
losing her a second time."

"Maximilian," said the count, "the 
friends that we have lost do not repose 
in the bosom of the earth, but are 
buried deep in our hearts, and it has 
been thus ordained that we may always 
be accompanied by them. I have two 
friends, who in this way never depart 
from me; the one who gave me being, and 
the other who conferred knowledge and 
intelligence on me. Their spirits live 
in me. I consult them when doubtful, 
and if I ever do any good, it is due to 
their beneficent counsels. Listen to 
the voice of your heart, Morrel, and 
ask it whether you ought to preserve 
this melancholy exterior towards me."

"My friend," said Maximilian, "the 
voice of my heart is very sorrowful, 
and promises me nothing but misfortune."

"It is the way of weakened minds to see 
everything through a black cloud. The 
soul forms its own horizons; your soul 
is darkened, and consequently the sky 
of the future appears stormy and 
unpromising."

"That may possibly be true," said 
Maximilian, and he again subsided into 
his thoughtful mood.

The journey was performed with that 
marvellous rapidity which the unlimited 
power of the count ever commanded. 
Towns fled from them like shadows on 
their path, and trees shaken by the 
first winds of autumn seemed like 
giants madly rushing on to meet them, 
and retreating as rapidly when once 
reached. The following morning they 
arrived at Chalons, where the count's 
steamboat waited for them. Without the 
loss of an instant, the carriage was 
placed on board and the two travellers 
embarked without delay. The boat was 
built for speed; her two paddle-wheels 
were like two wings with which she 
skimmed the water like a bird. Morrel 
was not insensible to that sensation of 
delight which is generally experienced 
in passing rapidly through the air, and 
the wind which occasionally raised the 
hair from his forehead seemed on the 
point of dispelling momentarily the 
clouds collected there.

As the distance increased between the 
travellers and Paris, almost superhuman 
serenity appeared to surround the 
count; he might have been taken for an 
exile about to revisit his native land. 
Ere long Marseilles presented herself 
to view, -- Marseilles, white, fervid, 
full of life and energy, -- Marseilles, 
the younger sister of Tyre and 
Carthage, the successor to them in the 
empire of the Mediterranean, -- 
Marseilles, old, yet always young. 
Powerful memories were stirred within 
them by the sight of the round tower, 
Fort Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall 
designed by Puget,* the port with its 
brick quays, where they had both played 
in childhood, and it was with one 
accord that they stopped on the 
Cannebiere. A vessel was setting sail 
for Algiers, on board of which the 
bustle usually attending departure 
prevailed. The passengers and their 
relations crowded on the deck, friends 
taking a tender but sorrowful leave of 
each other, some weeping, others noisy 
in their grief, the whole forming a 
spectacle that might be exciting even 
to those who witnessed similar sights 
daily, but which had no power to 
disturb the current of thought that had 
taken possession of the mind of 
Maximilian from the moment he had set 
foot on the broad pavement of the quay.

* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, 
was born at Marseilles in 1622.

"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the 
arm of Monte Cristo, -- "here is the 
spot where my father stopped, when the 
Pharaon entered the port; it was here 
that the good old man, whom you saved 
from death and dishonor, threw himself 
into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears 
on my face, and his were not the only 
tears shed, for many who witnessed our 
meeting wept also." Monte Cristo gently 
smiled and said, -- "I was there;" at 
the same time pointing to the corner of 
a street. As he spoke, and in the very 
direction he indicated, a groan, 
expressive of bitter grief, was heard, 
and a woman was seen waving her hand to 
a passenger on board the vessel about 
to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her 
with an emotion that must have been 
remarked by Morrel had not his eyes 
been fixed on the vessel.

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do 
not deceive myself -- that young man 
who is waving his hat, that youth in 
the uniform of a lieutenant, is Albert 
de Morcerf!"

"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized 
him."

"How so? -- you were looking the other 
way." the count smiled, as he was in 
the habit of doing when he did not want 
to make any reply, and he again turned 
towards the veiled woman, who soon 
disappeared at the corner of the 
street. Turning to his friend, -- "Dear 
Maximilian," said the count, "have you 
nothing to do in this land?"

"I have to weep over the grave of my 
father," replied Morrel in a broken 
voice.

"Well, then, go, -- wait for me there, 
and I will soon join you."

"You leave me, then?"

"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."

Morrel allowed his hand to fall into 
that which the count extended to him; 
then with an inexpressibly sorrowful 
inclination of the head he quitted the 
count and bent his steps to the east of 
the city. Monte Cristo remained on the 
same spot until Maximilian was out of 
sight; he then walked slowly towards 
the Allees de Meillan to seek out a 
small house with which our readers were 
made familiar at the beginning of this 
story. It yet stood, under the shade of 
the fine avenue of lime-trees, which 
forms one of the most frequent walks of 
the idlers of Marseilles, covered by an 
immense vine, which spreads its aged 
and blackened branches over the stone 
front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun 
of the south. Two stone steps worn away 
by the friction of many feet led to the 
door, which was made of three planks; 
the door had never been painted or 
varnished, so great cracks yawned in it 
during the dry season to close again 
when the rains came on. The house, with 
all its crumbling antiquity and 
apparent misery, was yet cheerful and 
picturesque, and was the same that old 
Dantes formerly inhabited -- the only 
difference being that the old man 
occupied merely the garret, while the 
whole house was now placed at the 
command of Mercedes by the count.

The woman whom the count had seen leave 
the ship with so much regret entered 
this house; she had scarcely closed the 
door after her when Monte Cristo 
appeared at the corner of a street, so 
that he found and lost her again almost 
at the same instant. The worn out steps 
were old acquaintances of his; he knew 
better than any one else how to open 
that weather-beaten door with the large 
headed nail which served to raise the 
latch within. He entered without 
knocking, or giving any other 
intimation of his presence, as if he 
had been a friend or the master of the 
place. At the end of a passage paved 
with bricks, was a little garden, 
bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth 
and light. In this garden Mercedes had 
found, at the place indicated by the 
count, the sum of money which he, 
through a sense of delicacy, had 
described as having been placed there 
twenty-four years previously. The trees 
of the garden were easily seen from the 
steps of the street-door. Monte Cristo, 
on stepping into the house, heard a 
sigh that was almost a deep sob; he 
looked in the direction whence it came, 
and there under an arbor of Virginia 
jessamine,* with its thick foliage and 
beautiful long purple flowers, he saw 
Mercedes seated, with her head bowed, 
and weeping bitterly. She had raised 
her veil, and with her face hidden by 
her hands was giving free scope to the 
sighs and tears which had been so long 
restrained by the presence of her son. 
Monte Cristo advanced a few steps, 
which were heard on the gravel. 
Mercedes raised her head, and uttered a 
cry of terror on beholding a man before 
her.

* The Carolina -- not Virginia -- 
jessamine, gelsemium sempervirens 
(properly speaking not a jessamine at 
all) has yellow blossoms. The reference 
is no doubt to the Wistaria frutescens. 
-- Ed.

"Madame," said the count, "it is no 
longer in my power to restore you to 
happiness, but I offer you consolation; 
will you deign to accept it as coming 
from a friend?"

"I am, indeed, most wretched," replied 
Mercedes. "Alone in the world, I had 
but my son, and he has left me!"

"He possesses a noble heart, madame," 
replied the count, "and he has acted 
rightly. He feels that every man owes a 
tribute to his country; some contribute 
their talents, others their industry; 
these devote their blood, those their 
nightly labors, to the same cause. Had 
he remained with you, his life must 
have become a hateful burden, nor would 
he have participated in your griefs. He 
will increase in strength and honor by 
struggling with adversity, which he 
will convert into prosperity. Leave him 
to build up the future for you, and I 
venture to say you will confide it to 
safe hands."

"Oh," replied the wretched woman, 
mournfully shaking her head, "the 
prosperity of which you speak, and 
which, from the bottom of my heart, I 
pray God in his mercy to grant him, I 
can never enjoy. The bitter cup of 
adversity has been drained by me to the 
very dregs, and I feel that the grave 
is not far distant. You have acted 
kindly, count, in bringing me back to 
the place where I have enjoyed so much 
bliss. I ought to meet death on the 
same spot where happiness was once all 
my own."

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "your words 
sear and embitter my heart, the more so 
as you have every reason to hate me. I 
have been the cause of all your 
misfortunes; but why do you pity, 
instead of blaming me? You render me 
still more unhappy" --

"Hate you, blame you -- you, Edmond! 
Hate, reproach, the man that has spared 
my son's life! For was it not your 
fatal and sanguinary intention to 
destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf 
was so proud? Oh, look at me closely, 
and discover if you can even the 
semblance of a reproach in me." The 
count looked up and fixed his eyes on 
Mercedes, who arose partly from her 
seat and extended both her hands 
towards him. "Oh, look at me," 
continued she, with a feeling of 
profound melancholy, "my eyes no longer 
dazzle by their brilliancy, for the 
time has long fled since I used to 
smile on Edmond Dantes, who anxiously 
looked out for me from the window of 
yonder garret, then inhabited by his 
old father. Years of grief have created 
an abyss between those days and the 
present. I neither reproach you nor 
hate you, my friend. Oh, no, Edmond, it 
is myself that I blame, myself that I 
hate! Oh, miserable creature that I 
am!" cried she, clasping her hands, and 
raising her eyes to heaven. "I once 
possessed piety, innocence, and love, 
the three ingredients of the happiness 
of angels, and now what am I?" Monte 
Cristo approached her, and silently 
took her hand. "No," said she, 
withdrawing it gently -- "no, my 
friend, touch me not. You have spared 
me, yet of all those who have fallen 
under your vengeance I was the most 
guilty. They were influenced by hatred, 
by avarice, and by self-love; but I was 
base, and for want of courage acted 
against my judgment. Nay, do not press 
my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I am 
sure, of some kind speech to console 
me, but do not utter it to me, reserve 
it for others more worthy of your 
kindness. See" (and she exposed her 
face completely to view) -- "see, 
misfortune has silvered my hair, my 
eyes have shed so many tears that they 
are encircled by a rim of purple, and 
my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on 
the contrary, -- you are still young, 
handsome, dignified; it is because you 
have had faith; because you have had 
strength, because you have had trust in 
God, and God has sustained you. But as 
for me, I have been a coward; I have 
denied God and he has abandoned me."

Mercedes burst into tears; her woman's 
heart was breaking under its load of 
memories. Monte Cristo took her hand 
and imprinted a kiss on it; but she 
herself felt that it was a kiss of no 
greater warmth than he would have 
bestowed on the hand of some marble 
statue of a saint. "It often happens," 
continued she, "that a first fault 
destroys the prospects of a whole life. 
I believed you dead; why did I survive 
you? What good has it done me to mourn 
for you eternally in the secret 
recesses of my heart? -- only to make a 
woman of thirty-nine look like a woman 
of fifty. Why, having recognized you, 
and I the only one to do so -- why was 
I able to save my son alone? Ought I 
not also to have rescued the man that I 
had accepted for a husband, guilty 
though he were? Yet I let him die! What 
do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I 
not accessory to his death by my supine 
insensibility, by my contempt for him, 
not remembering, or not willing to 
remember, that it was for my sake he 
had become a traitor and a perjurer? In 
what am I benefited by accompanying my 
son so far, since I now abandon him, 
and allow him to depart alone to the 
baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have 
been base, cowardly, I tell you; I have 
abjured my affections, and like all 
renegades I am of evil omen to those 
who surround me!"

"No, Mercedes," said Monte Cristo, "no; 
you judge yourself with too much 
severity. You are a noble-minded woman, 
and it was your grief that disarmed me. 
Still I was but an agent, led on by an 
invisible and offended Deity, who chose 
not to withhold the fatal blow that I 
was destined to hurl. I take that God 
to witness, at whose feet I have 
prostrated myself daily for the last 
ten years, that I would have sacrificed 
my life to you, and with my life the 
projects that were indissolubly linked 
with it. But -- and I say it with some 
pride, Mercedes -- God needed me, and I 
lived. Examine the past and the 
present, and endeavor to dive into 
futurity, and then say whether I am not 
a divine instrument. The most dreadful 
misfortunes, the most frightful 
sufferings, the abandonment of all 
those who loved me, the persecution of 
those who did not know me, formed the 
trials of my youth; when suddenly, from 
captivity, solitude, misery, I was 
restored to light and liberty, and 
became the possessor of a fortune so 
brilliant, so unbounded, so unheard-of, 
that I must have been blind not to be 
conscious that God had endowed me with 
it to work out his own great designs. 
From that time I looked upon this 
fortune as something confided to me for 
an especial purpose. Not a thought was 
given to a life which you once, 
Mercedes, had the power to render 
blissful; not one hour of peaceful calm 
was mine; but I felt myself driven on 
like an exterminating angel. Like 
adventurous captains about to embark on 
some enterprise full of danger, I laid 
in my provisions, I loaded my weapons, 
I collected every means of attack and 
defence; I inured my body to the most 
violent exercises, my soul to the 
bitterest trials; I taught my arm to 
slay, my eyes to behold excruciating 
sufferings, and my mouth to smile at 
the most horrid spectacles. 
Good-natured, confiding, and forgiving 
as I had been, I became revengeful, 
cunning, and wicked, or rather, 
immovable as fate. Then I launched out 
into the path that was opened to me. I 
overcame every obstacle, and reached 
the goal; but woe to those who stood in 
my pathway!"

"Enough," said Mercedes; "enough, 
Edmond! Believe me, that she who alone 
recognized you has been the only one to 
comprehend you; and had she crossed 
your path, and you had crushed her like 
glass, still, Edmond, still she must 
have admired you! Like the gulf between 
me and the past, there is an abyss 
between you, Edmond, and the rest of 
mankind; and I tell you freely that the 
comparison I draw between you and other 
men will ever be one of my greatest 
tortures. No, there is nothing in the 
world to resemble you in worth and 
goodness! But we must say farewell, 
Edmond, and let us part."

"Before I leave you, Mercedes, have you 
no request to make?" said the count.

"I desire but one thing in this world, 
Edmond, -- the happiness of my son."

"Pray to the Almighty to spare his 
life, and I will take upon myself to 
promote his happiness."

"Thank you, Edmond."

"But have you no request to make for 
yourself, Mercedes?"

"For myself I want nothing. I live, as 
it were, between two graves. One is 
that of Edmond Dantes, lost to me long, 
long since. He had my love! That word 
ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is 
a memory dear to my heart, and one that 
I would not lose for all that the world 
contains. The other grave is that of 
the man who met his death from the hand 
of Edmond Dantes. I approve of the 
deed, but I must pray for the dead."

"Your son shall be happy, Mercedes," 
repeated the count.

"Then I shall enjoy as much happiness 
as this world can possibly confer."

"But what are your intentions?"

"To say that I shall live here, like 
the Mercedes of other times, gaining my 
bread by labor, would not be true, nor 
would you believe me. I have no longer 
the strength to do anything but to 
spend my days in prayer. However, I 
shall have no occasion to work, for the 
little sum of money buried by you, and 
which I found in the place you 
mentioned, will be sufficient to 
maintain me. Rumor will probably be 
busy respecting me, my occupations, my 
manner of living -- that will signify 
but little."

"Mercedes," said the count, "I do not 
say it to blame you, but you made an 
unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing 
the whole of the fortune amassed by M. 
de Morcerf; half of it at least by 
right belonged to you, in virtue of 
your vigilance and economy."

"I perceive what you are intending to 
propose to me; but I cannot accept it, 
Edmond -- my son would not permit it."

"Nothing shall be done without the full 
approbation of Albert de Morcerf. I 
will make myself acquainted with his 
intentions and will submit to them. But 
if he be willing to accept my offers, 
will you oppose them?"

"You well know, Edmond, that I am no 
longer a reasoning creature; I have no 
will, unless it be the will never to 
decide. I have been so overwhelmed by 
the many storms that have broken over 
my head, that I am become passive in 
the hands of the Almighty, like a 
sparrow in the talons of an eagle. I 
live, because it is not ordained for me 
to die. If succor be sent to me, I will 
accept it."

"Ah, madame," said Monte Cristo, "you 
should not talk thus! It is not so we 
should evince our resignation to the 
will of heaven; on the contrary, we are 
all free agents."

"Alas!" exclaimed Mercedes, "if it were 
so, if I possessed free-will, but 
without the power to render that will 
efficacious, it would drive me to 
despair." Monte Cristo dropped his head 
and shrank from the vehemence of her 
grief. "Will you not even say you will 
see me again?" he asked.

"On the contrary, we shall meet again," 
said Mercedes, pointing to heaven with 
solemnity. "I tell you so to prove to 
you that I still hope." And after 
pressing her own trembling hand upon 
that of the count, Mercedes rushed up 
the stairs and disappeared. Monte 
Cristo slowly left the house and turned 
towards the quay. But Mercedes did not 
witness his departure, although she was 
seated at the little window of the room 
which had been occupied by old Dantes. 
Her eyes were straining to see the ship 
which was carrying her son over the 
vast sea; but still her voice 
involuntarily murmured softly, "Edmond, 
Edmond, Edmond!" 

 Chapter 113 The Past.

The count departed with a sad heart 
from the house in which he had left 
Mercedes, probably never to behold her 
again. Since the death of little Edward 
a great change had taken place in Monte 
Cristo. Having reached the summit of 
his vengeance by a long and tortuous 
path, he saw an abyss of doubt yawning 
before him. More than this, the 
conversation which had just taken place 
between Mercedes and himself had 
awakened so many recollections in his 
heart that he felt it necessary to 
combat with them. A man of the count's 
temperament could not long indulge in 
that melancholy which can exist in 
common minds, but which destroys 
superior ones. He thought he must have 
made an error in his calculations if he 
now found cause to blame himself.

"I cannot have deceived myself," he 
said; "I must look upon the past in a 
false light. What!" he continued, "can 
I have been following a false path? -- 
can the end which I proposed be a 
mistaken end? -- can one hour have 
sufficed to prove to an architect that 
the work upon which he founded all his 
hopes was an impossible, if not a 
sacrilegious, undertaking? I cannot 
reconcile myself to this idea -- it 
would madden me. The reason why I am 
now dissatisfied is that I have not a 
clear appreciation of the past. The 
past, like the country through which we 
walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. 
My position is like that of a person 
wounded in a dream; he feels the wound, 
though he cannot recollect when he 
received it. Come, then, thou 
regenerate man, thou extravagant 
prodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou 
all-powerful visionary, thou invincible 
millionaire, -- once again review thy 
past life of starvation and 
wretchedness, revisit the scenes where 
fate and misfortune conducted, and 
where despair received thee. Too many 
diamonds, too much gold and splendor, 
are now reflected by the mirror in 
which Monte Cristo seeks to behold 
Dantes. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy 
gold, shroud thy splendor, exchange 
riches for poverty, liberty for a 
prison, a living body for a corpse!" As 
he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked 
down the Rue de la Caisserie. It was 
the same through which, twenty-four 
years ago, he had been conducted by a 
silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, 
to-day so smiling and animated, were on 
that night dark, mute, and closed. "And 
yet they were the same," murmured Monte 
Cristo, "only now it is broad daylight 
instead of night; it is the sun which 
brightens the place, and makes it 
appear so cheerful."

He proceeded towards the quay by the 
Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to the 
Consigne; it was the point where he had 
embarked. A pleasure-boat with striped 
awning was going by. Monte Cristo 
called the owner, who immediately rowed 
up to him with the eagerness of a 
boatman hoping for a good fare. The 
weather was magnificent, and the 
excursion a treat.

The sun, red and flaming, was sinking 
into the embrace of the welcoming 
ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was 
now and then disturbed by the leaping 
of fish, which were pursued by some 
unseen enemy and sought for safety in 
another element; while on the extreme 
verge of the horizon might be seen the 
fishermen's boats, white and graceful 
as the sea-gull, or the merchant 
vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the 
gracefully formed boats, and the golden 
light in which the whole scene was 
bathed, the Count of Monte Cristo, 
wrapped in his cloak, could think only 
of this terrible voyage, the details of 
which were one by one recalled to his 
memory. The solitary light burning at 
the Catalans; that first sight of the 
Chateau d'If, which told him whither 
they were leading him; the struggle 
with the gendarmes when he wished to 
throw himself overboard; his despair 
when he found himself vanquished, and 
the sensation when the muzzle of the 
carbine touched his forehead -- all 
these were brought before him in vivid 
and frightful reality. Like the streams 
which the heat of the summer has dried 
up, and which after the autumnal storms 
gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so 
did the count feel his heart gradually 
fill with the bitterness which formerly 
nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear 
sky, swift-flitting boats, and 
brilliant sunshine disappeared; the 
heavens were hung with black, and the 
gigantic structure of the Chateau d'If 
seemed like the phantom of a mortal 
enemy. As they reached the shore, the 
count instinctively shrunk to the 
extreme end of the boat, and the owner 
was obliged to call out, in his 
sweetest tone of voice, "Sir, we are at 
the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that 
very spot, on the same rock, he had 
been violently dragged by the guards, 
who forced him to ascend the slope at 
the points of their bayonets. The 
journey had seemed very long to Dantes, 
but Monte Cristo found it equally 
short. Each stroke of the oar seemed to 
awaken a new throng of ideas, which 
sprang up with the flying spray of the 
sea.

There had been no prisoners confined in 
the Chateau d'If since the revolution 
of July; it was only inhabited by a 
guard, kept there for the prevention of 
smuggling. A concierge waited at the 
door to exhibit to visitors this 
monument of curiosity, once a scene of 
terror. The count inquired whether any 
of the ancient jailers were still 
there; but they had all been pensioned, 
or had passed on to some other 
employment. The concierge who attended 
him had only been there since 1830. He 
visited his own dungeon. He again 
beheld the dull light vainly 
endeavoring to penetrate the narrow 
opening. His eyes rested upon the spot 
where had stood his bed, since then 
removed, and behind the bed the new 
stones indicated where the breach made 
by the Abbe Faria had been. Monte 
Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he 
seated himself upon a log of wood.

"Are there any stories connected with 
this prison besides the one relating to 
the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked the 
count; "are there any traditions 
respecting these dismal abodes, -- in 
which it is difficult to believe men 
can ever have imprisoned their 
fellow-creatures?"

"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine 
told me one connected with this very 
dungeon."

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had 
been his jailer. He had almost 
forgotten his name and face, but at the 
mention of the name he recalled his 
person as he used to see it, the face 
encircled by a beard, wearing the brown 
jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling 
of which he still seemed to hear. The 
count turned around, and fancied he saw 
him in the corridor, rendered still 
darker by the torch carried by the 
concierge. "Would you like to hear the 
story, sir?"

"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo, 
pressing his hand to his heart to still 
its violent beatings; he felt afraid of 
hearing his own history.

"This dungeon," said the concierge, 
"was, it appears, some time ago 
occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, 
the more so since he was full of 
industry. Another person was confined 
in the Chateau at the same time, but he 
was not wicked, he was only a poor mad 
priest."

"Ah, indeed? -- mad!" repeated Monte 
Cristo; "and what was his mania?"

"He offered millions to any one who 
would set him at liberty."

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he 
could not see the heavens; there was a 
stone veil between him and the 
firmament. He thought that there had 
been no less thick a veil before the 
eyes of those to whom Faria offered the 
treasures. "Could the prisoners see 
each other?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly 
forbidden; but they eluded the 
vigilance of the guards, and made a 
passage from one dungeon to the other."

"And which of them made this passage?"

"Oh, it must have been the young man, 
certainly, for he was strong and 
industrious, while the abbe was aged 
and weak; besides, his mind was too 
vacillating to allow him to carry out 
an idea."

"Blind fools!" murmured the count.

"However, be that as it may, the young 
man made a tunnel, how or by what means 
no one knows; but he made it, and there 
is the evidence yet remaining of his 
work. Do you see it?" and the man held 
the torch to the wall.

"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a 
voice hoarse from emotion.

"The result was that the two men 
communicated with one another; how long 
they did so, nobody knows. One day the 
old man fell ill and died. Now guess 
what the young one did?"

"Tell me."

"He carried off the corpse, which he 
placed in his own bed with its face to 
the wall; then he entered the empty 
dungeon, closed the entrance, and 
slipped into the sack which had 
contained the dead body. Did you ever 
hear of such an idea?" Monte Cristo 
closed his eyes, and seemed again to 
experience all the sensations he had 
felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist 
with the cold dews of death, had 
touched his face. The jailer continued: 
"Now this was his project. He fancied 
that they buried the dead at the 
Chateau d'If, and imagining they would 
not expend much labor on the grave of a 
prisoner, he calculated on raising the 
earth with his shoulders, but 
unfortunately their arrangements at the 
Chateau frustrated his projects. They 
never buried the dead; they merely 
attached a heavy cannon-ball to the 
feet, and then threw them into the sea. 
This is what was done. The young man 
was thrown from the top of the rock; 
the corpse was found on the bed next 
day, and the whole truth was guessed, 
for the men who performed the office 
then mentioned what they had not dared 
to speak of before, that at the moment 
the corpse was thrown into the deep, 
they heard a shriek, which was almost 
immediately stifled by the water in 
which it disappeared." The count 
breathed with difficulty; the cold 
drops ran down his forehead, and his 
heart was full of anguish.

"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt 
was but the commencement of 
forgetfulness; but here the wound 
reopens, and the heart again thirsts 
for vengeance. And the prisoner," he 
continued aloud, "was he ever heard of 
afterwards?"

"Oh, no; of course not. You can 
understand that one of two things must 
have happened; he must either have 
fallen flat, in which case the blow, 
from a height of ninety feet, must have 
killed him instantly, or he must have 
fallen upright, and then the weight 
would have dragged him to the bottom, 
where he remained -- poor fellow!"

"Then you pity him?" said the count.

"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own 
element."

"What do you mean?"

"The report was that he had been a 
naval officer, who had been confined 
for plotting with the Bonapartists."

"Great is truth," muttered the count, 
"fire cannot burn, nor water drown it! 
Thus the poor sailor lives in the 
recollection of those who narrate his 
history; his terrible story is recited 
in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is 
felt at the description of his transit 
through the air to be swallowed by the 
deep." Then, the count added aloud, 
"Was his name ever known?"

"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."

"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured 
the count, "this scene must often have 
haunted thy sleepless hours!"

"Do you wish to see anything more, 
sir?" said the concierge.

"Yes, especially if you will show me 
the poor abbe's room."

"Ah -- No. 27."

"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who 
seemed to hear the voice of the abbe 
answering him in those very words 
through the wall when asked his name.

"Come, sir."

"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to 
take one final glance around this room."

"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I 
have forgotten the other key."

"Go and fetch it."

"I will leave you the torch, sir."

"No, take it away; I can see in the 
dark."

"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he 
was so accustomed to darkness that he 
could see a pin in the darkest corner 
of his dungeon."

"He spent fourteen years to arrive at 
that," muttered the count.

The guide carried away the torch. The 
count had spoken correctly. Scarcely 
had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw 
everything as distinctly as by 
daylight. Then he looked around him, 
and really recognized his dungeon.

"Yes," he said, "there is the stone 
upon which I used to sit; there is the 
impression made by my shoulders on the 
wall; there is the mark of my blood 
made when one day I dashed my head 
against the wall. Oh, those figures, 
how well I remember them! I made them 
one day to calculate the age of my 
father, that I might know whether I 
should find him still living, and that 
of Mercedes, to know if I should find 
her still free. After finishing that 
calculation, I had a minute's hope. I 
did not reckon upon hunger and 
infidelity!" and a bitter laugh escaped 
the count. He saw in fancy the burial 
of his father, and the marriage of 
Mercedes. On the other side of the 
dungeon he perceived an inscription, 
the white letters of which were still 
visible on the green wall. "`O God,'" 
he read, "`preserve my memory!' Oh, 
yes," he cried, "that was my only 
prayer at last; I no longer begged for 
liberty, but memory; I dreaded to 
become mad and forgetful. O God, thou 
hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, 
I thank thee!" At this moment the light 
of the torch was reflected on the wall; 
the guide was coming; Monte Cristo went 
to meet him.

"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending 
the stairs the guide conducted him by a 
subterraneous passage to another 
entrance. There, again, Monte Cristo 
was assailed by a multitude of 
thoughts. The first thing that met his 
eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbe 
on the wall, by which he calculated the 
time; then he saw the remains of the 
bed on which the poor prisoner had 
died. The sight of this, instead of 
exciting the anguish experienced by the 
count in the dungeon, filled his heart 
with a soft and grateful sentiment, and 
tears fell from his eyes.

"This is where the mad abbe was kept, 
sir, and that is where the young man 
entered; "and the guide pointed to the 
opening, which had remained unclosed. 
"From the appearance of the stone," he 
continued, "a learned gentleman 
discovered that the prisoners might 
have communicated together for ten 
years. Poor things! Those must have 
been ten weary years."

Dantes took some louis from his pocket, 
and gave them to the man who had twice 
unconsciously pitied him. The guide 
took them, thinking them merely a few 
pieces of little value; but the light 
of the torch revealed their true worth. 
"Sir," he said, "you have made a 
mistake; you have given me gold."

"I know it." The concierge looked upon 
the count with surprise. "Sir," he 
cried, scarcely able to believe his 
good fortune -- "sir, I cannot 
understand your generosity!"

"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; 
I have been a sailor, and your story 
touched me more than it would others."

"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I 
ought to offer you something."

"What have you to offer to me, my 
friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank you!"

"No, sir, neither of those; something 
connected with this story."

"Really? What is it?"

"Listen," said the guide; "I said to 
myself, `Something is always left in a 
cell inhabited by one prisoner for 
fifteen years,' so I began to sound the 
wall."

"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering 
the abbe's two hiding-places.

"After some search, I found that the 
floor gave a hollow sound near the head 
of the bed, and at the hearth."

"Yes," said the count, "yes."

"I raised the stones, and found" --

"A rope-ladder and some tools?"

"How do you know that?" asked the guide 
in astonishment.

"I do not know -- I only guess it, 
because that sort of thing is generally 
found in prisoners' cells."

"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."

"And have you them yet?"

"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who 
considered them great curiosities; but 
I have still something left."

"What is it?" asked the count, 
impatiently.

"A sort of book, written upon strips of 
cloth."

"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and 
if it be what I hope, you will do well."

"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide 
went out. Then the count knelt down by 
the side of the bed, which death had 
converted into an altar. "Oh, second 
father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast 
given me liberty, knowledge, riches; 
thou who, like beings of a superior 
order to ourselves, couldst understand 
the science of good and evil; if in the 
depths of the tomb there still remain 
something within us which can respond 
to the voice of those who are left on 
earth; if after death the soul ever 
revisit the places where we have lived 
and suffered, -- then, noble heart, 
sublime soul, then I conjure thee by 
the paternal love thou didst bear me, 
by the filial obedience I vowed to 
thee, grant me some sign, some 
revelation! Remove from me the remains 
of doubt, which, if it change not to 
conviction, must become remorse!" The 
count bowed his head, and clasped his 
hands together.

"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The 
concierge held out the strips of cloth 
upon which the Abbe Faria had spread 
the riches of his mind. The manuscript 
was the great work by the Abbe Faria 
upon the kingdoms of Italy. The count 
seized it hastily, his eyes immediately 
fell upon the epigraph, and he read, 
"`Thou shalt tear out the dragons' 
teeth, and shall trample the lions 
under foot, saith the Lord.'"

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer. 
Thanks, father, thanks." And feeling in 
his pocket, he took thence a small 
pocket-book, which contained ten 
bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.

"Here," he said, "take this 
pocket-book."

"Do you give it to me?"

"Yes; but only on condition that you 
will not open it till I am gone;" and 
placing in his breast the treasure he 
had just found, which was more valuable 
to him than the richest jewel, he 
rushed out of the corridor, and 
reaching his boat, cried, "To 
Marseilles!" Then, as he departed, he 
fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison. 
"Woe," he cried, "to those who confined 
me in that wretched prison; and woe to 
those who forgot that I was there!" As 
he repassed the Catalans, the count 
turned around and burying his head in 
his cloak murmured the name of a woman. 
The victory was complete; twice he had 
overcome his doubts. The name he 
pronounced, in a voice of tenderness, 
amounting almost to love, was that of 
Haidee.

On landing, the count turned towards 
the cemetery, where he felt sure of 
finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, 
had piously sought out a tomb, and 
sought it vainly. He, who returned to 
France with millions, had been unable 
to find the grave of his father, who 
had perished from hunger. Morrel had 
indeed placed a cross over the spot, 
but it had fallen down and the 
grave-digger had burnt it, as he did 
all the old wood in the churchyard. The 
worthy merchant had been more 
fortunate. Dying in the arms of his 
children, he had been by them laid by 
the side of his wife, who had preceded 
him in eternity by two years. Two large 
slabs of marble, on which were 
inscribed their names, were placed on 
either side of a little enclosure, 
railed in, and shaded by four 
cypress-trees. Morrel was leaning 
against one of these, mechanically 
fixing his eyes on the graves. His 
grief was so profound that he was 
nearly unconscious. "Maximilian," said 
the count, "you should not look on the 
graves, but there;" and he pointed 
upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; 
"did you not yourself tell me so as we 
left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you 
asked me during the journey to allow 
you to remain some days at Marseilles. 
Do you still wish to do so?"

"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy 
I could pass the time less painfully 
here than anywhere else."

"So much the better, for I must leave 
you; but I carry your word with me, do 
I not?"

"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

"No, you will not forget it, because 
you are a man of honor, Morrel, because 
you have taken an oath, and are about 
to do so again."

"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so 
unhappy."

"I have known a man much more 
unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the 
infirmity of our nature always to 
believe ourselves much more unhappy 
than those who groan by our sides!"

"What can be more wretched than the man 
who has lost all he loved and desired 
in the world?"

"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to 
what I am about to tell you. I knew a 
man who like you had fixed all his 
hopes of happiness upon a woman. He was 
young, he had an old father whom he 
loved, a betrothed bride whom he 
adored. He was about to marry her, when 
one of the caprices of fate, -- which 
would almost make us doubt the goodness 
of providence, if that providence did 
not afterwards reveal itself by proving 
that all is but a means of conducting 
to an end, -- one of those caprices 
deprived him of his mistress, of the 
future of which he had dreamed (for in 
his blindness he forgot he could only 
read the present), and cast him into a 
dungeon."

"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon 
in a week, a month, or a year."

"He remained there fourteen years, 
Morrel," said the count, placing his 
hand on the young man's shoulder. 
Maximilian shuddered.

"Fourteen years!" he muttered -- 
"Fourteen years!" repeated the count. 
"During that time he had many moments 
of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, 
considered himself the unhappiest of 
men."

"Well?" asked Morrel.

"Well, at the height of his despair God 
assisted him through human means. At 
first, perhaps, he did not recognize 
the infinite mercy of the Lord, but at 
last he took patience and waited. One 
day he miraculously left the prison, 
transformed, rich, powerful. His first 
cry was for his father; but that father 
was dead."

"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.

"Yes; but your father died in your 
arms, happy, respected, rich, and full 
of years; his father died poor, 
despairing, almost doubtful of 
providence; and when his son sought his 
grave ten years afterwards, his tomb 
had disappeared, and no one could say, 
`There sleeps the father you so well 
loved.'"

"Oh!" exclaimed Morrel.

"He was, then, a more unhappy son than 
you, Morrel, for he could not even find 
his father's grave."

"But then he had the woman he loved 
still remaining?"

"You are deceived, Morrel, that woman" 
--

"She was dead?"

"Worse than that, she was faithless, 
and had married one of the persecutors 
of her betrothed. You see, then, 
Morrel, that he was a more unhappy 
lover than you."

"And has he found consolation?"

"He has at least found peace."

"And does he ever expect to be happy?"

"He hopes so, Maximilian." The young 
man's head fell on his breast.

"You have my promise," he said, after a 
minute's pause, extending his hand to 
Monte Cristo. "Only remember" --

"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall 
expect you at the Island of Monte 
Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait 
for you in the port of Bastia, it will 
be called the Eurus. You will give your 
name to the captain, who will bring you 
to me. It is understood -- is it not?"

"But, count, do you remember that the 
5th of October" --

"Child," replied the count, "not to 
know the value of a man's word! I have 
told you twenty times that if you wish 
to die on that day, I will assist you. 
Morrel, farewell!"

"Do you leave me?"

"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave 
you alone with your misfortunes, and 
with hope, Maximilian."

"When do you leave?"

"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in 
an hour I shall be far from you. Will 
you accompany me to the harbor, 
Maximilian?"

"I am entirely yours, count." Morrel 
accompanied the count to the harbor. 
The white steam was ascending like a 
plume of feathers from the black 
chimney. The steamer soon disappeared, 
and in an hour afterwards, as the count 
had said, was scarcely distinguishable 
in the horizon amidst the fogs of the 
night. 

 Chapter 114 Peppino.

At the same time that the steamer 
disappeared behind Cape Morgion, a man 
travelling post on the road from 
Florence to Rome had just passed the 
little town of Aquapendente. He was 
travelling fast enough to cover a great 
deal of ground without exciting 
suspicion. This man was dressed in a 
greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a 
little worse for the journey, but which 
exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of 
Honor still fresh and brilliant, a 
decoration which also ornamented the 
under coat. He might be recognized, not 
only by these signs, but also from the 
accent with which he spoke to the 
postilion, as a Frenchman. Another 
proof that he was a native of the 
universal country was apparent in the 
fact of his knowing no other Italian 
words than the terms used in music, and 
which like the "goddam" of Figaro, 
served all possible linguistic 
requirements. "Allegro!" he called out 
to the postilions at every ascent. 
"Moderato!" he cried as they descended. 
And heaven knows there are hills enough 
between Rome and Florence by the way of 
Aquapendente! These two words greatly 
amused the men to whom they were 
addressed. On reaching La Storta, the 
point from whence Rome is first 
visible, the traveller evinced none of 
the enthusiastic curiosity which 
usually leads strangers to stand up and 
endeavor to catch sight of the dome of 
St. Peter's, which may be seen long 
before any other object is 
distinguishable. No, he merely drew a 
pocketbook from his pocket, and took 
from it a paper folded in four, and 
after having examined it in a manner 
almost reverential, he said -- "Good! I 
have it still!"

The carriage entered by the Porto del 
Popolo, turned to the left, and stopped 
at the Hotel d'Espagne. Old Pastrini, 
our former acquaintance, received the 
traveller at the door, hat in hand. The 
traveller alighted, ordered a good 
dinner, and inquired the address of the 
house of Thomson & French, which was 
immediately given to him, as it was one 
of the most celebrated in Rome. It was 
situated in the Via dei Banchi, near 
St. Peter's. In Rome, as everywhere 
else, the arrival of a post-chaise is 
an event. Ten young descendants of 
Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and 
out at elbows, with one hand resting on 
the hip and the other gracefully curved 
above the head, stared at the 
traveller, the post-chaise, and the 
horses; to these were added about fifty 
little vagabonds from the Papal States, 
who earned a pittance by diving into 
the Tiber at high water from the bridge 
of St. Angelo. Now, as these street 
Arabs of Rome, more fortunate than 
those of Paris, understand every 
language, more especially the French, 
they heard the traveller order an 
apartment, a dinner, and finally 
inquire the way to the house of Thomson 
& French. The result was that when the 
new-comer left the hotel with the 
cicerone, a man detached himself from 
the rest of the idlers, and without 
having been seen by the traveller, and 
appearing to excite no attention from 
the guide, followed the stranger with 
as much skill as a Parisian police 
agent would have used.

The Frenchman had been so impatient to 
reach the house of Thomson & French 
that he would not wait for the horses 
to be harnessed, but left word for the 
carriage to overtake him on the road, 
or to wait for him at the bankers' 
door. He reached it before the carriage 
arrived. The Frenchman entered, leaving 
in the anteroom his guide, who 
immediately entered into conversation 
with two or three of the industrious 
idlers who are always to be found in 
Rome at the doors of banking-houses, 
churches, museums, or theatres. With 
the Frenchman, the man who had followed 
him entered too; the Frenchman knocked 
at the inner door, and entered the 
first room; his shadow did the same.

"Messrs. Thomson & French?" inquired 
the stranger.

An attendant arose at a sign from a 
confidential clerk at the first desk. 
"Whom shall I announce?" said the 
attendant.

"Baron Danglars."

"Follow me," said the man. A door 
opened, through which the attendant and 
the baron disappeared. The man who had 
followed Danglars sat down on a bench. 
The clerk continued to write for the 
next five minutes; the man preserved 
profound silence, and remained 
perfectly motionless. Then the pen of 
the clerk ceased to move over the 
paper; he raised his head, and 
appearing to be perfectly sure of 
privacy, -- "Ah, ha," he said, "here 
you are, Peppino!"

"Yes," was the laconic reply. "You have 
found out that there is something worth 
having about this large gentleman?"

"There is no great merit due to me, for 
we were informed of it."

"You know his business here, then."

"Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I 
don't know how much!"

"You will know presently, my friend."

"Very well, only do not give me false 
information as you did the other day."

"What do you mean? -- of whom do you 
speak? Was it the Englishman who 
carried off 3,000 crowns from here the 
other day?"

"No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we 
found them. I mean the Russian prince, 
who you said had 30,000 livres, and we 
only found 22,000."

"You must have searched badly."

"Luigi Vampa himself searched."

"Indeed? But you must let me make my 
observations, or the Frenchman will 
transact his business without my 
knowing the sum." Peppino nodded, and 
taking a rosary from his pocket began 
to mutter a few prayers while the clerk 
disappeared through the same door by 
which Danglars and the attendant had 
gone out. At the expiration of ten 
minutes the clerk returned with a 
beaming countenance. "Well?" asked 
Peppino of his friend.

"Joy, joy -- the sum is large!"

"Five or six millions, is it not?"

"Yes, you know the amount."

"On the receipt of the Count of Monte 
Cristo?"

"Why, how came you to be so well 
acquainted with all this?"

"I told you we were informed 
beforehand."

"Then why do you apply to me?"

"That I may be sure I have the right 
man."

"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions -- 
a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?"

"Hush -- here is our man!" The clerk 
seized his pen, and Peppino his beads; 
one was writing and the other praying 
when the door opened. Danglars looked 
radiant with joy; the banker 
accompanied him to the door. Peppino 
followed Danglars.

According to the arrangements, the 
carriage was waiting at the door. The 
guide held the door open. Guides are 
useful people, who will turn their 
hands to anything. Danglars leaped into 
the carriage like a young man of 
twenty. The cicerone reclosed the door, 
and sprang up by the side of the 
coachman. Peppino mounted the seat 
behind.

"Will your excellency visit St. 
Peter's?" asked the cicerone.

"I did not come to Rome to see," said 
Danglars aloud; then he added softly, 
with an avaricious smile, "I came to 
touch!" and he rapped his pocket-book, 
in which he had just placed a letter.

"Then your excellency is going" --

"To the hotel."

"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to 
the coachman, and the carriage drove 
rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the 
baron entered his apartment, and 
Peppino stationed himself on the bench 
outside the door of the hotel, after 
having whispered something in the ear 
of one of the descendants of Marius and 
the Gracchi whom we noticed at the 
beginning of the chapter, who 
immediately ran down the road leading 
to the Capitol at his fullest speed. 
Danglars was tired and sleepy; he 
therefore went to bed, placing his 
pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino 
had a little spare time, so he had a 
game of mora with the facchini, lost 
three crowns, and then to console 
himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.

The next morning Danglars awoke late, 
though he went to bed so early; he had 
not slept well for five or six nights, 
even if he had slept at all. He 
breakfasted heartily, and caring 
little, as he said, for the beauties of 
the Eternal City, ordered post-horses 
at noon. But Danglars had not reckoned 
upon the formalities of the police and 
the idleness of the posting-master. The 
horses only arrived at two o'clock, and 
the cicerone did not bring the passport 
till three. All these preparations had 
collected a number of idlers round the 
door of Signor Pastrini's; the 
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi 
were also not wanting. The baron walked 
triumphantly through the crowd, who for 
the sake of gain styled him "your 
excellency." As Danglars had hitherto 
contented himself with being called a 
baron, he felt rather flattered at the 
title of excellency, and distributed a 
dozen silver coins among the beggars, 
who were ready, for twelve more, to 
call him "your highness."

"Which road?" asked the postilion in 
Italian. "The Ancona road," replied the 
baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the 
question and answer, and the horses 
galloped off. Danglars intended 
travelling to Venice, where he would 
receive one part of his fortune, and 
then proceeding to Vienna, where he 
would find the rest, he meant to take 
up his residence in the latter town, 
which he had been told was a city of 
pleasure.

He had scarcely advanced three leagues 
out of Rome when daylight began to 
disappear. Danglars had not intended 
starting so late, or he would have 
remained; he put his head out and asked 
the postilion how long it would be 
before they reached the next town. "Non 
capisco" (do not understand), was the 
reply. Danglars bent his head, which he 
meant to imply, "Very well." The 
carriage again moved on. "I will stop 
at the first posting-house," said 
Danglars to himself.

He still felt the same 
self-satisfaction which he had 
experienced the previous evening, and 
which had procured him so good a 
night's rest. He was luxuriously 
stretched in a good English calash, 
with double springs; he was drawn by 
four good horses, at full gallop; he 
knew the relay to be at a distance of 
seven leagues. What subject of 
meditation could present itself to the 
banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?

Danglars thought for ten minutes about 
his wife in Paris; another ten minutes 
about his daughter travelling with 
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; the same period 
was given to his creditors, and the 
manner in which he intended spending 
their money; and then, having no 
subject left for contemplation, he shut 
his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then 
a jolt more violent than the rest 
caused him to open his eyes; then he 
felt that he was still being carried 
with great rapidity over the same 
country, thickly strewn with broken 
aqueducts, which looked like granite 
giants petrified while running a race. 
But the night was cold, dull, and 
rainy, and it was much more pleasant 
for a traveller to remain in the warm 
carriage than to put his head out of 
the window to make inquiries of a 
postilion whose only answer was "Non 
capisco."

Danglars therefore continued to sleep, 
saying to himself that he would be sure 
to awake at the posting-house. The 
carriage stopped. Danglars fancied that 
they had reached the long-desired 
point; he opened his eyes and looked 
through the window, expecting to find 
himself in the midst of some town, or 
at least village; but he saw nothing 
except what seemed like a ruin, where 
three or four men went and came like 
shadows. Danglars waited a moment, 
expecting the postilion to come and 
demand payment with the termination of 
his stage. He intended taking advantage 
of the opportunity to make fresh 
inquiries of the new conductor; but the 
horses were unharnessed, and others put 
in their places, without any one 
claiming money from the traveller. 
Danglars, astonished, opened the door; 
but a strong hand pushed him back, and 
the carriage rolled on. The baron was 
completely roused. "Eh?" he said to the 
postilion, "eh, mio caro?"

This was another little piece of 
Italian the baron had learned from 
hearing his daughter sing Italian duets 
with Cavalcanti. But mio caro did not 
reply. Danglars then opened the window.

"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting 
his hand through the opening, "where 
are we going?"

"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn 
and imperious voice, accompanied by a 
menacing gesture. Danglars thought 
dentro la testa meant, "Put in your 
head!" He was making rapid progress in 
Italian. He obeyed, not without some 
uneasiness, which, momentarily 
increasing, caused his mind, instead of 
being as unoccupied as it was when he 
began his journey, to fill with ideas 
which were very likely to keep a 
traveller awake, more especially one in 
such a situation as Danglars. His eyes 
acquired that quality which in the 
first moment of strong emotion enables 
them to see distinctly, and which 
afterwards fails from being too much 
taxed. Before we are alarmed, we see 
correctly; when we are alarmed, we see 
double; and when we have been alarmed, 
we see nothing but trouble. Danglars 
observed a man in a cloak galloping at 
the right hand of the carriage.

"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I 
have been intercepted by French 
telegrams to the pontifical 
authorities?" He resolved to end his 
anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he 
asked. "Dentro la testa," replied the 
same voice, with the same menacing 
accent.

Danglars turned to the left; another 
man on horseback was galloping on that 
side. "Decidedly," said Danglars, with 
the perspiration on his forehead, "I 
must be under arrest." And he threw 
himself back in the calash, not this 
time to sleep, but to think. Directly 
afterwards the moon rose. He then saw 
the great aqueducts, those stone 
phantoms which he had before remarked, 
only then they were on the right hand, 
now they were on the left. He 
understood that they had described a 
circle, and were bringing him back to 
Rome. "Oh, unfortunate!" he cried, 
"they must have obtained my arrest." 
The carriage continued to roll on with 
frightful speed. An hour of terror 
elapsed, for every spot they passed 
showed that they were on the road back. 
At length he saw a dark mass, against 
which it seemed as if the carriage was 
about to dash; but the vehicle turned 
to one side, leaving the barrier behind 
and Danglars saw that it was one of the 
ramparts encircling Rome.

"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not 
returning to Rome; then it is not 
justice which is pursuing me! Gracious 
heavens; another idea presents itself 
-- what if they should be" --

His hair stood on end. He remembered 
those interesting stories, so little 
believed in Paris, respecting Roman 
bandits; he remembered the adventures 
that Albert de Morcerf had related when 
it was intended that he should marry 
Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They are 
robbers, perhaps," he muttered. Just 
then the carriage rolled on something 
harder than gravel road. Danglars 
hazarded a look on both sides of the 
road, and perceived monuments of a 
singular form, and his mind now 
recalled all the details Morcerf had 
related, and comparing them with his 
own situation, he felt sure that he 
must be on the Appian Way. On the left, 
in a sort of valley, he perceived a 
circular excavation. It was Caracalla's 
circus. On a word from the man who rode 
at the side of the carriage, it 
stopped. At the same time the door was 
opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a 
commanding voice. Danglars instantly 
descended; although he did not yet 
speak Italian, he understood it very 
well. More dead than alive, he looked 
around him. Four men surrounded him, 
besides the postilion.

"Di qua," said one of the men, 
descending a little path leading out of 
the Appian Way. Danglars followed his 
guide without opposition, and had no 
occasion to turn around to see whether 
the three others were following him. 
Still it appeared as though they were 
stationed at equal distances from one 
another, like sentinels. After walking 
for about ten minutes, during which 
Danglars did not exchange a single word 
with his guide, he found himself 
between a hillock and a clump of high 
weeds; three men, standing silent, 
formed a triangle, of which he was the 
centre. He wished to speak, but his 
tongue refused to move. "Avanti!" said 
the same sharp and imperative voice.

This time Danglars had double reason to 
understand, for if the word and gesture 
had not explained the speaker's 
meaning, it was clearly expressed by 
the man walking behind him, who pushed 
him so rudely that he struck against 
the guide. This guide was our friend 
Peppino, who dashed into the thicket of 
high weeds, through a path which none 
but lizards or polecats could have 
imagined to be an open road. Peppino 
stopped before a pit overhung by thick 
hedges; the pit, half open, afforded a 
passage to the young man, who 
disappeared like the evil spirits in 
the fairy tales. The voice and gesture 
of the man who followed Danglars 
ordered him to do the same. There was 
no longer any doubt, the bankrupt was 
in the hands of Roman banditti. 
Danglars acquitted himself like a man 
placed between two dangerous positions, 
and who is rendered brave by fear. 
Notwithstanding his large stomach, 
certainly not intended to penetrate the 
fissures of the Campagna, he slid down 
like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell 
upon his feet. As he touched the 
ground, he opened his eyes. The path 
was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared 
little for being recognized now that he 
was in his own territories, struck a 
light and lit a torch. Two other men 
descended after Danglars forming the 
rearguard, and pushing Danglars 
whenever he happened to stop, they came 
by a gentle declivity to the 
intersection of two corridors. The 
walls were hollowed out in sepulchres, 
one above the other, and which seemed 
in contrast with the white stones to 
open their large dark eyes, like those 
which we see on the faces of the dead. 
A sentinel struck the rings of his 
carbine against his left hand. "Who 
comes there?" he cried.

"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; 
"but where is the captain?"

"There," said the sentinel, pointing 
over his shoulder to a spacious crypt, 
hollowed out of the rock, the lights 
from which shone into the passage 
through the large arched openings. 
"Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!" said 
Peppino in Italian, and taking Danglars 
by the collar of his coat he dragged 
him to an opening resembling a door, 
through which they entered the 
apartment which the captain appeared to 
have made his dwelling-place.

"Is this the man?" asked the captain, 
who was attentively reading Plutarch's 
"Life of Alexander."

"Himself, captain -- himself."

"Very well, show him to me." At this 
rather impertinent order, Peppino 
raised his torch to the face of 
Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he 
might not have his eyelashes burnt. His 
agitated features presented the 
appearance of pale and hideous terror. 
"The man is tired," said the captain, 
"conduct him to his bed."

"Oh," murmured Danglars," that bed is 
probably one of the coffins hollowed in 
the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy 
will be death from one of the poniards 
I see glistening in the darkness."

From their beds of dried leaves or 
wolf-skins at the back of the chamber 
now arose the companions of the man who 
had been found by Albert de Morcerf 
reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by 
Danglars studying the "Life of 
Alexander." The banker uttered a groan 
and followed his guide; he neither 
supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer 
possessed strength, will, power, or 
feeling; he followed where they led 
him. At length he found himself at the 
foot of a staircase, and he 
mechanically lifted his foot five or 
six times. Then a low door was opened 
before him, and bending his head to 
avoid striking his forehead he entered 
a small room cut out of the rock. The 
cell was clean, though empty, and dry, 
though situated at an immeasurable 
distance under the earth. A bed of 
dried grass covered with goat-skins was 
placed in one corner. Danglars 
brightened up on beholding it, fancying 
that it gave some promise of safety. 
"Oh, God be praised," he said; "it is a 
real bed!"

"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing 
Danglars into the cell, he closed the 
door upon him. A bolt grated and 
Danglars was a prisoner. If there had 
been no bolt, it would have been 
impossible for him to pass through the 
midst of the garrison who held the 
catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped 
round a master whom our readers must 
have recognized as the famous Luigi 
Vampa. Danglars, too, had recognized 
the bandit, whose existence he would 
not believe when Albert de Morcerf 
mentioned him in Paris; and not only 
did he recognize him, but the cell in 
which Albert had been confined, and 
which was probably kept for the 
accommodation of strangers. These 
recollections were dwelt upon with some 
pleasure by Danglars, and restored him 
to some degree of tranquillity. Since 
the bandits had not despatched him at 
once, he felt that they would not kill 
him at all. They had arrested him for 
the purpose of robbery, and as he had 
only a few louis about him, he doubted 
not he would be ransomed. He remembered 
that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 
crowns, and as he considered himself of 
much greater importance than Morcerf he 
fixed his own price at 8,000 crowns. 
Eight thousand crowns amounted to 
48,000 livres; he would then have about 
5,050,000 francs left. With this sum he 
could manage to keep out of 
difficulties. Therefore, tolerably 
secure in being able to extricate 
himself from his position, provided he 
were not rated at the unreasonable sum 
of 5,050,000 francs, he stretched 
himself on his bed, and after turning 
over two or three times, fell asleep 
with the tranquillity of the hero whose 
life Luigi Vampa was studying. 

 Chapter 115 Luigi Vampa's Bill of Fare.

We awake from every sleep except the 
one dreaded by Danglars. He awoke. To a 
Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, 
walls hung with velvet drapery, and the 
soft perfume of burning wood, the white 
smoke of which diffuses itself in 
graceful curves around the room, the 
appearance of the whitewashed cell 
which greeted his eyes on awakening 
seemed like the continuation of some 
disagreeable dream. But in such a 
situation a single moment suffices to 
change the strongest doubt into 
certainty. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "I 
am in the hands of the brigands of whom 
Albert de Morcerf spoke." His first 
idea was to breathe, that he might know 
whether he was wounded. He borrowed 
this from "Don Quixote," the only book 
he had ever read, but which he still 
slightly remembered.

"No," he cried, "they have not wounded, 
but perhaps they have robbed me!" and 
he thrust his hands into his pockets. 
They were untouched; the hundred louis 
he had reserved for his journey from 
Rome to Venice were in his trousers 
pocket, and in that of his great-coat 
he found the little note-case 
containing his letter of credit for 
5,050,000 francs. "Singular bandits!" 
he exclaimed; "they have left me my 
purse and pocket-book. As I was saying 
last night, they intend me to be 
ransomed. Hallo, here is my watch! Let 
me see what time it is." Danglars' 
watch, one of Breguet's repeaters, 
which he had carefully wound up on the 
previous night, struck half past five. 
Without this, Danglars would have been 
quite ignorant of the time, for 
daylight did not reach his cell. Should 
he demand an explanation from the 
bandits, or should he wait patiently 
for them to propose it? The last 
alternative seemed the most prudent, so 
he waited until twelve o'clock. During 
all this time a sentinel, who had been 
relieved at eight o'clock, had been 
watching his door. Danglars suddenly 
felt a strong inclination to see the 
person who kept watch over him. He had 
noticed that a few rays, not of 
daylight, but from a lamp, penetrated 
through the ill-joined planks of the 
door; he approached just as the brigand 
was refreshing himself with a mouthful 
of brandy, which, owing to the leathern 
bottle containing it, sent forth an 
odor which was extremely unpleasant to 
Danglars. "Faugh!" he exclaimed, 
retreating to the farther corner of his 
cell.

At twelve this man was replaced by 
another functionary, and Danglars, 
wishing to catch sight of his new 
guardian, approached the door again. He 
was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with 
large eyes, thick lips, and a flat 
nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled 
masses like snakes around his 
shoulders. "Ah, ha," cried Danglars, 
"this fellow is more like an ogre than 
anything else; however, I am rather too 
old and tough to be very good eating!" 
We see that Danglars was collected 
enough to jest; at the same time, as 
though to disprove the ogreish 
propensities, the man took some black 
bread, cheese, and onions from his 
wallet, which he began devouring 
voraciously. "May I be hanged," said 
Danglars, glancing at the bandit's 
dinner through the crevices of the 
door, -- "may I be hanged if I can 
understand how people can eat such 
filth!" and he withdrew to seat himself 
upon his goat-skin, which reminded him 
of the smell of the brandy.

But the mysteries of nature are 
incomprehensible, and there are certain 
invitations contained in even the 
coarsest food which appeal very 
irresistibly to a fasting stomach. 
Danglars felt his own not to be very 
well supplied just then, and gradually 
the man appeared less ugly, the bread 
less black, and the cheese more fresh, 
while those dreadful vulgar onions 
recalled to his mind certain sauces and 
side-dishes, which his cook prepared in 
a very superior manner whenever he 
said, "Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a 
nice little fricassee to-day." He got 
up and knocked on the door; the bandit 
raised his head. Danglars knew that he 
was heard, so he redoubled his blows. 
"Che cosa?" asked the bandit. "Come, 
come," said Danglars, tapping his 
fingers against the door, "I think it 
is quite time to think of giving me 
something to eat!" But whether he did 
not understand him, or whether he had 
received no orders respecting the 
nourishment of Danglars, the giant, 
without answering, went on with his 
dinner. Danglars' feelings were hurt, 
and not wishing to put himself under 
obligations to the brute, the banker 
threw himself down again on his 
goat-skin and did not breathe another 
word.

Four hours passed by and the giant was 
replaced by another bandit. Danglars, 
who really began to experience sundry 
gnawings at the stomach, arose softly, 
again applied his eye to the crack of 
the door, and recognized the 
intelligent countenance of his guide. 
It was, indeed, Peppino who was 
preparing to mount guard as comfortably 
as possible by seating himself opposite 
to the door, and placing between his 
legs an earthen pan, containing 
chick-pease stewed with bacon. Near the 
pan he also placed a pretty little 
basket of Villetri grapes and a flask 
of Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an 
epicure. Danglars watched these 
preparations and his mouth watered. 
"Come," he said to himself, "let me try 
if he will be more tractable than the 
other;" and he tapped gently at the 
door. "On y va," (coming) exclaimed 
Peppino, who from frequenting the house 
of Signor Pastrini understood French 
perfectly in all its idioms.

Danglars immediately recognized him as 
the man who had called out in such a 
furious manner, "Put in your head!" But 
this was not the time for 
recrimination, so he assumed his most 
agreeable manner and said with a 
gracious smile, -- "Excuse me, sir, but 
are they not going to give me any 
dinner?"

"Does your excellency happen to be 
hungry?"

"Happen to be hungry, -- that's pretty 
good, when I haven't eaten for 
twenty-four hours!" muttered Danglars. 
Then he added aloud, "Yes, sir, I am 
hungry -- very hungry."

"What would your excellency like?" and 
Peppino placed his pan on the ground, 
so that the steam rose directly under 
the nostrils of Danglars. "Give your 
orders."

"Have you kitchens here?"

"Kitchens? -- of course -- complete 
ones."

"And cooks?"

"Excellent!"

"Well, a fowl, fish, game, -- it 
signifies little, so that I eat."

"As your excellency pleases. You 
mentioned a fowl, I think?"

"Yes, a fowl." Peppino, turning around, 
shouted, "A fowl for his excellency!" 
His voice yet echoed in the archway 
when a handsome, graceful, and 
half-naked young man appeared, bearing 
a fowl in a silver dish on his head, 
without the assistance of his hands. "I 
could almost believe myself at the Cafe 
de Paris," murmured Danglars.

"Here, your excellency," said Peppino, 
taking the fowl from the young bandit 
and placing it on the worm-eaten table, 
which with the stool and the goat-skin 
bed formed the entire furniture of the 
cell. Danglars asked for a knife and 
fork. "Here, excellency," said Peppino, 
offering him a little blunt knife and a 
boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife 
in one hand and the fork in the other, 
and was about to cut up the fowl. 
"Pardon me, excellency," said Peppino, 
placing his hand on the banker's 
shoulder; "people pay here before they 
eat. They might not be satisfied, and" 
--

"Ah, ha," thought Danglars, "this is 
not so much like Paris, except that I 
shall probably be skinned! Never mind, 
I'll fix that all right. I have always 
heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I 
should think a fowl is worth about 
twelve sous at Rome. -- There," he 
said, throwing a louis down. Peppino 
picked up the louis, and Danglars again 
prepared to carve the fowl. "Stay a 
moment, your excellency," said Peppino, 
rising; "you still owe me something."

"I said they would skin me," thought 
Danglars; but resolving to resist the 
extortion, he said, "Come, how much do 
I owe you for this fowl?"

"Your excellency has given me a louis 
on account."

"A louis on account for a fowl?"

"Certainly; and your excellency now 
owes me 4,999 louis." Danglars opened 
his enormous eyes on hearing this 
gigantic joke. "Come, come, this is 
very droll -- very amusing -- I allow; 
but, as I am very hungry, pray allow me 
to eat. Stay, here is another louis for 
you."

"Then that will make only 4,998 louis 
more," said Peppino with the same 
indifference. "I shall get them all in 
time."

"Oh, as for that," said Danglars, angry 
at this prolongation of the jest, -- 
"as for that you won't get them at all. 
Go to the devil! You do not know with 
whom you have to deal!" Peppino made a 
sign, and the youth hastily removed the 
fowl. Danglars threw himself upon his 
goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the 
door, again began eating his pease and 
bacon. Though Danglars could not see 
Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed 
no doubt as to his occupation. He was 
certainly eating, and noisily too, like 
an ill-bred man. "Brute!" said 
Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear 
him, and without even turning his head 
continued to eat slowly. Danglars' 
stomach felt so empty, that it seemed 
as if it would be impossible ever to 
fill it again; still he had patience 
for another half-hour, which appeared 
to him like a century. He again arose 
and went to the door. "Come, sir, do 
not keep me starving here any longer, 
but tell me what they want."

"Nay, your excellency, it is you who 
should tell us what you want. Give your 
orders, and we will execute them."

"Then open the door directly." Peppino 
obeyed. "Now look here, I want 
something to eat! To eat -- do you 
hear?"

"Are you hungry?"

"Come, you understand me."

"What would your excellency like to 
eat?"

"A piece of dry bread, since the fowls 
are beyond all price in this accursed 
place."

"Bread? Very well. Hallo, there, some 
bread!" he called. The youth brought a 
small loaf. "How much?" asked Danglars.

"Four thousand nine hundred and 
ninety-eight louis," said Peppino; "You 
have paid two louis in advance."

"What? One hundred thousand francs for 
a loaf?"

"One hundred thousand francs," repeated 
Peppino.

"But you only asked 100,000 francs for 
a fowl!"

"We have a fixed price for all our 
provisions. It signifies nothing 
whether you eat much or little -- 
whether you have ten dishes or one -- 
it is always the same price."

"What, still keeping up this silly 
jest? My dear fellow, it is perfectly 
ridiculous -- stupid! You had better 
tell me at once that you intend 
starving me to death."

"Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless 
you intend to commit suicide. Pay and 
eat."

"And what am I to pay with, brute?" 
said Danglars, enraged. "Do you suppose 
I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?"

"Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs 
in your pocket; that will be fifty 
fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and 
half a fowl for the 50,000."

Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell 
from his eyes, and he understood the 
joke, which he did not think quite so 
stupid as he had done just before. 
"Come," he said, "if I pay you the 
100,000 francs, will you be satisfied, 
and allow me to eat at my ease?"

"Certainly," said Peppino.

"But how can I pay them?"

"Oh, nothing easier; you have an 
account open with Messrs. Thomson & 
French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a 
draft for 4,998 louis on these 
gentlemen, and our banker shall take 
it." Danglars thought it as well to 
comply with a good grace, so he took 
the pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered 
him, wrote the draft, and signed it. 
"Here," he said, "here is a draft at 
sight."

"And here is your fowl." Danglars 
sighed while he carved the fowl; it 
appeared very thin for the price it had 
cost. As for Peppino, he examined the 
paper attentively, put it into his 
pocket, and continued eating his pease. 

 Chapter 116 The Pardon.

The next day Danglars was again hungry; 
certainly the air of that dungeon was 
very provocative of appetite. The 
prisoner expected that he would be at 
no expense that day, for like an 
economical man he had concealed half of 
his fowl and a piece of the bread in 
the corner of his cell. But he had no 
sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he 
had forgotten that. He struggled 
against his thirst till his tongue 
clave to the roof of his mouth; then, 
no longer able to resist, he called 
out. The sentinel opened the door; it 
was a new face. He thought it would be 
better to transact business with his 
old acquaintance, so he sent for 
Peppino. "Here I am, your excellency," 
said Peppino, with an eagerness which 
Danglars thought favorable to him. 
"What do you want?"

"Something to drink."

"Your excellency knows that wine is 
beyond all price near Rome."

"Then give me water," cried Danglars, 
endeavoring to parry the blow.

"Oh, water is even more scarce than 
wine, your excellency, -- there has 
been such a drought."

"Come," thought Danglars, "it is the 
same old story." And while he smiled as 
he attempted to regard the affair as a 
joke, he felt his temples get moist 
with perspiration.

"Come, my friend," said Danglars, 
seeing that he made no impression on 
Peppino, "you will not refuse me a 
glass of wine?"

"I have already told you that we do not 
sell at retail."

"Well, then, let me have a bottle of 
the least expensive."

"They are all the same price."

"And what is that?"

"Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle."

"Tell me," cried Danglars, in a tone 
whose bitterness Harpagon* alone has 
been capable of revealing -- "tell the 
that you wish to despoil me of all; it 
will be sooner over than devouring me 
piecemeal."

* The miser in Moliere's comedy of 
"L'Avare." -- Ed.

"It is possible such may be the 
master's intention."

"The master? -- who is he?"

"The person to whom you were conducted 
yesterday."

"Where is he?"

"Here."

"Let me see him."

"Certainly." And the next moment Luigi 
Vampa appeared before Danglars.

"You sent for me?" he said to the 
prisoner.

"Are you, sir, the chief of the people 
who brought me here?"

"Yes, your excellency. What then?"

"How much do you require for my ransom?"

"Merely the 5,000,000 you have about 
you." Danglars felt a dreadful spasm 
dart through his heart. "But this is 
all I have left in the world," he said, 
"out of an immense fortune. If you 
deprive me of that, take away my life 
also."

"We are forbidden to shed your blood."

"And by whom are you forbidden?"

"By him we obey."

"You do, then, obey some one?"

"Yes, a chief."

"I thought you said you were the chief?"

"So I am of these men; but there is 
another over me."

"And did your superior order you to 
treat me in this way?"

"Yes."

"But my purse will be exhausted."

"Probably."

"Come," said Danglars, "will you take a 
million?"

"No."

"Two millions? -- three? -- four? Come, 
four? I will give them to you on 
condition that you let me go."

"Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what 
is worth 5,000,000? This is a kind of 
usury, banker, that I do not 
understand."

"Take all, then -- take all, I tell 
you, and kill me!"

"Come, come, calm yourself. You will 
excite your blood, and that would 
produce an appetite it would require a 
million a day to satisfy. Be more 
economical."

"But when I have no more money left to 
pay you?" asked the infuriated Danglars.

"Then you must suffer hunger."

"Suffer hunger?" said Danglars, 
becoming pale.

"Most likely," replied Vampa coolly.

"But you say you do not wish to kill 
me?"

"No."

"And yet you will let me perish with 
hunger?"

"Ah, that is a different thing."

"Well, then, wretches," cried Danglars, 
"I will defy your infamous calculations 
-- I would rather die at once! You may 
torture, torment, kill me, but you 
shall not have my signature again!"

"As your excellency pleases," said 
Vampa, as he left the cell. Danglars, 
raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. 
Who could these men be? Who was the 
invisible chief? What could be his 
intentions towards him? And why, when 
every one else was allowed to be 
ransomed, might he not also be? Oh, 
yes; certainly a speedy, violent death 
would be a fine means of deceiving 
these remorseless enemies, who appeared 
to pursue him with such 
incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? 
For the first time in his life, 
Danglars contemplated death with a 
mixture of dread and desire; the time 
had come when the implacable spectre, 
which exists in the mind of every human 
creature, arrested his attention and 
called out with every pulsation of his 
heart, "Thou shalt die!"

Danglars resembled a timid animal 
excited in the chase; first it flies, 
then despairs, and at last, by the very 
force of desperation, sometimes 
succeeds in eluding its pursuers. 
Danglars meditated an escape; but the 
walls were solid rock, a man was 
sitting reading at the only outlet to 
the cell, and behind that man shapes 
armed with guns continually passed. His 
resolution not to sign lasted two days, 
after which he offered a million for 
some food. They sent him a magnificent 
supper, and took his million.

From this time the prisoner resolved to 
suffer no longer, but to have 
everything he wanted. At the end of 
twelve days, after having made a 
splendid dinner, he reckoned his 
accounts, and found that he had only 
50,000 francs left. Then a strange 
reaction took place; he who had just 
abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save 
the 50,000 francs he had left, and 
sooner than give them up he resolved to 
enter again upon a life of privation -- 
he was deluded by the hopefulness that 
is a premonition of madness. He who for 
so long a time had forgotten God, began 
to think that miracles were possible -- 
that the accursed cavern might be 
discovered by the officers of the Papal 
States, who would release him; that 
then he would have 50,000 remaining, 
which would be sufficient to save him 
from starvation; and finally he prayed 
that this sum might be preserved to 
him, and as he prayed he wept. Three 
days passed thus, during which his 
prayers were frequent, if not 
heartfelt. Sometimes he was delirious, 
and fancied he saw an old man stretched 
on a pallet; he, also, was dying of 
hunger.

On the fourth, he was no longer a man, 
but a living corpse. He had picked up 
every crumb that had been left from his 
former meals, and was beginning to eat 
the matting which covered the floor of 
his cell. Then he entreated Peppino, as 
he would a guardian angel, to give him 
food; he offered him 1,000 francs for a 
mouthful of bread. But Peppino did not 
answer. On the fifth day he dragged 
himself to the door of the cell.

"Are you not a Christian?" he said, 
falling on his knees. "Do you wish to 
assassinate a man who, in the eyes of 
heaven, is a brother? Oh, my former 
friends, my former friends!" he 
murmured, and fell with his face to the 
ground. Then rising in despair, he 
exclaimed, "The chief, the chief!"

"Here I am," said Vampa, instantly 
appearing; "what do you want?"

"Take my last gold," muttered Danglars, 
holding out his pocket-book, "and let 
me live here; I ask no more for liberty 
-- I only ask to live!"

"Then you suffer a great deal?"

"Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!"

"Still, there have been men who 
suffered more than you."

"I do not think so."

"Yes; those who have died of hunger."

Danglars thought of the old man whom, 
in his hours of delirium, he had seen 
groaning on his bed. He struck his 
forehead on the ground and groaned. 
"Yes," he said, "there have been some 
who have suffered more than I have, but 
then they must have been martyrs at 
least."

"Do you repent?" asked a deep, solemn 
voice, which caused Danglars' hair to 
stand on end. His feeble eyes 
endeavored to distinguish objects, and 
behind the bandit he saw a man 
enveloped in a cloak, half lost in the 
shadow of a stone column.

"Of what must I repent?" stammered 
Danglars.

"Of the evil you have done," said the 
voice.

"Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent." 
And he struck his breast with his 
emaciated fist.

"Then I forgive you," said the man, 
dropping his cloak, and advancing to 
the light.

"The Count of Monte Cristo!" said 
Danglars, more pale from terror than he 
had been just before from hunger and 
misery.

"You are mistaken -- I am not the Count 
of Monte Cristo."

"Then who are you?"

"I am he whom you sold and dishonored 
-- I am he whose betrothed you 
prostituted -- I am he upon whom you 
trampled that you might raise yourself 
to fortune -- I am he whose father you 
condemned to die of hunger -- I am he 
whom you also condemned to starvation, 
and who yet forgives you, because he 
hopes to be forgiven -- I am Edmond 
Dantes!" Danglars uttered a cry, and 
fell prostrate. "Rise," said the count, 
"your life is safe; the same good 
fortune has not happened to your 
accomplices -- one is mad, the other 
dead. Keep the 50,000 francs you have 
left -- I give them to you. The 
5,000,000 you stole from the hospitals 
has been restored to them by an unknown 
hand. And now eat and drink; I will 
entertain you to-night. Vampa, when 
this man is satisfied, let him be 
free." Danglars remained prostrate 
while the count withdrew; when he 
raised his head he saw disappearing 
down the passage nothing but a shadow, 
before which the bandits bowed. 
According to the count's directions, 
Danglars was waited on by Vampa, who 
brought him the best wine and fruits of 
Italy; then, having conducted him to 
the road, and pointed to the 
post-chaise, left him leaning against a 
tree. He remained there all night, not 
knowing where he was. When daylight 
dawned he saw that he was near a 
stream; he was thirsty, and dragged 
himself towards it. As he stooped down 
to drink, he saw that his hair had 
become entirely white. 

 Chapter 117 The Fifth of October.

It was about six o'clock in the 
evening; an opal-colored light, through 
which an autumnal sun shed its golden 
rays, descended on the blue ocean. The 
heat of the day had gradually 
decreased, and a light breeze arose, 
seeming like the respiration of nature 
on awakening from the burning siesta of 
the south. A delicious zephyr played 
along the coasts of the Mediterranean, 
and wafted from shore to shore the 
sweet perfume of plants, mingled with 
the fresh smell of the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in 
its form, was gliding amidst the first 
dews of night over the immense lake, 
extending from Gibraltar to the 
Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. 
The vessel resembled a swan with its 
wings opened towards the wind, gliding 
on the water. It advanced swiftly and 
gracefully, leaving behind it a 
glittering stretch of foam. By degrees 
the sun disappeared behind the western 
horizon; but as though to prove the 
truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen 
mythology, its indiscreet rays 
reappeared on the summit of every wave, 
as if the god of fire had just sunk 
upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in 
vain endeavored to hide her lover 
beneath her azure mantle. The yacht 
moved rapidly on, though there did not 
appear to be sufficient wind to ruffle 
the curls on the head of a young girl. 
Standing on the prow was a tall man, of 
a dark complexion, who saw with 
dilating eyes that they were 
approaching a dark mass of land in the 
shape of a cone, which rose from the 
midst of the waves like the hat of a 
Catalan. "Is that Monte Cristo?" asked 
the traveller, to whose orders the 
yacht was for the time submitted, in a 
melancholy voice.

"Yes, your excellency," said the 
captain, "we have reached it."

"We have reached it!" repeated the 
traveller in an accent of indescribable 
sadness. Then he added, in a low tone, 
"Yes; that is the haven." And then he 
again plunged into a train of thought, 
the character of which was better 
revealed by a sad smile, than it would 
have been by tears. A few minutes 
afterwards a flash of light, which was 
extinguished instantly, was seen on the 
land, and the sound of firearms reached 
the yacht.

"Your excellency," said the captain, 
"that was the land signal, will you 
answer yourself?"

"What signal?" The captain pointed 
towards the island, up the side of 
which ascended a volume of smoke, 
increasing as it rose. "Ah, yes," he 
said, as if awaking from a dream. "Give 
it to me."

The captain gave him a loaded carbine; 
the traveller slowly raised it, and 
fired in the air. Ten minutes 
afterwards, the sails were furled, and 
they cast anchor about a hundred 
fathoms from the little harbor. The gig 
was already lowered, and in it were 
four oarsmen and a coxswain. The 
traveller descended, and instead of 
sitting down at the stern of the boat, 
which had been decorated with a blue 
carpet for his accommodation, stood up 
with his arms crossed. The rowers 
waited, their oars half lifted out of 
the water, like birds drying their 
wings.

"Give way," said the traveller. The 
eight oars fell into the sea 
simultaneously without splashing a drop 
of water, and the boat, yielding to the 
impulsion, glided forward. In an 
instant they found themselves in a 
little harbor, formed in a natural 
creek; the boat grounded on the fine 
sand.

"Will your excellency be so good as to 
mount the shoulders of two of our men, 
they will carry you ashore?" The young 
man answered this invitation with a 
gesture of indifference, and stepped 
out of the boat; the sea immediately 
rose to his waist. "Ah, your 
excellency," murmured the pilot, "you 
should not have done so; our master 
will scold us for it." The young man 
continued to advance, following the 
sailors, who chose a firm footing. 
Thirty strides brought them to dry 
land; the young man stamped on the 
ground to shake off the wet, and looked 
around for some one to show him his 
road, for it was quite dark. Just as he 
turned, a hand rested on his shoulder, 
and a voice which made him shudder 
exclaimed, -- "Good-evening, 
Maximilian; you are punctual, thank 
you!"

"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young 
man, in an almost joyful accent, 
pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both 
his own.

"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. 
But you are dripping, my dear fellow; 
you must change your clothes, as 
Calypso said to Telemachus. Come, I 
have a habitation prepared for you in 
which you will soon forget fatigue and 
cold." Monte Cristo perceived that the 
young man had turned around; indeed, 
Morrel saw with surprise that the men 
who had brought him had left without 
being paid, or uttering a word. Already 
the sound of their oars might be heard 
as they returned to the yacht.

"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are 
looking for the sailors."

"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they 
are gone."

"Never mind that, Maximilian," said 
Monte Cristo, smiling. "I have made an 
agreement with the navy, that the 
access to my island shall be free of 
all charge. I have made a bargain." 
Morrel looked at the count with 
surprise. "Count," he said, "you are 
not the same here as in Paris."

"How so?"

"Here you laugh." The count's brow 
became clouded. "You are right to 
recall me to myself, Maximilian," he 
said; "I was delighted to see you 
again, and forgot for the moment that 
all happiness is fleeting."

"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, 
seizing the count's hands, "pray laugh; 
be happy, and prove to me, by your 
indifference, that life is endurable to 
sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, 
and good you are; you affect this 
gayety to inspire me with courage."

"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really 
happy."

"Then you forget me, so much the 
better."

"How so?"

"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the 
emperor, when he entered the arena, `He 
who is about to die salutes you.'"

"Then you are not consoled?" asked the 
count, surprised.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance 
full of bitter reproach, "do you think 
it possible that I could be?"

"Listen," said the count. "Do you 
understand the meaning of my words? You 
cannot take me for a commonplace man, a 
mere rattle, emitting a vague and 
senseless noise. When I ask you if you 
are consoled, I speak to you as a man 
for whom the human heart has no 
secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both 
examine the depths of your heart. Do 
you still feel the same feverish 
impatience of grief which made you 
start like a wounded lion? Have you 
still that devouring thirst which can 
only be appeased in the grave? Are you 
still actuated by the regret which 
drags the living to the pursuit of 
death; or are you only suffering from 
the prostration of fatigue and the 
weariness of hope deferred? Has the 
loss of memory rendered it impossible 
for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if 
this be the case, -- if you can no 
longer weep, if your frozen heart be 
dead, if you put all your trust in God, 
then, Maximilian, you are consoled -- 
do not complain."

"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at 
the same time soft voice, "listen to 
me, as to a man whose thoughts are 
raised to heaven, though he remains on 
earth; I come to die in the arms of a 
friend. Certainly, there are people 
whom I love. I love my sister Julie, -- 
I love her husband Emmanuel; but I 
require a strong mind to smile on my 
last moments. My sister would be bathed 
in tears and fainting; I could not bear 
to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear 
the weapon from my hand, and alarm the 
house with his cries. You, count, who 
are more than mortal, will, I am sure, 
lead me to death by a pleasant path, 
will you not?"

"My friend," said the count, "I have 
still one doubt, -- are you weak enough 
to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"

"No, indeed, -- I am calm," said 
Morrel, giving his hand to the count; 
"my pulse does not beat slower or 
faster than usual. No, I feel that I 
have reached the goal, and I will go no 
farther. You told me to wait and hope; 
do you know what you did, unfortunate 
adviser? I waited a month, or rather I 
suffered for a month! I did hope (man 
is a poor wretched creature), I did 
hope. What I cannot tell, -- something 
wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle, -- 
of what nature he alone can tell who 
has mingled with our reason that folly 
we call hope. Yes, I did wait -- yes, I 
did hope, count, and during this 
quarter of an hour we have been talking 
together, you have unconsciously 
wounded, tortured my heart, for every 
word you have uttered proved that there 
was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall 
sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms 
of death." Morrel uttered these words 
with an energy which made the count 
shudder. "My friend," continued Morrel, 
"you named the fifth of October as the 
end of the period of waiting, -- to-day 
is the fifth of October," he took out 
his watch, "it is now nine o'clock, -- 
I have yet three hours to live."

"Be it so," said the count, "come." 
Morrel mechanically followed the count, 
and they had entered the grotto before 
he perceived it. He felt a carpet under 
his feet, a door opened, perfumes 
surrounded him, and a brilliant light 
dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to 
advance; he dreaded the enervating 
effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo 
drew him in gently. "Why should we not 
spend the last three hours remaining to 
us of life, like those ancient Romans, 
who when condemned by Nero, their 
emperor and heir, sat down at a table 
covered with flowers, and gently glided 
into death, amid the perfume of 
heliotropes and roses?" Morrel smiled. 
"As you please," he said; "death is 
always death, -- that is forgetfulness, 
repose, exclusion from life, and 
therefore from grief." He sat down, and 
Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to 
him. They were in the marvellous 
dining-room before described, where the 
statues had baskets on their heads 
always filled with fruits and flowers. 
Morrel had looked carelessly around, 
and had probably noticed nothing.

"Let us talk like men," he said, 
looking at the count.

"Go on!"

"Count," said Morrel, "you are the 
epitome of all human knowledge, and you 
seem like a being descended from a 
wiser and more advanced world than 
ours."

"There is something true in what you 
say," said the count, with that smile 
which made him so handsome; "I have 
descended from a planet called grief."

"I believe all you tell me without 
questioning its meaning; for instance, 
you told me to live, and I did live; 
you told me to hope, and I almost did 
so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as 
though you had experienced death, `is 
it painful to die?'"

Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with 
indescribable tenderness. "Yes," he 
said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if 
you violently break the outer covering 
which obstinately begs for life. If you 
plunge a dagger into your flesh, if you 
insinuate a bullet into your brain, 
which the least shock disorders, -- 
then certainly, you will suffer pain, 
and you will repent quitting a life for 
a repose you have bought at so dear a 
price."

"Yes; I know that there is a secret of 
luxury and pain in death, as well as in 
life; the only thing is to understand 
it."

"You have spoken truly, Maximilian; 
according to the care we bestow upon 
it, death is either a friend who rocks 
us gently as a nurse, or an enemy who 
violently drags the soul from the body. 
Some day, when the world is much older, 
and when mankind will be masters of all 
the destructive powers in nature, to 
serve for the general good of humanity; 
when mankind, as you were just saying, 
have discovered the secrets of death, 
then that death will become as sweet 
and voluptuous as a slumber in the arms 
of your beloved."

"And if you wished to die, you would 
choose this death, count?"

"Yes."

Morrel extended his hand. "Now I 
understand," he said, "why you had me 
brought here to this desolate spot, in 
the midst of the ocean, to this 
subterranean palace; it was because you 
loved me, was it not, count? It was 
because you loved me well enough to 
give me one of those sweet means of 
death of which we were speaking; a 
death without agony, a death which 
allows me to fade away while 
pronouncing Valentine's name and 
pressing your hand."

"Yes, you have guessed rightly, 
Morrel," said the count, "that is what 
I intended."

"Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall 
no longer suffer, is sweet to my heart."

"Do you then regret nothing?"

"No," replied Morrel.

"Not even me?" asked the count with 
deep emotion. Morrel's clear eye was 
for the moment clouded, then it shone 
with unusual lustre, and a large tear 
rolled down his cheek.

"What," said the count, "do you still 
regret anything in the world, and yet 
die?"

"Oh, I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel 
in a low voice, "do not speak another 
word, count; do not prolong my 
punishment." The count fancied that he 
was yielding, and this belief revived 
the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed 
him at the Chateau d'If. "I am 
endeavoring," he thought, "to make this 
man happy; I look upon this restitution 
as a weight thrown into the scale to 
balance the evil I have wrought. Now, 
supposing I am deceived, supposing this 
man has not been unhappy enough to 
merit happiness. Alas, what would 
become of me who can only atone for 
evil by doing good?" Then he said 
aloud: "Listen, Morrel, I see your 
grief is great, but still you do not 
like to risk your soul." Morrel smiled 
sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear to 
you my soul is no longer my own."

"Maximilian, you know I have no 
relation in the world. I have 
accustomed myself to regard you as my 
son: well, then, to save my son, I will 
sacrifice my life, nay, even my 
fortune."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that you wish to quit life 
because you do not understand all the 
enjoyments which are the fruits of a 
large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly 
a hundred millions and I give them to 
you; with such a fortune you can attain 
every wish. Are you ambitions? Every 
career is open to you. Overturn the 
world, change its character, yield to 
mad ideas, be even criminal -- but 
live."

"Count, I have your word," said Morrel 
coldly; then taking out his watch, he 
added, "It is half-past eleven."

"Morrel, can you intend it in my house, 
under my very eyes?"

"Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or 
I shall think you did not love me for 
my own sake, but for yours; "and he 
arose.

"It is well," said Monte Cristo whose 
countenance brightened at these words; 
"you wish -- you are inflexible. Yes, 
as you said, you are indeed wretched 
and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit 
down, Morrel, and wait."

Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and 
unlocking a closet with a key suspended 
from his gold chain, took from it a 
little silver casket, beautifully 
carved and chased, the corners of which 
represented four bending figures, 
similar to the Caryatides, the forms of 
women, symbols of the angels aspiring 
to heaven. He placed the casket on the 
table; then opening it took out a 
little golden box, the top of which 
flew open when touched by a secret 
spring. This box contained an unctuous 
substance partly solid, of which it was 
impossible to discover the color, owing 
to the reflection of the polished gold, 
sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which 
ornamented the box. It was a mixed mass 
of blue, red, and gold. The count took 
out a small quantity of this with a 
gilt spoon, and offered it to Morrel, 
fixing a long steadfast glance upon 
him. It was then observable that the 
substance was greenish.

"This is what you asked for," he said, 
"and what I promised to give you."

"I thank you from the depths of my 
heart," said the young man, taking the 
spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. 
The count took another spoon, and again 
dipped it into the golden box. "What 
are you going to do, my friend?" asked 
Morrel, arresting his hand.

"Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was 
thinking that I too am weary of life, 
and since an opportunity presents 
itself" --

"Stay!" said the young man. "You who 
love, and are beloved; you, who have 
faith and hope, -- oh, do not follow my 
example. In your case it would be a 
crime. Adieu, my noble and generous 
friend, adieu; I will go and tell 
Valentine what you have done for me." 
And slowly, though without any 
hesitation, only waiting to press the 
count's hand fervently, he swallowed 
the mysterious substance offered by 
Monte Cristo. Then they were both 
silent. Ali, mute and attentive, 
brought the pipes and coffee, and 
disappeared. By degrees, the light of 
the lamps gradually faded in the hands 
of the marble statues which held them, 
and the perfumes appeared less powerful 
to Morrel. Seated opposite to him, 
Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, 
and Morrel saw nothing but the bright 
eyes of the count. An overpowering 
sadness took possession of the young 
man, his hands relaxed their hold, the 
objects in the room gradually lost 
their form and color, and his disturbed 
vision seemed to perceive doors and 
curtains open in the walls.

"Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am 
dying; thanks!" He made a last effort 
to extend his hand, but it fell 
powerless beside him. Then it appeared 
to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not 
with the strange and fearful expression 
which had sometimes revealed to him the 
secrets of his heart, but with the 
benevolent kindness of a father for a 
child. At the same time the count 
appeared to increase in stature, his 
form, nearly double its usual height, 
stood out in relief against the red 
tapestry, his black hair was thrown 
back, and he stood in the attitude of 
an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, 
turned around in the arm-chair; a 
delicious torpor permeated every vein. 
A change of ideas presented themselves 
to his brain, like a new design on the 
kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and 
breathless, he became unconscious of 
outward objects; he seemed to be 
entering that vague delirium preceding 
death. He wished once again to press 
the count's hand, but his own was 
immovable. He wished to articulate a 
last farewell, but his tongue lay 
motionless and heavy in his throat, 
like a stone at the mouth of a 
sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid 
eyes closed, and still through his 
eyelashes a well-known form seemed to 
move amid the obscurity with which he 
thought himself enveloped.

The count had just opened a door. 
Immediately a brilliant light from the 
next room, or rather from the palace 
adjoining, shone upon the room in which 
he was gently gliding into his last 
sleep. Then he saw a woman of 
marvellous beauty appear on the 
threshold of the door separating the 
two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, 
she looked like an angel of mercy 
conjuring the angel of vengeance. "Is 
it heaven that opens before me?" 
thought the dying man; "that angel 
resembles the one I have lost." Monte 
Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young 
woman, who advanced towards him with 
clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.

"Valentine, Valentine!" he mentally 
ejaculated; but his lips uttered no 
sound, and as though all his strength 
were centred in that internal emotion, 
he sighed and closed his eyes. 
Valentine rushed towards him; his lips 
again moved.

"He is calling you," said the count; 
"he to whom you have confided your 
destiny -- he from whom death would 
have separated you, calls you to him. 
Happily, I vanquished death. 
Henceforth, Valentine, you will never 
again be separated on earth, since he 
has rushed into death to find you. 
Without me, you would both have died. 
May God accept my atonement in the 
preservation of these two existences!"

Valentine seized the count's hand, and 
in her irresistible impulse of joy 
carried it to her lips.

"Oh, thank me again!" said the count; 
"tell me till you are weary, that I 
have restored you to happiness; you do 
not know how much I require this 
assurance."

"Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my 
heart," said Valentine; "and if you 
doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, 
oh, then, ask Haidee! ask my beloved 
sister Haidee, who ever since our 
departure from France, has caused me to 
wait patiently for this happy day, 
while talking to me of you."

"You then love Haidee?" asked Monte 
Cristo with an emotion he in vain 
endeavored to dissimulate.

"Oh, yes, with all my soul."

"Well, then, listen, Valentine," said 
the count; "I have a favor to ask of 
you."

"Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?"

"Yes; you have called Haidee your 
sister, -- let her become so indeed, 
Valentine; render her all the gratitude 
you fancy that you owe to me; protect 
her, for" (the count's voice was thick 
with emotion) "henceforth she will be 
alone in the world."

"Alone in the world!" repeated a voice 
behind the count, "and why?"

Monte Cristo turned around; Haidee was 
standing pale, motionless, looking at 
the count with an expression of fearful 
amazement.

"Because to-morrow, Haidee, you will be 
free; you will then assume your proper 
position in society, for I will not 
allow my destiny to overshadow yours. 
Daughter of a prince, I restore to you 
the riches and name of your father."

Haidee became pale, and lifting her 
transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed 
in a voice stifled with tears, "Then 
you leave me, my lord?"

"Haidee, Haidee, you are young and 
beautiful; forget even my name, and be 
happy."

"It is well," said Haidee; "your order 
shall be executed, my lord; I will 
forget even your name, and be happy." 
And she stepped back to retire.

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, who 
was supporting the head of Morrel on 
her shoulder, "do you not see how pale 
she is? Do you not see how she suffers?"

Haidee answered with a heartrending 
expression, "Why should he understand 
this, my sister? He is my master, and I 
am his slave; he has the right to 
notice nothing."

The count shuddered at the tones of a 
voice which penetrated the inmost 
recesses of his heart; his eyes met 
those of the young girl and he could 
not bear their brilliancy. "Oh, 
heavens," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "can 
my suspicions be correct? Haidee, would 
it please you not to leave me?"

"I am young," gently replied Haidee; "I 
love the life you have made so sweet to 
me, and I should be sorry to die."

"You mean, then, that if I leave you, 
Haidee" --

"I should die; yes, my lord."

"Do you then love me?"

"Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. 
Valentine, tell him if you love 
Maximilian." The count felt his heart 
dilate and throb; he opened his arms, 
and Haidee, uttering a cry, sprang into 
them. "Oh, yes," she cried, "I do love 
you! I love you as one loves a father, 
brother, husband! I love you as my 
life, for you are the best, the noblest 
of created beings!"

"Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet 
angel; God has sustained me in my 
struggle with my enemies, and has given 
me this reward; he will not let me end 
my triumph in suffering; I wished to 
punish myself, but he has pardoned me. 
Love me then, Haidee! Who knows? 
perhaps your love will make me forget 
all that I do not wish to remember."

"What do you mean, my lord?"

"I mean that one word from you has 
enlightened me more than twenty years 
of slow experience; I have but you in 
the world, Haidee; through you I again 
take hold on life, through you I shall 
suffer, through you rejoice."

"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed 
Haidee; "he says that through me he 
will suffer -- through me, who would 
yield my life for his." The count 
withdrew for a moment. "Have I 
discovered the truth?" he said; "but 
whether it be for recompense or 
punishment, I accept my fate. Come, 
Haidee, come!" and throwing his arm 
around the young girl's waist, he 
pressed the hand of Valentine, and 
disappeared.

An hour had nearly passed, during which 
Valentine, breathless and motionless, 
watched steadfastly over Morrel. At 
length she felt his heart beat, a faint 
breath played upon his lips, a slight 
shudder, announcing the return of life, 
passed through the young man's frame. 
At length his eyes opened, but they 
were at first fixed and expressionless; 
then sight returned, and with it 
feeling and grief. "Oh," he cried, in 
an accent of despair, "the count has 
deceived me; I am yet living; "and 
extending his hand towards the table, 
he seized a knife.

"Dearest," exclaimed Valentine, with 
her adorable smile, "awake, and look at 
me!" Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, 
and frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as 
though by a celestial vision, he fell 
upon his knees.

The next morning at daybreak, Valentine 
and Morrel were walking arm-in-arm on 
the sea-shore, Valentine relating how 
Monte Cristo had appeared in her room, 
explained everything, revealed the 
crime, and, finally, how he had saved 
her life by enabling her to simulate 
death. They had found the door of the 
grotto opened, and gone forth; on the 
azure dome of heaven still glittered a 
few remaining stars. Morrel soon 
perceived a man standing among the 
rocks, apparently awaiting a sign from 
them to advance, and pointed him out to 
Valentine. "Ah, it is Jacopo," she 
said, "the captain of the yacht; "and 
she beckoned him towards them.

"Do you wish to speak to us?" asked 
Morrel.

"I have a letter to give you from the 
count."

"From the count!" murmured the two 
young people.

"Yes; read it." Morrel opened the 
letter, and read: --

"My Dear Maximilian, --

"There is a felucca for you at anchor. 
Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn, where 
Monsieur Noirtier awaits his 
granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless 
before you lead her to the altar. All 
that is in this grotto, my friend, my 
house in the Champs Elysees, and my 
chateau at Treport, are the marriage 
gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon 
the son of his old master, Morrel. 
Mademoiselle de Villefort will share 
them with you; for I entreat her to 
give to the poor the immense fortune 
reverting to her from her father, now a 
madman, and her brother who died last 
September with his mother. Tell the 
angel who will watch over your future 
destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for 
a man, who like Satan thought himself 
for an instant equal to God, but who 
now acknowledges with Christian 
humility that God alone possesses 
supreme power and infinite wisdom. 
Perhaps those prayers may soften the 
remorse he feels in his heart. As for 
you, Morrel, this is the secret of my 
conduct towards you. There is neither 
happiness nor misery in the world; 
there is only the comparison of one 
state with another, nothing more. He 
who has felt the deepest grief is best 
able to experience supreme happiness. 
We must have felt what it is to die, 
Morrel, that we may appreciate the 
enjoyments of living.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved 
children of my heart, and never forget 
that until the day when God shall deign 
to reveal the future to man, all human 
wisdom is summed up in these two words, 
-- `Wait and hope.' Your friend,

"Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

During the perusal of this letter, 
which informed Valentine for the first 
time of the madness of her father and 
the death of her brother, she became 
pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her 
bosom, and tears, not the less painful 
because they were silent, ran down her 
cheeks; her happiness cost her very 
dear. Morrel looked around uneasily. 
"But," he said, "the count's generosity 
is too overwhelming; Valentine will be 
satisfied with my humble fortune. Where 
is the count, friend? Lead me to him." 
Jacopo pointed towards the horizon. 
"What do you mean?" asked Valentine. 
"Where is the count? -- where is 
Haidee?"

"Look!" said Jacopo.

The eyes of both were fixed upon the 
spot indicated by the sailor, and on 
the blue line separating the sky from 
the Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a 
large white sail. "Gone," said Morrel; 
"gone! -- adieu, my friend -- adieu, my 
father!"

"Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my 
sweet Haidee -- adieu, my sister!"

"Who can say whether we shall ever see 
them again?" said Morrel with tearful 
eyes.

"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not 
the count just told us that all human 
wisdom is summed up in two words? -- 
`Wait and hope.'"

THE END


Well, that surely was a long story. And what a cunning escape from his prison...I feel inspired.