*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1184 ***









The Trial



by Alexandre Dumas [père]









Contents





 VOLUME ONE

Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival

Chapter 2. Father and Son

Chapter 3. The Catalans

Chapter 4. Conspiracy

Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast

Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi

Chapter 7. The Examination

Chapter 8. The Château d’If

Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal

Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries

Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre

Chapter 12. Father and Son

Chapter 13. The Hundred Days

Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners

Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27

Chapter 16. A Learned Italian

Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber

Chapter 18. The Treasure

Chapter 19. The Third Attack

Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If

Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen

Chapter 22. The Smugglers

Chapter 23. The Island of The Trial

Chapter 24. The Secret Cave

Chapter 25. The Unknown

Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn

Chapter 27. The Story



 VOLUME TWO

Chapter 28. The Prison Register

Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son

Chapter 30. The Fifth of September

Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor

Chapter 32. The Waking

Chapter 33. Roman Bandits

Chapter 34. The Colosseum

Chapter 35. La Mazzolata

Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome.

Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian

Chapter 38. The Rendezvous

Chapter 39. The Guests

Chapter 40. The Breakfast

Chapter 41. The Presentation

Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio

Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil

Chapter 44. The Vendetta

Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood

Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit

Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays



 VOLUME THREE

Chapter 48. Ideology

Chapter 49. Haydée

Chapter 50. The Morrel Family

Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe

Chapter 52. Toxicology

Chapter 53. Robert le Diable

Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks

Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti

Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti

Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch

Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort

Chapter 59. The Will

Chapter 60. The Telegraph

Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice

Chapter 62. Ghosts

Chapter 63. The Dinner

Chapter 64. The Beggar

Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene

Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects

Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney

Chapter 68. A Summer Ball

Chapter 69. The Inquiry

Chapter 70. The Ball

Chapter 71. Bread and Salt

Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran

Chapter 73. The Promise



VOLUME FOUR

Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault

Chapter 75. A Signed Statement

Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger

Chapter 77. Haydée

Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina

Chapter 79. The Lemonade

Chapter 80. The Accusation

Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker

Chapter 82. The Burglary

Chapter 83. The Hand of God

Chapter 84. Beauchamp

Chapter 85. The Journey

Chapter 86. The Trial

Chapter 87. The Challenge

Chapter 88. The Insult

Chapter 89. The Night

Chapter 90. The Meeting

Chapter 91. Mother and Son

Chapter 92. The Suicide

Chapter 93. Valentine

Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal

Chapter 95. Father and Daughter



VOLUME FIVE

Chapter 96. The Contract

Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium

Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern

Chapter 99. The Law

Chapter 100. The Apparition

Chapter 101. Locusta

Chapter 102. Valentine

Chapter 103. Maximilian

Chapter 104. Danglars’ Signature

Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise

Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds

Chapter 107. The Lions’ Den

Chapter 108. The Judge

Chapter 109. The Assizes

Chapter 110. The Indictment

Chapter 111. Expiation

Chapter 112. The Departure

Chapter 113. The Past

Chapter 114. Peppino

Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare

Chapter 116. The Pardon

Chapter 117. The Fifth of October







VOLUME ONE







 Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival



On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde

signalled the three-master, the _Pharaon_ from Smyrna, Trieste, and

Naples.



As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Château d’If,

got on board the vessel between Cape Morgiou and Rion island.



Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean

were covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a

ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the _Pharaon_,

has been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs

to an owner of the city.



The ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic

shock has made between the Calasareigne and Jaros islands; had doubled

Pomègue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib, and spanker,

but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is

the forerunner of evil, asked one another what misfortune could have

happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly

that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself,

for she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the

anchor a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys already eased off, and standing by

the side of the pilot, who was steering the _Pharaon_ towards the

narrow entrance of the inner port, was a young man, who, with activity

and vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each

direction of the pilot.



The vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators had so much

affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the

vessel in harbor, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled

alongside the _Pharaon_, which he reached as she rounded into La

Réserve basin.



When the young man on board saw this person approach, he left his

station by the pilot, and, hat in hand, leaned over the ship’s

bulwarks.



He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with

black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven’s wing; and his whole

appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men

accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.



“Ah, is it you, Dantès?” cried the man in the skiff. “What’s the

matter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?”



“A great misfortune, M. Morrel,” replied the young man, “a great

misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia we lost our brave

Captain Leclere.”



“And the cargo?” inquired the owner, eagerly.



“Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that

head. But poor Captain Leclere——”



“What happened to him?” asked the owner, with an air of considerable

resignation. “What happened to the worthy captain?”



“He died.”



“Fell into the sea?”



“No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony.” Then turning to

the crew, he said, “Bear a hand there, to take in sail!”



All hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who composed the

crew, sprang to their respective stations at the spanker brails and

outhaul, topsail sheets and halyards, the jib downhaul, and the topsail

clewlines and buntlines. The young sailor gave a look to see that his

orders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to

the owner.



“And how did this misfortune occur?” inquired the latter, resuming the

interrupted conversation.



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“Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk with the

harbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in mind.

In twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days

afterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his

rest, sewn up in his hammock with a thirty-six-pound shot at his head

and his heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword

and cross of honor. It was worth while, truly,” added the young man

with a melancholy smile, “to make war against the English for ten

years, and to die in his bed at last, like everybody else.”



“Why, you see, Edmond,” replied the owner, who appeared more comforted

at every moment, “we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the

young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and since you assure

me that the cargo——”



“Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise

you not to take 25,000 francs for the profits of the voyage.”



Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted:

“Stand by there to lower the topsails and jib; brail up the spanker!”



The order was executed as promptly as it would have been on board a

man-of-war.



“Let go—and clue up!” At this last command all the sails were lowered,

and the vessel moved almost imperceptibly onwards.



“Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, observing the

owner’s impatience, “here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out

of his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I

must look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning.”



The owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a rope which

Dantès flung to him, and with an activity that would have done credit

to a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, while the young man,

going to his task, left the conversation to Danglars, who now came

towards the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of

age, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors,

insolent to his subordinates; and this, in addition to his position as

responsible agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors,

made him as much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dantès was beloved by

them.



“Well, M. Morrel,” said Danglars, “you have heard of the misfortune

that has befallen us?”



“Yes—yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man.”



“And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and honorable service,

as became a man charged with the interests of a house so important as

that of Morrel & Son,” replied Danglars.



“But,” replied the owner, glancing after Dantès, who was watching the

anchoring of his vessel, “it seems to me that a sailor needs not be so

old as you say, Danglars, to understand his business, for our friend

Edmond seems to understand it thoroughly, and not to require

instruction from anyone.”



“Yes,” said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate.

“Yes, he is young, and youth is invariably self-confident. Scarcely was

the captain’s breath out of his body when he assumed the command

without consulting anyone, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at

the Island of Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct.”



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“As to taking command of the vessel,” replied Morrel, “that was his

duty as captain’s mate; as to losing a day and a half off the Island of

Elba, he was wrong, unless the vessel needed repairs.”



“The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope you are,

M. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from pure whim, for the

pleasure of going ashore, and nothing else.”



“Dantès,” said the shipowner, turning towards the young man, “come this

way!”



“In a moment, sir,” answered Dantès, “and I’m with you.” Then calling

to the crew, he said, “Let go!”



The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through

the port-hole. Dantès continued at his post in spite of the presence of

the pilot, until this manœuvre was completed, and then he added,

“Half-mast the colors, and square the yards!”



“You see,” said Danglars, “he fancies himself captain already, upon my

word.”



“And so, in fact, he is,” said the owner.



“Except your signature and your partner’s, M. Morrel.”



“And why should he not have this?” asked the owner; “he is young, it is

true, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and of full experience.”



A cloud passed over Danglars’ brow.



“Your pardon, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, approaching, “the vessel now

rides at anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think?”



Danglars retreated a step or two. “I wished to inquire why you stopped

at the Island of Elba?”



“I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions of Captain

Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for Marshal Bertrand.”



“Then did you see him, Edmond?”



“Who?”



“The marshal.”



“Yes.”



Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantès on one side, he said

suddenly—



“And how is the emperor?”



“Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him.”



“You saw the emperor, then?”



“He entered the marshal’s apartment while I was there.”



“And you spoke to him?”



“Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,” said Dantès, with a smile.



“And what did he say to you?”



“Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left Marseilles, the

course she had taken, and what was her cargo. I believe, if she had not

been laden, and I had been her master, he would have bought her. But I

told him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel &

Son. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘I know them. The Morrels have been shipowners

from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same

regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.’”



“_Pardieu!_ and that is true!” cried the owner, greatly delighted. “And

that was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was afterwards a captain.

Dantès, you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and you

will see it will bring tears into the old soldier’s eyes. Come, come,”

continued he, patting Edmond’s shoulder kindly, “you did very right,

Dantès, to follow Captain Leclere’s instructions, and touch at Elba,

although if it were known that you had conveyed a packet to the

marshal, and had conversed with the emperor, it might bring you into

trouble.”



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“How could that bring me into trouble, sir?” asked Dantès; “for I did

not even know of what I was the bearer; and the emperor merely made

such inquiries as he would of the first comer. But, pardon me, here are

the health officers and the customs inspectors coming alongside.” And

the young man went to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached,

and said,—



“Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons for his

landing at Porto-Ferrajo?”



“Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars.”



“Well, so much the better,” said the supercargo; “for it is not

pleasant to think that a comrade has not done his duty.”



“Dantès has done his,” replied the owner, “and that is not saying much.

It was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this delay.”



“Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantès given you a letter from

him?”



“To me?—no—was there one?”



“I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere confided a letter

to his care.”



“Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?”



“Why, that which Dantès left at Porto-Ferrajo.”



“How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?”



Danglars turned very red.



“I was passing close to the door of the captain’s cabin, which was half

open, and I saw him give the packet and letter to Dantès.”



“He did not speak to me of it,” replied the shipowner; “but if there be

any letter he will give it to me.”



Danglars reflected for a moment. “Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you,” said

he, “not to say a word to Dantès on the subject. I may have been

mistaken.”



At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.



“Well, my dear Dantès, are you now free?” inquired the owner.



“Yes, sir.”



“You have not been long detained.”



“No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and

as to the other papers, they sent a man off with the pilot, to whom I

gave them.”



“Then you have nothing more to do here?”



“No—everything is all right now.”



“Then you can come and dine with me?”



“I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first visit is due

to my father, though I am not the less grateful for the honor you have

done me.”



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“Right, Dantès, quite right. I always knew you were a good son.”



“And,” inquired Dantès, with some hesitation, “do you know how my

father is?”



“Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him lately.”



“Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room.”



“That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your

absence.”



Dantès smiled. “My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a meal left,

I doubt if he would have asked anything from anyone, except from

Heaven.”



“Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall count on

you.”



“I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first visit has

been paid I have another which I am most anxious to pay.”



“True, Dantès, I forgot that there was at the Catalans someone who

expects you no less impatiently than your father—the lovely Mercédès.”



Dantès blushed.



“Ah, ha,” said the shipowner, “I am not in the least surprised, for she

has been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the

_Pharaon_. _Peste!_ Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!”



“She is not my mistress,” replied the young sailor, gravely; “she is my

betrothed.”



“Sometimes one and the same thing,” said Morrel, with a smile.



“Not with us, sir,” replied Dantès.



“Well, well, my dear Edmond,” continued the owner, “don’t let me detain

you. You have managed my affairs so well that I ought to allow you all

the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?”



“No, sir; I have all my pay to take—nearly three months’ wages.”



“You are a careful fellow, Edmond.”



“Say I have a poor father, sir.”



“Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see

your father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those

who detained him from me after a three months’ voyage.”



“Then I have your leave, sir?”



“Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.”



“Nothing.”



“Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?”



“He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your

leave of absence for some days.”



“To get married?”



“Yes, first, and then to go to Paris.”



“Very good; have what time you require, Dantès. It will take quite six

weeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you ready for sea until

three months after that; only be back again in three months, for the

_Pharaon_,” added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back,

“cannot sail without her captain.”



“Without her captain!” cried Dantès, his eyes sparkling with animation;

“pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes

of my heart. Is it really your intention to make me captain of the

_Pharaon_?”



“If I were sole owner we’d shake hands on it now, my dear Dantès, and

call it settled; but I have a partner, and you know the Italian

proverb—_Chi ha compagno ha padrone_—‘He who has a partner has a

master.’ But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of

two votes. Rely on me to procure you the other; I will do my best.”



“Ah, M. Morrel,” exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes,

and grasping the owner’s hand, “M. Morrel, I thank you in the name of

my father and of Mercédès.”



“That’s all right, Edmond. There’s a providence that watches over the

deserving. Go to your father; go and see Mercédès, and afterwards come

to me.”



“Shall I row you ashore?”



“No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with

Danglars. Have you been satisfied with him this voyage?”



“That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you

mean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he never liked me since the

day when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to propose

to him to stop for ten minutes at the island of The Trial to settle

the dispute—a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite

right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you ask me the

question, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you

will be content with the way in which he has performed his duty.”



“But tell me, Dantès, if you had command of the _Pharaon_ should you be

glad to see Danglars remain?”



“Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the greatest respect

for those who possess the owners’ confidence.”



“That’s right, that’s right, Dantès! I see you are a thoroughly good

fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go, for I see how impatient you

are.”



“Then I have leave?”



“Go, I tell you.”



“May I have the use of your skiff?”



“Certainly.”



“Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks!”



“I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to you.”



The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern

sheets, with the order that he be put ashore at La Canebière. The two

oarsmen bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly

as possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the

narrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of

the harbor to the Quai d’Orléans.



The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him

spring out on the quay and disappear in the midst of the throng, which

from five o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, swarms in

the famous street of La Canebière,—a street of which the modern

Phocéens are so proud that they say with all the gravity in the world,

and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, “If

Paris had La Canebière, Paris would be a second Marseilles.” On turning

round the owner saw Danglars behind him, apparently awaiting orders,

but in reality also watching the young sailor,—but there was a great

difference in the expression of the two men who thus followed the

movements of Edmond Dantès.







 Chapter 2. Father and Son



We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and

endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil

suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantès, who, after having

traversed La Canebière, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small

house, on the left of the Allées de Meilhan, rapidly ascended four

flights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while

with the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused

before a half-open door, from which he could see the whole of a small

room.



This room was occupied by Dantès’ father. The news of the arrival of

the _Pharaon_ had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair,

was amusing himself by training with trembling hand the nasturtiums and

sprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window.

Suddenly, he felt an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice

behind him exclaimed, “Father—dear father!”



The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he

fell into his arms, pale and trembling.



“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired the young

man, much alarmed.



“No, no, my dear Edmond—my boy—my son!—no; but I did not expect you;

and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly—Ah, I feel as if I were

going to die.”



“Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! ’Tis I—really I! They say joy

never hurts, and so I came to you without any warning. Come now, do

smile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again, and

we are going to be happy.”



“Yes, yes, my boy, so we will—so we will,” replied the old man; “but

how shall we be happy? Shall you never leave me again? Come, tell me

all the good fortune that has befallen you.”



“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at happiness

derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek

this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to

lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable

that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you

understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred

louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor

sailor like me could have hoped for?”



“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “it is very fortunate.”



“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small

house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and

honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?”



“’Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away”—and as he said so the

old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.



“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive

you. Where do you keep your wine?”



“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the

old man.



“Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is,” and he opened two or three

cupboards.



“It is no use,” said the old man, “there is no wine.”



“What, no wine?” said Dantès, turning pale, and looking alternately at

the hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards. “What, no

wine? Have you wanted money, father?”



“I want nothing now that I have you,” said the old man.



“Yet,” stammered Dantès, wiping the perspiration from his brow,—“yet I

gave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago.”



“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little

debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I

did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see,

lest he might do you an injury——”



“Well?”



“Why, I paid him.”



“But,” cried Dantès, “it was a hundred and forty francs I owed

Caderousse.”



“Yes,” stammered the old man.



“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?”



The old man nodded.



“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,” muttered

Edmond.



“You know how little I require,” said the old man.



“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his

father.



“What are you doing?”



“You have wounded me to the heart.”



“Never mind it, for I see you once more,” said the old man; “and now

it’s all over—everything is all right again.”



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“Yes, here I am,” said the young man, “with a promising future and a

little money. Here, father, here!” he said, “take this—take it, and

send for something immediately.” And he emptied his pockets on the

table, the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six

five-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dantès

brightened.



“Whom does this belong to?” he inquired.



“To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and

tomorrow we shall have more.”



“Gently, gently,” said the old man, with a smile; “and by your leave I

will use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy

too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your

return, in order to be able to purchase them.”



“Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I

will not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee and

most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall

have tomorrow. But, hush, here comes somebody.”



“’Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to

congratulate you on your fortunate return.”



“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another,” murmured

Edmond. “But, never mind, he is a neighbor who has done us a service on

a time, so he’s welcome.”



As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at

the door. He was a man of twenty-five or six, and held a piece of

cloth, which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining.



“What, is it you, Edmond, back again?” said he, with a broad

Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his ivory-white teeth.



“Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you

in any and every way,” replied Dantès, but ill-concealing his coldness

under this cloak of civility.



“Thanks—thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it

chances that at times there are others who have need of me.” Dantès

made a gesture. “I do not allude to you, my boy. No!—no! I lent you

money, and you returned it; that’s like good neighbors, and we are

quits.”



“We are never quits with those who oblige us,” was Dantès’ reply; “for

when we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude.”



“What’s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk

of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece

of mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars. ‘You at

Marseilles?’—‘Yes,’ says he.



“‘I thought you were at Smyrna.’—‘I was; but am now back again.’



“‘And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?’



“‘Why, with his father, no doubt,’ replied Danglars. And so I came,”

added Caderousse, “as fast as I could to have the pleasure of shaking

hands with a friend.”



0037m







“Worthy Caderousse!” said the old man, “he is so much attached to us.”



“Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are

so rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my boy,” continued the

tailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which Dantès

had thrown on the table.



The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes

of his neighbor. “Eh,” he said, negligently, “this money is not mine. I

was expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many things in

my absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come,

father” added Dantès, “put this money back in your box—unless neighbor

Caderousse wants anything, and in that case it is at his service.”



“No, my boy, no,” said Caderousse. “I am not in any want, thank God, my

living is suited to my means. Keep your money—keep it, I say;—one never

has too much;—but, at the same time, my boy, I am as much obliged by

your offer as if I took advantage of it.”



“It was offered with good will,” said Dantès.



“No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel I

hear,—you insinuating dog, you!”



“M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me,” replied Dantès.



“Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him.”



“What, did you refuse to dine with him?” said old Dantès; “and did he

invite you to dine?”



“Yes, my dear father,” replied Edmond, smiling at his father’s

astonishment at the excessive honor paid to his son.



“And why did you refuse, my son?” inquired the old man.



“That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father,” replied the

young man. “I was most anxious to see you.”



“But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man,” said Caderousse.

“And when you are looking forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy

the owner.”



“But I explained to him the cause of my refusal,” replied Dantès, “and

I hope he fully understood it.”



“Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to one’s

patrons.”



“I hope to be captain without that,” said Dantès.



“So much the better—so much the better! Nothing will give greater

pleasure to all your old friends; and I know one down there behind the

Saint Nicolas citadel who will not be sorry to hear it.”



“Mercédès?” said the old man.



“Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you,

and know you are well and have all you require, I will ask your consent

to go and pay a visit to the Catalans.”



“Go, my dear boy,” said old Dantès; “and Heaven bless you in your wife,

as it has blessed me in my son!”



“His wife!” said Caderousse; “why, how fast you go on, father Dantès;

she is not his wife yet, as it seems to me.”



“No, but according to all probability she soon will be,” replied

Edmond.



“Yes—yes,” said Caderousse; “but you were right to return as soon as

possible, my boy.”



“And why?”



“Because Mercédès is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack

followers; she particularly has them by dozens.”



“Really?” answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of

slight uneasiness.



0039m







“Ah, yes,” continued Caderousse, “and capital offers, too; but you

know, you will be captain, and who could refuse you then?”



“Meaning to say,” replied Dantès, with a smile which but ill-concealed

his trouble, “that if I were not a captain——”



“Eh—eh!” said Caderousse, shaking his head.



“Come, come,” said the sailor, “I have a better opinion than you of

women in general, and of Mercédès in particular; and I am certain that,

captain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me.”



“So much the better—so much the better,” said Caderousse. “When one is

going to be married, there is nothing like implicit confidence; but

never mind that, my boy,—go and announce your arrival, and let her know

all your hopes and prospects.”



“I will go directly,” was Edmond’s reply; and, embracing his father,

and nodding to Caderousse, he left the apartment.



Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dantès, he

went downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of

the Rue Senac.



“Well,” said Danglars, “did you see him?”



“I have just left him,” answered Caderousse.



“Did he allude to his hope of being captain?”



“He spoke of it as a thing already decided.”



“Indeed!” said Danglars, “he is in too much hurry, it appears to me.”



“Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing.”



“So that he is quite elated about it?”



“Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter—has already offered

me his patronage, as if he were a grand personage, and proffered me a

loan of money, as though he were a banker.”



“Which you refused?”



“Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it, for it was I

who put into his hands the first silver he ever earned; but now M.

Dantès has no longer any occasion for assistance—he is about to become

a captain.”



“Pooh!” said Danglars, “he is not one yet.”



“_Ma foi!_ it will be as well if he is not,” answered Caderousse; “for

if he should be, there will be really no speaking to him.”



“If we choose,” replied Danglars, “he will remain what he is; and

perhaps become even less than he is.”



“What do you mean?”



“Nothing—I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the

Catalane?”



“Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a

storm in that quarter.”



0041m







“Explain yourself.”



“Why should I?”



“It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dantès?”



“I never like upstarts.”



“Then tell me all you know about the Catalane.”



“I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to

believe, as I told you, that the future captain will find some

annoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries.”



“What have you seen?—come, tell me!”



“Well, every time I have seen Mercédès come into the city she has been

accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red

complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin.”



“Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?”



“I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean

with a fine wench of seventeen?”



“And you say that Dantès has gone to the Catalans?”



“He went before I came down.”



“Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Réserve, and we can drink a

glass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news.”



“Come along,” said Caderousse; “but you pay the score.”



“Of course,” replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated

place, they called for a bottle of wine, and two glasses.



Père Pamphile had seen Dantès pass not ten minutes before; and assured

that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage of

the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were

singing their welcome to one of the first days of spring.







 Chapter 3. The Catalans



Beyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from the spot

where the two friends sat looking and listening as they drank their

wine, was the village of the Catalans. Long ago this mysterious colony

quitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this

day. Whence it came no one knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of

its chiefs, who understood Provençal, begged the commune of Marseilles

to give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like the sailors

of old, they had run their boats ashore. The request was granted; and

three months afterwards, around the twelve or fifteen small vessels

which had brought these gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up.

This village, constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half

Moorish, half Spanish, still remains, and is inhabited by descendants

of the first comers, who speak the language of their fathers. For three

or four centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on

which they had settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with

the Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their

original customs and the costume of their mother-country as they have

preserved its language.



Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little

village, and enter with us one of the houses, which is sunburned to the

beautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and

within coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and

beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the

gazelle’s, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in

her slender delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the

flowers of which she was picking off and strewing on the floor; her

arms, bare to the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the

Arlesian Venus, moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she

tapped the earth with her arched and supple foot, so as to display the

pure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and

blue clocked, stocking. At three paces from her, seated in a chair

which he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten

table, was a tall young man of twenty, or two-and-twenty, who was

looking at her with an air in which vexation and uneasiness were

mingled. He questioned her with his eyes, but the firm and steady gaze

of the young girl controlled his look.



“You see, Mercédès,” said the young man, “here is Easter come round

again; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding?”



“I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be

very stupid to ask me again.”



“Well, repeat it,—repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe

it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had

your mother’s sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are

trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you.

Ah, to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercédès, and

to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence!”



“At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand,”

replied Mercédès; “you cannot reproach me with the slightest coquetry.

I have always said to you, ‘I love you as a brother; but do not ask

from me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another’s.’ Is

not this true, Fernand?”



“Yes, that is very true, Mercédès,” replied the young man, “Yes, you

have been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget that it is among the

Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?”



0045m







“You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom, and, I

pray of you, do not cite this custom in your favor. You are included in

the conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance,

liable at any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier,

what would you do with me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune,

with nothing but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable

inheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She

has been dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost

entirely on public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to you,

and that is an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing, and

I accept it, Fernand, because you are the son of my father’s brother,

because we were brought up together, and still more because it would

give you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this

fish which I go and sell, and with the produce of which I buy the flax

I spin,—I feel very keenly, Fernand, that this is charity.”



“And if it were, Mercédès, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as

well as the daughter of the first shipowner or the richest banker of

Marseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful

housekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you?”



“Fernand,” answered Mercédès, shaking her head, “a woman becomes a bad

manager, and who shall say she will remain an honest woman, when she

loves another man better than her husband? Rest content with my

friendship, for I say once more that is all I can promise, and I will

promise no more than I can bestow.”



“I understand,” replied Fernand, “you can endure your own wretchedness

patiently, but you are afraid to share mine. Well, Mercédès, beloved by

you, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I should

become rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a

place as clerk in a warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself.”



“You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you

remain at the Catalans it is because there is no war; so remain a

fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you

more.”



“Well, I will do better, Mercédès. I will be a sailor; instead of the

costume of our fathers, which you despise, I will wear a varnished hat,

a striped shirt, and a blue jacket, with an anchor on the buttons.

Would not that dress please you?”



“What do you mean?” asked Mercédès, with an angry glance,—“what do you

mean? I do not understand you?”



“I mean, Mercédès, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because

you are expecting someone who is thus attired; but perhaps he whom you

await is inconstant, or if he is not, the sea is so to him.”



“Fernand,” cried Mercédès, “I believed you were good-hearted, and I was

mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the

anger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love him of

whom you speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of

the inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that he died

loving me and me only.” The young girl made a gesture of rage. “I

understand you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not

love you; you would cross your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end

would that answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and

see that friendship changed into hate if you were victor. Believe me,

to seek a quarrel with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who

loves that man. No, Fernand, you will not thus give way to evil

thoughts. Unable to have me for your wife, you will content yourself

with having me for your friend and sister; and besides,” she added, her

eyes troubled and moistened with tears, “wait, wait, Fernand; you said

just now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four

months, and during these four months there have been some terrible

storms.”



Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which

flowed down the cheeks of Mercédès, although for each of these tears he

would have shed his heart’s blood; but these tears flowed for another.

He arose, paced a while up and down the hut, and then, suddenly

stopping before Mercédès, with his eyes glowing and his hands

clenched,—“Say, Mercédès,” he said, “once for all, is this your final

determination?”



“I love Edmond Dantès,” the young girl calmly replied, “and none but

Edmond shall ever be my husband.”



“And you will always love him?”



“As long as I live.”



Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh that was

like a groan, and then suddenly looking her full in the face, with

clenched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,—“But if he is dead——”



“If he is dead, I shall die too.”



“If he has forgotten you——”



“Mercédès!” called a joyous voice from without,—“Mercédès!”



“Ah,” exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and fairly

leaping in excess of love, “you see he has not forgotten me, for here

he is!” And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying, “Here,

Edmond, here I am!”



Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight

of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him. Edmond and Mercédès

were clasped in each other’s arms. The burning Marseilles sun, which

shot into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of

light. At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness

isolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in

broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem

rather the expression of sorrow. Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale,

and threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the

shadow. By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself,

the young Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt.



“Ah, your pardon,” said Dantès, frowning in his turn; “I did not

perceive that there were three of us.” Then, turning to Mercédès, he

inquired, “Who is this gentleman?”



“One who will be your best friend, Dantès, for he is my friend, my

cousin, my brother; it is Fernand—the man whom, after you, Edmond, I

love the best in the world. Do you not remember him?”



“Yes!” said Dantès, and without relinquishing Mercédès’ hand clasped in

one of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial

air. But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture,

remained mute and trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly

at the agitated and embarrassed Mercédès, and then again on the gloomy

and menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his anger waxed hot.



“I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet

an enemy here.”



“An enemy!” cried Mercédès, with an angry look at her cousin. “An enemy

in my house, do you say, Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my

arm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the house to

return to it no more.”



Fernand’s eye darted lightning. “And should any misfortune occur to

you, dear Edmond,” she continued with the same calmness which proved to

Fernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths of his

sinister thought, “if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend

the highest point of the Cape de Morgiou and cast myself headlong from

it.”



Fernand became deadly pale. “But you are deceived, Edmond,” she

continued. “You have no enemy here—there is no one but Fernand, my

brother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend.”



And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the

Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly towards Edmond, and

offered him his hand. His hatred, like a powerless though furious wave,

was broken against the strong ascendancy which Mercédès exercised over

him. Scarcely, however, had he touched Edmond’s hand when he felt he

had done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house.



“Oh,” he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair—“Oh, who

will deliver me from this man? Wretched—wretched that I am!”



“Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?” exclaimed a

voice.



The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived

Caderousse sitting at table with Danglars, under an arbor.



“Well”, said Caderousse, “why don’t you come? Are you really in such a

hurry that you have no time to pass the time of day with your friends?”



“Particularly when they have still a full bottle before them,” added

Danglars. Fernand looked at them both with a stupefied air, but did not

say a word.



“He seems besotted,” said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with his knee.

“Are we mistaken, and is Dantès triumphant in spite of all we have

believed?”



“Why, we must inquire into that,” was Caderousse’s reply; and turning

towards the young man, said, “Well, Catalan, can’t you make up your

mind?”



Fernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly

entered the arbor, whose shade seemed to restore somewhat of calmness

to his senses, and whose coolness somewhat of refreshment to his

exhausted body.



“Good-day,” said he. “You called me, didn’t you?” And he fell, rather

than sat down, on one of the seats which surrounded the table.



“I called you because you were running like a madman, and I was afraid

you would throw yourself into the sea,” said Caderousse, laughing.

“Why, when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of

wine, but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of

water unnecessarily!”



Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into

his hands, his elbows leaning on the table.



“Well, Fernand, I must say,” said Caderousse, beginning the

conversation, with that brutality of the common people in which

curiosity destroys all diplomacy, “you look uncommonly like a rejected

lover;” and he burst into a hoarse laugh.



“Bah!” said Danglars, “a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in

love. You are laughing at him, Caderousse.”



“No,” he replied, “only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand,” said

Caderousse, “hold up your head, and answer us. It’s not polite not to

reply to friends who ask news of your health.”



“My health is well enough,” said Fernand, clenching his hands without

raising his head.



“Ah, you see, Danglars,” said Caderousse, winking at his friend, “this

is how it is; Fernand, whom you see here, is a good and brave Catalan,

one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very

fine girl, named Mercédès; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine

girl is in love with the mate of the _Pharaon_; and as the _Pharaon_

arrived today—why, you understand!”



“No; I do not understand,” said Danglars.



“Poor Fernand has been dismissed,” continued Caderousse.



“Well, and what then?” said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking

at Caderousse like a man who looks for someone on whom to vent his

anger; “Mercédès is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not

free to love whomsoever she will?”



“Oh, if you take it in that sense,” said Caderousse, “it is another

thing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans

were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was

even told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance.”



Fernand smiled piteously. “A lover is never terrible,” he said.



“Poor fellow!” remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from

the bottom of his heart. “Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dantès

return so suddenly—he thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance

faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come

suddenly.”



“Ah, _ma foi_, under any circumstances!” said Caderousse, who drank as

he spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began to take

effect,—“under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out

by the fortunate arrival of Dantès; is he, Danglars?”



“No, you are right—and I should say that would bring him ill-luck.”



“Well, never mind,” answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine

for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, while

Danglars had merely sipped his. “Never mind—in the meantime he marries

Mercédès—the lovely Mercédès—at least he returns to do that.”



During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man,

on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like molten lead.



“And when is the wedding to be?” he asked.



“Oh, it is not yet fixed!” murmured Fernand.



“No, but it will be,” said Caderousse, “as surely as Dantès will be

captain of the _Pharaon_—eh, Danglars?”



Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse,

whose countenance he scrutinized, to try and detect whether the blow

was premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a countenance already

rendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness.



“Well,” said he, filling the glasses, “let us drink to Captain Edmond

Dantès, husband of the beautiful Catalane!”



Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and

swallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on the ground.



“Eh, eh, eh!” stammered Caderousse. “What do I see down there by the

wall, in the direction of the Catalans? Look, Fernand, your eyes are

better than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a deceiver;

but I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in

hand. Heaven forgive me, they do not know that we can see them, and

they are actually embracing!”



Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.



“Do you know them, Fernand?” he said.



“Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. “It is Edmond and Mercédès!”



“Ah, see there, now!” said Caderousse; “and I did not recognize them!

Hallo, Dantès! hello, lovely damsel! Come this way, and let us know

when the wedding is to be, for Fernand here is so obstinate he will not

tell us.”



“Hold your tongue, will you?” said Danglars, pretending to restrain

Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards, leaned out of the

arbor. “Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without

interruption. See, look at Fernand, and follow his example; he is

well-behaved!”



0051m







Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the

bull is by the bandilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen

from his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong

upon his rival, when Mercédès, smiling and graceful, lifted up her

lovely head, and looked at them with her clear and bright eyes. At this

Fernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped

again heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the two men, one after

the other, the one brutalized by liquor, the other overwhelmed with

love.



“I shall get nothing from these fools,” he muttered; “and I am very

much afraid of being here between a drunkard and a coward. Here’s an

envious fellow making himself boozy on wine when he ought to be nursing

his wrath, and here is a fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from

under his nose and takes on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes

that glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians, and

Calabrians, and the other has fists big enough to crush an ox at one

blow. Unquestionably, Edmond’s star is in the ascendant, and he will

marry the splendid girl—he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all,

unless”—a sinister smile passed over Danglars’ lips—“unless I take a

hand in the affair,” he added.



“Hallo!” continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his fist on the

table, “hallo, Edmond! do you not see your friends, or are you too

proud to speak to them?”



“No, my dear fellow!” replied Dantès, “I am not proud, but I am happy,

and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.”



“Ah, very well, that’s an explanation!” said Caderousse. “How do you

do, Madame Dantès?”



Mercédès courtesied gravely, and said—“That is not my name, and in my

country it bodes ill fortune, they say, to call a young girl by the

name of her betrothed before he becomes her husband. So call me

Mercédès, if you please.”



“We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse,” said Dantès, “he is

so easily mistaken.”



“So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dantès,” said

Danglars, bowing to the young couple.



“As soon as possible, M. Danglars; today all preliminaries will be

arranged at my father’s, and tomorrow, or next day at latest, the

wedding festival here at La Réserve. My friends will be there, I hope;

that is to say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse.”



“And Fernand,” said Caderousse with a chuckle; “Fernand, too, is

invited!”



“My wife’s brother is my brother,” said Edmond; “and we, Mercédès and

I, should be very sorry if he were absent at such a time.”



Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his lips, and

he could not utter a word.



“Today the preliminaries, tomorrow or next day the ceremony! You are in

a hurry, captain!”



“Danglars,” said Edmond, smiling, “I will say to you as Mercédès said

just now to Caderousse, ‘Do not give me a title which does not belong

to me’; that may bring me bad luck.”



“Your pardon,” replied Danglars, “I merely said you seemed in a hurry,

and we have lots of time; the _Pharaon_ cannot be under weigh again in

less than three months.”



“We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when we have

suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good

fortune. But it is not selfishness alone that makes me thus in haste; I

must go to Paris.”



“Ah, really?—to Paris! and will it be the first time you have ever been

there, Dantès?”



“Yes.”



“Have you business there?”



“Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere; you know

to what I allude, Danglars—it is sacred. Besides, I shall only take the

time to go and return.”



“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Danglars, and then in a low tone, he

added, “To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter which the grand

marshal gave him. Ah, this letter gives me an idea—a capital idea! Ah;

Dantès, my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the

good ship _Pharaon_;” then turning towards Edmond, who was walking

away, “A pleasant journey,” he cried.



“Thank you,” said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two lovers

continued on their way, as calm and joyous as if they were the very

elect of heaven.







 Chapter 4. Conspiracy



Danglars followed Edmond and Mercédès with his eyes until the two

lovers disappeared behind one of the angles of Fort Saint Nicolas;

then, turning round, he perceived Fernand, who had fallen, pale and

trembling, into his chair, while Caderousse stammered out the words of

a drinking-song.



“Well, my dear sir,” said Danglars to Fernand, “here is a marriage

which does not appear to make everybody happy.”



“It drives me to despair,” said Fernand.



“Do you, then, love Mercédès?”



“I adore her!”



“For long?”



“As long as I have known her—always.”



“And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to remedy

your condition; I did not think that was the way of your people.”



“What would you have me do?” said Fernand.



“How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with Mademoiselle

Mercédès; but for you—in the words of the gospel, seek, and you shall

find.”



“I have found already.”



“What?”



“I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any misfortune

happened to her betrothed, she would kill herself.”



“Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them.”



“You do not know Mercédès; what she threatens she will do.”



“Idiot!” muttered Danglars; “whether she kill herself or not, what

matter, provided Dantès is not captain?”



“Before Mercédès should die,” replied Fernand, with the accents of

unshaken resolution, “I would die myself!”



“That’s what I call love!” said Caderousse with a voice more tipsy than

ever. “That’s love, or I don’t know what love is.”



“Come,” said Danglars, “you appear to me a good sort of fellow, and

hang me, I should like to help you, but——”



“Yes,” said Caderousse, “but how?”



“My dear fellow,” replied Danglars, “you are three parts drunk; finish

the bottle, and you will be completely so. Drink then, and do not

meddle with what we are discussing, for that requires all one’s wit and

cool judgment.”



“I—drunk!” said Caderousse; “well that’s a good one! I could drink four

more such bottles; they are no bigger than cologne flasks. Père

Pamphile, more wine!”



And Caderousse rattled his glass upon the table.



“You were saying, sir——” said Fernand, awaiting with great anxiety the

end of this interrupted remark.



“What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has made me lose

the thread of my sentence.”



“Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear wine, for it

is because they have bad thoughts which they are afraid the liquor will

extract from their hearts;” and Caderousse began to sing the two last

lines of a song very popular at the time:



‘Tous les méchants sont buveurs d’eau;



C’est bien prouvé par le déluge.’1





“You said, sir, you would like to help me, but——”



“Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that Dantès did

not marry her you love; and the marriage may easily be thwarted,

methinks, and yet Dantès need not die.”



“Death alone can separate them,” remarked Fernand.



“You talk like a noodle, my friend,” said Caderousse; “and here is

Danglars, who is a wide-awake, clever, deep fellow, who will prove to

you that you are wrong. Prove it, Danglars. I have answered for you.

Say there is no need why Dantès should die; it would, indeed, be a pity

he should. Dantès is a good fellow; I like Dantès. Dantès, your

health.”



Fernand rose impatiently. “Let him run on,” said Danglars, restraining

the young man; “drunk as he is, he is not much out in what he says.

Absence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were

between Edmond and Mercédès they would be as effectually separated as

if he lay under a tombstone.”



0056m







“Yes; but one gets out of prison,” said Caderousse, who, with what

sense was left him, listened eagerly to the conversation, “and when one

gets out and one’s name is Edmond Dantès, one seeks revenge——”



“What matters that?” muttered Fernand.



“And why, I should like to know,” persisted Caderousse, “should they

put Dantès in prison? he has neither robbed, nor killed, nor murdered.”



“Hold your tongue!” said Danglars.



“I won’t hold my tongue!” replied Caderousse; “I say I want to know why

they should put Dantès in prison; I like Dantès; Dantès, your health!”

and he swallowed another glass of wine.



0057m







Danglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress of his

intoxication, and turning towards Fernand, said, “Well, you understand

there is no need to kill him.”



“Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having

Dantès arrested. Have you that means?”



“It is to be found for the searching. But why should I meddle in the

matter? it is no affair of mine.”



“I know not why you meddle,” said Fernand, seizing his arm; “but this I

know, you have some motive of personal hatred against Dantès, for he

who himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others.”



“I! motives of hatred against Dantès? None, on my word! I saw you were

unhappy, and your unhappiness interested me; that’s all; but since you

believe I act for my own account, adieu, my dear friend, get out of the

affair as best you may;” and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart.



“No, no,” said Fernand, restraining him, “stay! It is of very little

consequence to me at the end of the matter whether you have any angry

feeling or not against Dantès. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you

find the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man,

for Mercédès has declared she will kill herself if Dantès is killed.”



Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and

looking at Fernand with his dull and fishy eyes, he said, “Kill Dantès!

who talks of killing Dantès? I won’t have him killed—I won’t! He’s my

friend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I

shared mine with him. I won’t have Dantès killed—I won’t!”



“And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?” replied

Danglars. “We were merely joking; drink to his health,” he added,

filling Caderousse’s glass, “and do not interfere with us.”



“Yes, yes, Dantès’ good health!” said Caderousse, emptying his glass,

“here’s to his health! his health—hurrah!”



“But the means—the means?” said Fernand.



“Have you not hit upon any?” asked Danglars.



“No!—you undertook to do so.”



“True,” replied Danglars; “the French have the superiority over the

Spaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, while the French invent.”



“Do you invent, then,” said Fernand impatiently.



“Waiter,” said Danglars, “pen, ink, and paper.”



“Pen, ink, and paper,” muttered Fernand.



“Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without

my tools I am fit for nothing.”



“Pen, ink, and paper, then,” called Fernand loudly.



“There’s what you want on that table,” said the waiter.



“Bring them here.” The waiter did as he was desired.



0059m







“When one thinks,” said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on the paper,

“there is here wherewithal to kill a man more sure than if we waited at

the corner of a wood to assassinate him! I have always had more dread

of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or

pistol.”



“The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be,” said Danglars. “Give

him some more wine, Fernand.” Fernand filled Caderousse’s glass, who,

like the confirmed toper he was, lifted his hand from the paper and

seized the glass.



The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by this fresh

assault on his senses, rested, or rather dropped, his glass upon the

table.



“Well!” resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of

Caderousse’s reason vanishing before the last glass of wine.



“Well, then, I should say, for instance,” resumed Danglars, “that if

after a voyage such as Dantès has just made, in which he touched at the

Island of Elba, someone were to denounce him to the king’s procureur as

a Bonapartist agent——”



“I will denounce him!” exclaimed the young man hastily.



“Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and confront

you with him you have denounced; I will supply you with the means of

supporting your accusation, for I know the fact well. But Dantès cannot

remain forever in prison, and one day or other he will leave it, and

the day when he comes out, woe betide him who was the cause of his

incarceration!”



“Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come and seek a

quarrel with me.”



“Yes, and Mercédès! Mercédès, who will detest you if you have only the

misfortune to scratch the skin of her dearly beloved Edmond!”



“True!” said Fernand.



“No, no,” continued Danglars; “if we resolve on such a step, it would

be much better to take, as I now do, this pen, dip it into this ink,

and write with the left hand (that the writing may not be recognized)

the denunciation we propose.” And Danglars, uniting practice with

theory, wrote with his left hand, and in a writing reversed from his

usual style, and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he

handed to Fernand, and which Fernand read in an undertone:



“The honorable, the king’s attorney, is informed by a friend of the

throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantès, mate of the ship

_Pharaon_, arrived this morning from Smyrna, after having touched at

Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a letter for

the usurper, and by the usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist

committee in Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him,

for the letter will be found upon him, or at his father’s, or in his

cabin on board the _Pharaon_.”



“Very good,” resumed Danglars; “now your revenge looks like common

sense, for in no way can it revert to yourself, and the matter will

thus work its own way; there is nothing to do now but fold the letter

as I am doing, and write upon it, ‘To the king’s attorney,’ and that’s

all settled.” And Danglars wrote the address as he spoke.



“Yes, and that’s all settled!” exclaimed Caderousse, who, by a last

effort of intellect, had followed the reading of the letter, and

instinctively comprehended all the misery which such a denunciation

must entail. “Yes, and that’s all settled; only it will be an infamous

shame;” and he stretched out his hand to reach the letter.



“Yes,” said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach; “and as what I

say and do is merely in jest, and I, amongst the first and foremost,

should be sorry if anything happened to Dantès—the worthy Dantès—look

here!” And taking the letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw

it into a corner of the arbor.



“All right!” said Caderousse. “Dantès is my friend, and I won’t have

him ill-used.”



“And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor Fernand,”

said Danglars, rising and looking at the young man, who still remained

seated, but whose eye was fixed on the denunciatory sheet of paper

flung into the corner.



“In this case,” replied Caderousse, “let’s have some more wine. I wish

to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Mercédès.”



“You have had too much already, drunkard,” said Danglars; “and if you

continue, you will be compelled to sleep here, because unable to stand

on your legs.”



“I?” said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity of a drunken

man, “I can’t keep on my legs? Why, I’ll wager I can go up into the

belfry of the Accoules, and without staggering, too!”



“Done!” said Danglars, “I’ll take your bet; but tomorrow—today it is

time to return. Give me your arm, and let us go.”



“Very well, let us go,” said Caderousse; “but I don’t want your arm at

all. Come, Fernand, won’t you return to Marseilles with us?”



“No,” said Fernand; “I shall return to the Catalans.”



“You’re wrong. Come with us to Marseilles—come along.”



“I will not.”



“What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my prince;

there’s liberty for all the world. Come along, Danglars, and let the

young gentleman return to the Catalans if he chooses.”



Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s temper at the moment, to take

him off towards Marseilles by the Porte Saint-Victor, staggering as he

went.



When they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked back and saw

Fernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and putting it into his

pocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon.



“Well,” said Caderousse, “why, what a lie he told! He said he was going

to the Catalans, and he is going to the city. Hallo, Fernand! You are

coming, my boy!”



“Oh, you don’t see straight,” said Danglars; “he’s gone right by the

road to the Vieilles Infirmeries.”



“Well,” said Caderousse, “I should have sworn that he turned to the

right—how treacherous wine is!”



“Come, come,” said Danglars to himself, “now the thing is at work and

it will effect its purpose unassisted.”







 Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast



The morning’s sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves

into a network of ruby-tinted light.



The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Réserve, with

whose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for

the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each

of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the

name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a

wooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although

the entertainment was fixed for twelve o’clock, an hour previous to

that time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests,

consisting of the favored part of the crew of the _Pharaon_, and other

personal friends of the bridegroom, the whole of whom had arrayed

themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to

the occasion.



Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the

_Pharaon_ had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed

unanimous in doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding

condescension could possibly be intended.



Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by

Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had

recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his

intention to dine at La Réserve.



In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an

enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the _Pharaon_, who

hailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man

whose wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first

in command of the ship; and as Dantès was universally beloved on board

his vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at

finding that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly

coincided with their own.



With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched

in search of the bridegroom to convey to him the intelligence of the

arrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a

lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.



Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but

ere they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards

them, composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in

attendance on the bride, by whose side walked Dantès’ father; the whole

brought up by Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.



Neither Mercédès nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his

countenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the

sunshine and the presence of each other.



Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty

shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their

places beside Fernand and old Dantès,—the latter of whom attracted

universal notice.



The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed

with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry

legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked stockings,

evidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat

depended a long streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came

along, supporting himself on a curiously carved stick, his aged

countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one

of the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the

Luxembourg and Tuileries.



Beside him glided Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good

things provided for the wedding party had induced him to become

reconciled to the Dantès, father and son, although there still lingered

in his mind a faint and unperfect recollection of the events of the

preceding night; just as the brain retains on waking in the morning the

dim and misty outline of a dream.



0065m







As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of

deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair,

who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten

that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;

occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance,

and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated

and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like

one who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.



Dantès himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar

to the merchant service—a costume somewhat between a military and a

civil garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and

happiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be

imagined.



Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercédès boasted the same

bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved

with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more

practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes

beneath a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed

lashes, so as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes;

but, on the contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile

that seemed to say: “If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am

very happy.”



As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Réserve, M. Morrel

descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and

sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already

given, that Dantès should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere.

Edmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of

his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting

her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the

feast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose

heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of

several minutes.



“Father,” said Mercédès, stopping when she had reached the centre of

the table, “sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place

him who has ever been as a brother to me,” pointing with a soft and

gentle smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the

direst torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even

beneath the dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen

retreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.



During this time, Dantès, at the opposite side of the table, had been

occupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was

seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from

Edmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most

agreeable.



Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages,

and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and

brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel

within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than

rivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster, North. All the

delicacies, in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the

sandy beach, and styled by the grateful fishermen “fruits of the sea.”



“A pretty silence truly!” said the old father of the bridegroom, as he

carried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the

topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercédès herself. “Now,

would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who

desire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?”



“Ah,” sighed Caderousse, “a man cannot always feel happy because he is

about to be married.”



“The truth is,” replied Dantès, “that I am too happy for noisy mirth;

if that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you

are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us

almost the same as sorrow.”



Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and

betrayed each fresh impression.



“Why, what ails you?” asked he of Edmond. “Do you fear any approaching

evil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this

instant.”



“And that is the very thing that alarms me,” returned Dantès. “Man does

not appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness

is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where

fierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of

all shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I

own that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of

which I feel myself unworthy—that of being the husband of Mercédès.”



“Nay, nay!” cried Caderousse, smiling, “you have not attained that

honor yet. Mercédès is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and

manner of a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is

not yet come!”



The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start

at every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops

of perspiration that gathered on his brow.



“Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worthwhile to

contradict me for such a trifle as that. ’Tis true that Mercédès is not

actually my wife; but,” added he, drawing out his watch, “in an hour

and a half she will be.”



A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the

exception of the elder Dantès, whose laugh displayed the still perfect

beauty of his large white teeth. Mercédès looked pleased and gratified,

while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.



“In an hour?” inquired Danglars, turning pale. “How is that, my

friend?”



“Why, thus it is,” replied Dantès. “Thanks to the influence of M.

Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every

difficulty has been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the

usual delay; and at half-past two o’clock the Mayor of Marseilles will

be waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has

already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying,

that, in another hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will have become

Madame Dantès.”



0069m







Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow,

and he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his

falling from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not

refrain from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the

noisy felicitations of the company.



“Upon my word,” cried the old man, “you make short work of this kind of

affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married today at three

o’clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work!”



“But,” asked Danglars, in a timid tone, “how did you manage about the

other formalities—the contract—the settlement?”



“The contract,” answered Dantès, laughingly, “it didn’t take long to

fix that. Mercédès has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So,

you see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come

very expensive.” This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.



“So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to

be the actual wedding dinner!” said Danglars.



“No, no,” answered Dantès; “don’t imagine I am going to put you off in

that shabby manner. Tomorrow morning I start for Paris; four days to

go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission

entrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back

here by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage

feast.”



This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests

to such a degree, that the elder Dantès, who, at the commencement of

the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it

difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment’s

tranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the

bride and bridegroom.



Dantès, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded

by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercédès glanced at the clock and

made an expressive gesture to Edmond.



Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at

such a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of social

position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at the

commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves

according to their inclination rose unceremoniously, and sought out

more agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting

for a reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or

her own thoughts.



Fernand’s paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars. As

for Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring the tortures of the

damned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the table, and,

as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such

deafening sounds, he continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther

end of the salon.



Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most

anxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of the room.



“Upon my word,” said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment

of Dantès, united with the effect of the excellent wine he had partaken

of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantès’ good

fortune,—“upon my word, Dantès is a downright good fellow, and when I

see him sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I

cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have served him

that trick you were planning yesterday.”



“Oh, there was no harm meant,” answered Danglars; “at first I certainly

did feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand might be tempted to do; but

when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings, even so far as

to become one of his rival’s attendants, I knew there was no further

cause for apprehension.” Caderousse looked full at Fernand—he was

ghastly pale.



“Certainly,” continued Danglars, “the sacrifice was no trifling one,

when the beauty of the bride is concerned. Upon my soul, that future

captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad! I only wish he would let me take

his place.”



“Shall we not set forth?” asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercédès;

“two o’clock has just struck, and you know we are expected in a quarter

of an hour.”



0071m







“To be sure!—to be sure!” cried Dantès, eagerly quitting the table;

“let us go directly!”



His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.



At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every

change in Fernand’s look and manner, saw him stagger and fall back,

with an almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one of the

open windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct

sound on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with

the clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a hum and

buzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the

bridal party, among whom a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension

quelled every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most

deathlike stillness prevailed.



The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the

door. The company looked at each other in consternation.



“I demand admittance,” said a loud voice outside the room, “in the name

of the law!” As no attempt was made to prevent it, the door was opened,

and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,

followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the

most extreme dread on the part of those present.



“May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?” said M.

Morrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he evidently knew; “there is

doubtless some mistake easily explained.”



“If it be so,” replied the magistrate, “rely upon every reparation

being made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and

although I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must,

nevertheless, be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled

answers to the name of Edmond Dantès?”



Every eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of the agitation

he could not but feel, advanced with dignity, and said, in a firm

voice:



“I am he; what is your pleasure with me?”



“Edmond Dantès,” replied the magistrate, “I arrest you in the name of

the law!”



“Me!” repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, “and wherefore, I

pray?”



“I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the reasons

that have rendered such a step necessary at the preliminary

examination.”



M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He

saw before him an officer delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly

well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate

decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold

marble effigy. Old Dantès, however, sprang forward. There are

situations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to

understand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the

officer was touched, and, although firm in his duty, he kindly said,

“My worthy friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your

son has probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in

registering his cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at

liberty directly he has given the information required, whether

touching the health of his crew, or the value of his freight.”



“What is the meaning of all this?” inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of

Danglars, who had assumed an air of utter surprise.



0073m







“How can I tell you?” replied he; “I am, like yourself, utterly

bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in the least make out

what it is about.” Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he

had disappeared.



The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with

startling clearness. The painful catastrophe he had just witnessed

appeared effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication

of the evening before had raised between himself and his memory.



“So, so,” said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, “this,

then, I suppose, is a part of the trick you were concerting yesterday?

All I can say is, that if it be so, ’tis an ill turn, and well deserves

to bring double evil on those who have projected it.”



“Nonsense,” returned Danglars, “I tell you again I have nothing

whatever to do with it; besides, you know very well that I tore the

paper to pieces.”



“No, you did not!” answered Caderousse, “you merely threw it by—I saw

it lying in a corner.”



“Hold your tongue, you fool!—what should you know about it?—why, you

were drunk!”



“Where is Fernand?” inquired Caderousse.



“How do I know?” replied Danglars; “gone, as every prudent man ought to

be, to look after his own affairs, most likely. Never mind where he is,

let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends.”



During this conversation, Dantès, after having exchanged a cheerful

shake of the hand with all his sympathizing friends, had surrendered

himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, “Make

yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to

clear up, that’s all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have to

go so far as the prison to effect that.”



0075m







“Oh, to be sure!” responded Danglars, who had now approached the group,

“nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite certain.”



Dantès descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and

followed by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the door; he got

in, followed by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove

off towards Marseilles.



“Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!” cried Mercédès, stretching out her arms

to him from the balcony.



The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken

heart, and leaning from the coach he called out, “Good-bye, Mercédès—we

shall soon meet again!” Then the vehicle disappeared round one of the

turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.



“Wait for me here, all of you!” cried M. Morrel; “I will take the first

conveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles, whence I will bring you

word how all is going on.”



“That’s right!” exclaimed a multitude of voices, “go, and return as

quickly as you can!”



This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of

terrified silence on the part of those who were left behind. The old

father and Mercédès remained for some time apart, each absorbed in

grief; but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their

eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other’s

arms.



Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass

of water with a trembling hand; then hastily swallowing it, went to sit

down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed

next to the seat on which poor Mercédès had fallen half fainting, when

released from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantès.

Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.



“He is the cause of all this misery—I am quite sure of it,” whispered

Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.



“I don’t think so,” answered the other; “he’s too stupid to imagine

such a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall upon the head of

whoever wrought it.”



“You don’t mention those who aided and abetted the deed,” said

Caderousse.



“Surely,” answered Danglars, “one cannot be held responsible for every

chance arrow shot into the air.”



“You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody’s

head.”



Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every

different form.



“What think you, Danglars,” said one of the party, turning towards him,

“of this event?”



“Why,” replied he, “I think it just possible Dantès may have been

detected with some trifling article on board ship considered here as

contraband.”



“But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since

you are the ship’s supercargo?”



“Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the

merchandise with which the vessel was laden. I know she was loaded with

cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from Pastret’s

warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal’s; that is all I was obliged to

know, and I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars.”



“Now I recollect,” said the afflicted old father; “my poor boy told me

yesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and another of tobacco for

me!”



“There, you see,” exclaimed Danglars. “Now the mischief is out; depend

upon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our

absence, and discovered poor Dantès’ hidden treasures.”



Mercédès, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover’s

arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst

out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.



“Come, come,” said the old man, “be comforted, my poor child; there is

still hope!”



“Hope!” repeated Danglars.



“Hope!” faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on

his pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his

countenance.



“Good news! good news!” shouted forth one of the party stationed in the

balcony on the lookout. “Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we

shall hear that our friend is released!”



Mercédès and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him

at the door. He was very pale.



“What news?” exclaimed a general burst of voices.



“Alas, my friends,” replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his

head, “the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected.”



“Oh, indeed—indeed, sir, he is innocent!” sobbed forth Mercédès.



“That I believe!” answered M. Morrel; “but still he is charged——”



“With what?” inquired the elder Dantès.



“With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!” Many of our readers

may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in

the period at which our story is dated.



A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercédès; the old man sank

into a chair.



“Ah, Danglars!” whispered Caderousse, “you have deceived me—the trick

you spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old

man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am

determined to tell them all about it.”



“Be silent, you simpleton!” cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm,

“or I will not answer even for your own safety. Who can tell whether

Dantès be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he

quitted it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any

letters or other documents of a compromising character be found upon

him, will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his

accomplices?”



With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived

the solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed, doubtfully,

wistfully, on Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.



“Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it,” said he, casting a

bewildered look on his companion.



“To be sure!” answered Danglars. “Let us wait, by all means. If he be

innocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if guilty, why, it is no

use involving ourselves in a conspiracy.”



“Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer.”



“With all my heart!” replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so

tractable. “Let us take ourselves out of the way, and leave things for

the present to take their course.”



After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and

protector of Mercédès, led the girl to her home, while some friends of

Dantès conducted his father, nearly lifeless, to the Allées de Meilhan.



The rumor of Edmond’s arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in

circulating throughout the city.



“Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?” asked M.

Morrel, as, on his return to the port for the purpose of gleaning fresh

tidings of Dantès, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he

overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. “Could you have believed such a

thing possible?”



“Why, you know I told you,” replied Danglars, “that I considered the

circumstance of his having anchored at the Island of Elba as a very

suspicious circumstance.”



“And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?”



0079m







“Certainly not!” returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, “You

understand that, on account of your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who

served under the _other_ government, and who does not altogether

conceal what he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of

regretting the abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure

both Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to a

soul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is

bound to acquaint the shipowner with everything that occurs, there are

many things he ought most carefully to conceal from all else.”



“’Tis well, Danglars—’tis well!” replied M. Morrel. “You are a worthy

fellow; and I had already thought of your interests in the event of

poor Edmond having become captain of the _Pharaon_.”



“Is it possible you were so kind?”



“Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantès what was his opinion

of you, and if he should have any reluctance to continue you in your

post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you.”



“And what was his reply?”



“That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair

which he merely referred to without entering into particulars, but that

whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship’s owners

would have his preference also.”



“The hypocrite!” murmured Danglars.



“Poor Dantès!” said Caderousse. “No one can deny his being a

noble-hearted young fellow.”



“But meanwhile,” continued M. Morrel, “here is the _Pharaon_ without a

captain.”



“Oh,” replied Danglars, “since we cannot leave this port for the next

three months, let us hope that ere the expiration of that period Dantès

will be set at liberty.”



“No doubt; but in the meantime?”



“I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel,” answered Danglars. “You

know that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced

captain in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you to

accept my services, that upon Edmond’s release from prison no further

change will be requisite on board the _Pharaon_ than for Dantès and

myself each to resume our respective posts.”



“Thanks, Danglars—that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully

authorize you at once to assume the command of the _Pharaon_, and look

carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must

never be allowed to interfere with business.”



“Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be

permitted to see our poor Edmond?”



“I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I

shall endeavor to interest in Edmond’s favor. I am aware he is a

furious royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king’s

attorney, he is a man like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of

one.”



“Perhaps not,” replied Danglars; “but I hear that he is ambitious, and

that’s rather against him.”



“Well, well,” returned M. Morrel, “we shall see. But now hasten on

board, I will join you there ere long.”



So saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded

in the direction of the Palais de Justice.



0081m







“You see,” said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, “the turn things have

taken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up in his defence?”



“Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere

joke should lead to such consequences.”



“But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but

Fernand; you knew very well that I threw the paper into a corner of the

room—indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it.”



“Oh, no,” replied Caderousse, “that I can answer for, you did not. I

only wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw it lying all crushed

and crumpled in a corner of the arbor.”



“Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and

either copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps, even, he did not

take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he

may have sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting

was disguised.”



“Then you were aware of Dantès being engaged in a conspiracy?”



“Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing

more. It seems, however, that I have unconsciously stumbled upon the

truth.”



“Still,” argued Caderousse, “I would give a great deal if nothing of

the kind had happened; or, at least, that I had had no hand in it. You

will see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of

us.”



“Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person;

and that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be implicated in any way?

All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly

quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that

the storm will pass away without in the least affecting us.”



“Amen!” responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to

Danglars, and bending his steps towards the Allées de Meilhan, moving

his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of one

whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.



“So far, then,” said Danglars, mentally, “all has gone as I would have

it. I am, temporarily, commander of the _Pharaon_, with the certainty

of being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded

to hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantès being

released. But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and,” added he

with a smile, “she will take her own.” So saying, he leaped into a

boat, desiring to be rowed on board the _Pharaon_, where M. Morrel had

agreed to meet him.







 Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi



In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand

Cours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was being

celebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given by

Dantès. In this case, however, although the occasion of the

entertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar.

Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to

the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the

very flower of Marseilles society,—magistrates who had resigned their

office during the usurper’s reign; officers who had deserted from the

imperial army and joined forces with Condé; and younger members of

families, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years of

exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate

to the rank of a god.



The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic

conversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive

passions that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily,

for five centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness

to the violence of party feeling.



The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held

sovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects a

small population of five or six thousand souls,—after having been

accustomed to hear the “_Vive Napoléons_” of a hundred and twenty

millions of human beings, uttered in ten different languages,—was

looked upon here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh

connection with France or claim to her throne.



The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military

part of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while

the women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over the

downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that

they rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and

cheering prospect of a revivified political existence.



An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and

proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de

Saint-Méran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of

Hartwell and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal

enthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air _à l’Anglaise_, and the

ladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the

table with their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor

prevailed.



“Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman with a stern,

forbidding eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance,

despite her fifty years—“ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us

from those very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle

during the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here,

that all true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow

the fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made

their fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not

help admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and

station was truly our ‘Louis the well-beloved,’ while their wretched

usurper has been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their

‘Napoleon the accursed.’ Am I not right, Villefort?”



“I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but—in

truth—I was not attending to the conversation.”



“Marquise, marquise!” interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the

toast, “let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one’s wedding

day there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry

politics.”



“Never mind, dearest mother,” said a young and lovely girl, with a

profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid

crystal, “’tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to

prevent his listening to what you said. But there—now take him—he is

your own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my

mother speaks to you.”



“If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly

caught, I shall be delighted to answer,” said M. de Villefort.



“Never mind, Renée,” replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness

that seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however

all other feelings may be withered in a woman’s nature, there is always

one bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the

shrine of maternal love. “I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort,

was, that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or

devotion.”



“They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities,”

replied the young man, “and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the

Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but ambitious

followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the

personification of equality.”



“He!” cried the marquise: “Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy’s

sake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip

the latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to

my mind, has usurped quite enough.”



0085m







“Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right

pedestal—that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze;

that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendôme. The only

difference consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated

by these two men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the

equality that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the

guillotine, the other elevates the people to a level with the throne.

Observe,” said Villefort, smiling, “I do not mean to deny that both

these men were revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and

the 4th of April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy

of being gratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil

order; and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust

he is forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical

satellites. Still, marquise, it has been so with other

usurpers—Cromwell, for instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon,

had his partisans and advocates.”



“Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully

revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect the

son of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven.” A

deep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.



“’Tis true, madame,” answered he, “that my father was a Girondin, but

he was not among the number of those who voted for the king’s death; he

was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and had

well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father

perished.”



“True,” replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree

at the tragic remembrance thus called up; “but bear in mind, if you

please, that our respective parents underwent persecution and

proscription from diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which

I may remark, that while my family remained among the staunchest

adherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in joining

the new government; and that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin,

the Count Noirtier became a senator.”



“Dear mother,” interposed Renée, “you know very well it was agreed that

all these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside.”



“Suffer me, also, madame,” replied Villefort, “to add my earnest

request to Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s, that you will kindly allow

the veil of oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails

recrimination over matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have

laid aside even the name of my father, and altogether disown his

political principles. He was—nay, probably may still be—a Bonapartist,

and is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a staunch royalist, and

style myself de Villefort. Let what may remain of revolutionary sap

exhaust itself and die away with the old trunk, and condescend only to

regard the young shoot which has started up at a distance from the

parent tree, without having the power, any more than the wish, to

separate entirely from the stock from which it sprung.”



“Bravo, Villefort!” cried the marquis; “excellently well said! Come,

now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring

to persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and

forgetfulness of the past.”



“With all my heart,” replied the marquise; “let the past be forever

forgotten. I promise you it affords _me_ as little pleasure to revive

it as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and

inflexible for the future in his political principles. Remember, also,

Villefort, that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your

fealty and strict loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king

consented to forget the past, as I do” (and here she extended to him

her hand)—“as I now do at your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should

there fall in your way anyone guilty of conspiring against the

government, you will be so much the more bound to visit the offence

with rigorous punishment, as it is known you belong to a suspected

family.”



“Alas, madame,” returned Villefort, “my profession, as well as the

times in which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already

successfully conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the

offenders to merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing

yet.”



0087m







“Do you, indeed, think so?” inquired the marquise.



“I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is too

near France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans.

Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one

frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists;

from hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of

persons, and assassinations in the lower.”



“You have heard, perhaps,” said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de

Saint-Méran’s oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Comte d’Artois,

“that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?”



“Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris,” said M. de

Saint-Méran; “and where is it decided to transfer him?”



“To Saint Helena.”



“For heaven’s sake, where is that?” asked the marquise.



“An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two

thousand leagues from here,” replied the count.



“So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly

to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, and Naples,

of which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy, the

sovereignty of which he coveted for his son.”



“Unfortunately,” said Villefort, “there are the treaties of 1814, and

we cannot molest Napoleon without breaking those compacts.”



“Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it,” responded M. de Salvieux.

“There wasn’t any trouble over treaties when it was a question of

shooting the poor Duc d’Enghien.”



“Well,” said the marquise, “it seems probable that, by the aid of the

Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the

vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The

king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of

France, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can

best be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down

every attempt at conspiracy—’tis the best and surest means of

preventing mischief.”



“Unfortunately, madame,” answered Villefort, “the strong arm of the law

is not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place.”



“Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it.”



“Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it

can do is to avenge the wrong done.”



“Oh, M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to

the Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de

Saint-Méran, “do try and get up some famous trial while we are at

Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very

amusing!”



“Amusing, certainly,” replied the young man, “inasmuch as, instead of

shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre,

you behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress—a drama

of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed,

instead of—as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy—going home

to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he

may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,—is removed from your sight

merely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the

executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to

bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that

should any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to

offer you the choice of being present.”



“For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renée, becoming quite pale; “don’t

you see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh.”



“What would you have? ’Tis like a duel. I have already recorded

sentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political

conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened,

and only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart?”



“Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort,” said Renée, becoming more and more

terrified; “you surely are not in earnest.”



“Indeed I am,” replied the young magistrate with a smile; “and in the

interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would

only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as

is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can you

expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his

commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will

scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be

his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely

because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one

requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in

order to lash one’s self into a state of sufficient vehemence and

power. I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile,

as though in mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused

pale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire

of my eloquence.” Renée uttered a smothered exclamation.



“Bravo!” cried one of the guests; “that is what I call talking to some

purpose.”



“Just the person we require at a time like the present,” said a second.



“What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear

Villefort!” remarked a third; “I mean the trial of the man for

murdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner

had laid his hand upon him.”



“Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,” interposed

Renée, “it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards

poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed

themselves up in political intrigues——”



“Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for,

don’t you see, Renée, the king is the father of his people, and he who

shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent

of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great

scale?”



“I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renée; “but, M. de

Villefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy to

those I plead for.”



“Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered Villefort, with one

of his sweetest smiles; “you and I will always consult upon our

verdicts.”



“My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and

embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays

the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is the

badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in

point.”



“_Cedant arma togæ_,” said Villefort with a bow.



“I cannot speak Latin,” responded the marquise.



“Well,” said Renée, “I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some

other profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know I

always felt a shudder at the idea of even a _destroying_ angel?”



“Dear, good Renée,” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable

tenderness on the lovely speaker.



“Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de Villefort may

prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he

will have achieved a noble work.”



“And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father’s

conduct,” added the incorrigible marquise.



“Madame,” replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have already had

the honor to observe that my father has—at least, I hope so—abjured his

past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealous

friend to religion and order—a better royalist, possibly, than his son;

for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other impulse

than warm, decided preference and conviction.” Having made this

well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the

effect of his oratory, much as he would have done had he been

addressing the bench in open court.



“Do you know, my dear Villefort,” cried the Comte de Salvieux, “that is

exactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when

questioned by his majesty’s principal chamberlain touching the

singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the

daughter of an officer of the Duc de Condé; and I assure you he seemed

fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences

was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,

without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted

us by saying, ‘Villefort’—observe that the king did not pronounce the

word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on

that of Villefort—‘Villefort,’ said his majesty, ‘is a young man of

great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his

profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that

he was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de

Saint-Méran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the

noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.’”



“Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express

himself so favorably of me?” asked the enraptured Villefort.



“I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, he

will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to

him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of

your espousing his daughter.”



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“That is true,” answered the marquis.



“How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do

to evince my earnest gratitude!”



“That is right,” cried the marquise. “I love to see you thus. Now,

then, were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most

welcome.”



“For my part, dear mother,” interposed Renée, “I trust your wishes will

not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor

debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort’s

hands,—then I shall be contented.”



“Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be

called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of

wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to

see me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those

violent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor

redounds to the physician.”



At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s wish had

sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and

whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table

and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon,

however, returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renée regarded

him with fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as

they then were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed

to excite the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful

and intelligent lover.



“You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her, “that I

were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the

disciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in

1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my

betrothal.”



“And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked Mademoiselle de

Saint-Méran, with an air of deep interest.



“For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the

executioner.”



“How dreadful!” exclaimed Renée, turning pale.



“Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to

the magistrate to hear his words.



“Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracy

has just been discovered.”



“Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise.



“I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,” said

Villefort:



“‘The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the

religious institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantès,

mate of the ship _Pharaon_, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having

touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter

from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge 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 Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him,

or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found in the

possession of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in

the cabin belonging to the said Dantès on board the _Pharaon_.’”



“But,” said Renée, “this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous

scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king’s attorney.”



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“True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,

opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me,

but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for

arresting the accused party.”



“Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?” said the marquise.



“Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet

pronounce him guilty.”



“He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon it, if the

letter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again,

unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman.”



“And where is the unfortunate being?” asked Renée.



“He is at my house.”



“Come, come, my friend,” interrupted the marquise, “do not neglect your

duty to linger with us. You are the king’s servant, and must go

wherever that service calls you.”



“Oh, Villefort!” cried Renée, clasping her hands, and looking towards

her lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on this the day of our

betrothal.”



The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair

pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly:



“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renée, I promise to show all the lenity

in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero

prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his

head to be cut off.”



Renée shuddered at the word _cut_, for the growth in question had a

head.



“Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,” said the marquise. “She will

soon get over these things.” So saying, Madame de Saint-Méran extended

her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’s

respectful salute on it, looked at Renée, as much as to say, “I must

try and fancy ’tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been.”



“These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,” sighed poor

Renée.



“Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your folly

exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can

possibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the

state!”



“Oh, mother!” murmured Renée.



“Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that

to make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe;”

then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to

say, “Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with

mercy,” and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort

departed with paradise in his heart.







 Chapter 7. The Examination



No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air

of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in

spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a

finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no

means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the

recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which

might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his

own career, Gérard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already

rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He

was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not

passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king;

and besides her personal attractions, which were very great,

Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s family possessed considerable political

influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry

of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the

prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her

father’s death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling

of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its

contemplation.



At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him.

The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to

earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, “I

have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this

man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the

conspiracy.”



“We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers

found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself

is named Edmond Dantès, mate on board the three-master the _Pharaon_,

trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel &

Son, of Marseilles.”



“Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the

marines?”



“Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young.”



“How old?”



“Nineteen or twenty at the most.”



At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue

des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him,

approached; it was M. Morrel.



“Ah, M. de Villefort,” cried he, “I am delighted to see you. Some of

your people have committed the strangest mistake—they have just

arrested Edmond Dantès, mate of my vessel.”



“I know it, monsieur,” replied Villefort, “and I am now going to

examine him.”



“Oh,” said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, “you do not know

him, and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature

in the world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman

in all the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your

indulgence for him.”



Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at

Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other

suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and

replied coldly:



“You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy

in private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet

be, politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?”



The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply

them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into the

heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of

indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear

on politics; besides, what Dantès had told him of his interview with

the grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed

him. He replied, however, in a tone of deep interest:



“I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and

equitable, and give him back to us soon.” This _give us_ sounded

revolutionary in the deputy’s ears.



“Ah, ah,” murmured he, “is Dantès then a member of some Carbonari

society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was,

if I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many

others.” Then he added, “Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform

my duty impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have

appealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present

epoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my

duty.”



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As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the

Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the

shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had

left him. The antechamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in

the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the

prisoner. Villefort traversed the antechamber, cast a side glance at

Dantès, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared,

saying, “Bring in the prisoner.”



Rapid as had been Villefort’s glance, it had served to give him an idea

of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence

in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and

frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth.

Villefort’s first impression was favorable; but he had been so often

warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the

impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He

stifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising,

composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An

instant after Dantès entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and

saluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if

he had been in M. Morrel’s salon. It was then that he encountered for

the first time Villefort’s look,—that look peculiar to the magistrate,

who, while seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of

his own.



“Who and what are you?” demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of

papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police

agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour’s

time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt

espionage of which “the accused” is always made the victim.



“My name is Edmond Dantès,” replied the young man calmly; “I am mate of

the _Pharaon_, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son.”



“Your age?” continued Villefort.



“Nineteen,” returned Dantès.



“What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?”



“I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,” said the young man,

his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that

happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great

was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the

radiant face of Mercédès.



“You were at the festival of your marriage?” said the deputy,

shuddering in spite of himself.



“Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been

attached to for three years.” Villefort, impassive as he was, was

struck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantès,

surprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in

his own bosom—he also was on the point of being married, and he was

summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another. “This

philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M.

de Saint-Méran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantès awaited

further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a

reputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort

turned to Dantès.



0099m







“Go on, sir,” said he.



“What would you have me say?”



“Give all the information in your power.”



“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I

know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you I know very little.”



“Have you served under the usurper?”



“I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell.”



“It is reported your political opinions are extreme,” said Villefort,

who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make

this inquiry, as if it were an accusation.



“My political opinions!” replied Dantès. “Alas, sir, I never had any

opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.

If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus

all my opinions—I will not say public, but private—are confined to

these three sentiments,—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I

adore Mercédès. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how

uninteresting it is.” As Dantès spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous

and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renée, who, without

knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With

the deputy’s knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man

uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he

was scarcely a man,—simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of

the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody,

because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked

good—extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort’s

severe look and stern accent. Dantès seemed full of kindness.



_“Pardieu!”_ said Villefort, “he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain

Renée’s favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on

me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet

kiss in private.” Full of this idea, Villefort’s face became so joyous,

that when he turned to Dantès, the latter, who had watched the change

on his physiognomy, was smiling also.



“Sir,” said Villefort, “have you any enemies, at least, that you know.”



“I have enemies?” replied Dantès; “my position is not sufficiently

elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat

too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve

sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that

they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as

an elder brother.”



“But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at

nineteen—an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who

loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the

envy of someone.”



“You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may

possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my

acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced

to hate them.”



“You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You

seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty

to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the

paper; do you know the writing?” As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter

from his pocket, and presented it to Dantès. Dantès read it. A cloud

passed over his brow as he said:



“No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably

plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate,” added he,

looking gratefully at Villefort, “to be examined by such a man as you;

for this envious person is a real enemy.” And by the rapid glance that

the young man’s eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid

beneath this mildness.



“Now,” said the deputy, “answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a

judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what

truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?”

And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantès had just

given back to him.



“None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a

sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by the life of my father——”



“Speak, monsieur,” said Villefort. Then, internally, “If Renée could

see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a

decapitator.”



“Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a

brain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to

arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder

rose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was

dying, he called me to him. ‘My dear Dantès,’ said he, ‘swear to

perform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest

importance.’



“‘I swear, captain,’ replied I.



“‘Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume

the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at

Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter—perhaps

they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission.

You will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor

and profit from it.’



“‘I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the

grand-marshal’s presence as easily as you expect?’



“‘Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every

difficulty,’ said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was

time—two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died.”



“And what did you do then?”



“What I ought to have done, and what everyone would have done in my

place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with

a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for

the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody

to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found

some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent

the ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly

admitted. He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere’s death; and, as

the latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in

Paris. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I

landed here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit

my affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M.

Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at

my marriage feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and

tomorrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this

charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust.”



“Ah,” said Villefort, “this seems to me the truth. If you have been

culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to

the orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from

Elba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go

and rejoin your friends.



“I am free, then, sir?” cried Dantès joyfully.



“Yes; but first give me this letter.”



“You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I

see in that packet.”



“Stop a moment,” said the deputy, as Dantès took his hat and gloves.

“To whom is it addressed?”



_“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, Paris.”_ Had a thunderbolt

fallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He

sank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the

fatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.



“M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13,” murmured he, growing still paler.



“Yes,” said Dantès; “do you know him?”



“No,” replied Villefort; “a faithful servant of the king does not know

conspirators.”



0103m







“It is a conspiracy, then?” asked Dantès, who after believing himself

free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. “I have, however, already told

you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter.”



“Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,”

said Villefort.



“I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it.”



“Have you shown this letter to anyone?” asked Villefort, becoming still

more pale.



“To no one, on my honor.”



“Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the

Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?”



“Everybody, except the person who gave it to me.”



“And that was too much, far too much,” murmured Villefort. Villefort’s

brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clenched teeth filled

Dantès with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered

his face with his hands.



“Oh,” said Dantès timidly, “what is the matter?” Villefort made no

answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and

again perused the letter.



“And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?”



“I give you my word of honor, sir,” said Dantès; “but what is the

matter? You are ill—shall I ring for assistance?—shall I call?”



“No,” said Villefort, rising hastily; “stay where you are. It is for me

to give orders here, and not you.”



“Monsieur,” replied Dantès proudly, “it was only to summon assistance

for you.”



“I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself;

answer me.” Dantès waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort

fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with

perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.



“Oh, if he knows the contents of this!” murmured he, “and that Noirtier

is the father of Villefort, I am lost!” And he fixed his eyes upon

Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.



“Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,” cried he, suddenly.



“In heaven’s name!” cried the unhappy young man, “if you doubt me,

question me; I will answer you.” Villefort made a violent effort, and

in a tone he strove to render firm:



“Sir,” said he, “I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you

immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial

justice; what my own feeling is you already know.”



“Oh, monsieur,” cried Dantès, “you have been rather a friend than a

judge.”



0105m







“Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it

as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter,

and you see——” Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited

until it was entirely consumed.



“You see, I destroy it?”



“Oh,” exclaimed Dantès, “you are goodness itself.”



“Listen,” continued Villefort; “you can now have confidence in me after

what I have done.”



“Oh, command, and I will obey.”



“Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you.”



“Speak, and I will follow your advice.”



“I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should

anyone else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but

do not breathe a word of this letter.”



“I promise.” It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner

who reassured him.



“You see,” continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of

burnt paper fluttered in the flames, “the letter is destroyed; you and

I alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned,

deny all knowledge of it—deny it boldly, and you are saved.”



“Be satisfied; I will deny it.”



“It was the only letter you had?”



“It was.”



“Swear it.”



“I swear it.”



Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words

in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.



“Follow him,” said Villefort to Dantès. Dantès saluted Villefort and

retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself

half-fainting into a chair.



“Alas, alas,” murmured he, “if the procureur himself had been at

Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have

destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always

interfere with my successes?” Suddenly a light passed over his face, a

smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in

thought.



“This will do,” said he, “and from this letter, which might have ruined

me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand.” And after

having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur

hastened to the house of his betrothed.



0107m









 Chapter 8. The Château d’If



The commissary of police, as he traversed the antechamber, made a sign

to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on Dantès’ right and the

other on his left. A door that communicated with the Palais de Justice

was opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors,

whose appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais

de Justice communicated with the prison,—a sombre edifice, that from

its grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After

numberless windings, Dantès saw a door with an iron wicket. The

commissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow

seeming to Dantès as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two

gendarmes gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud

sound behind him. The air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and

mephitic,—he was in prison.



He was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated and barred,

and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him; besides, the

words of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so much, resounded

still in his ears like a promise of freedom. It was four o’clock when

Dantès was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said, the 1st of

March, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The obscurity

augmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest sound he rose

and hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate him,

but the sound died away, and Dantès sank again into his seat. At last,

about ten o’clock, and just as Dantès began to despair, steps were

heard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the

massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches

pervaded the apartment.



By the torchlight Dantès saw the glittering sabres and carbines of four

gendarmes. He had advanced at first, but stopped at the sight of this

display of force.



“Are you come to fetch me?” asked he.



“Yes,” replied a gendarme.



“By the orders of the deputy procureur?”



“I believe so.” The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort

relieved all Dantès’ apprehensions; he advanced calmly, and placed

himself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the

coachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him.



“Is this carriage for me?” said Dantès.



“It is for you,” replied a gendarme.



Dantès was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and

having neither the power nor the intention to resist, he mounted the

steps, and was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes; the

two others took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily

over the stones.



The prisoner glanced at the windows—they were grated; he had changed

his prison for another that was conveying him he knew not whither.

Through the grating, however, Dantès saw they were passing through the

Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the

quay. Soon he saw the lights of La Consigne.



The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse,

a dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves in order; Dantès saw

the reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on the quay.



“Can all this force be summoned on my account?” thought he.



The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking a

word, answered Dantès’ question; for he saw between the ranks of the

soldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port. The two

gendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered

to alight and the gendarmes on each side of him followed his example.

They advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held by a

chain, near the quay.



The soldiers looked at Dantès with an air of stupid curiosity. In an

instant he was placed in the stern-sheets of the boat, between the

gendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent

the boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards

the Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the mouth of

the port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dantès knew, in the

Frioul and outside the inner harbor.



The prisoner’s first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure

air—for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La

Réserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the

open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantès folded his

hands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.



0111m







The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tête de Mort, were

now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double the battery. This

manœuvre was incomprehensible to Dantès.



“Whither are you taking me?” asked he.



“You will soon know.”



“But still——”



“We are forbidden to give you any explanation.” Dantès, trained in

discipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question

subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.



The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they

were in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor

outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him

on some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt

to handcuff him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the

deputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not

pronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend?

Had not Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only

proof against him?



He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.



They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the

right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the

prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it

was there Mercédès dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn

Mercédès that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?



One light alone was visible; and Dantès saw that it came from Mercédès’

chamber. Mercédès was the only one awake in the whole settlement. A

loud cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and he did not

utter it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a

madman?



He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on,

but the prisoner thought only of Mercédès. An intervening elevation of

land hid the light. Dantès turned and perceived that they had got out

to sea. While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their

oars and hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind.



In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantès turned to the

nearest gendarme, and taking his hand,



“Comrade,” said he, “I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to

tell me where we are going. I am Captain Dantès, a loyal Frenchman,

thought accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me, and I

promise you on my honor I will submit to my fate.”



The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for

answer a sign that said, “I see no great harm in telling him now,” and

the gendarme replied:



“You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know

where you are going?”



“On my honor, I have no idea.”



“Have you no idea whatever?”



“None at all.”



“That is impossible.”



“I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat.”



“But my orders.”



“Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten

minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I cannot escape, even if

I intended.”



“Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must

know.”



“I do not.”



“Look round you then.” Dantès rose and looked forward, when he saw rise

within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which

stands the Château d’If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than

three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to

Dantès like a scaffold to a malefactor.



“The Château d’If?” cried he, “what are we going there for?”



The gendarme smiled.



“I am not going there to be imprisoned,” said Dantès; “it is only used

for political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any

magistrates or judges at the Château d’If?”



“There are only,” said the gendarme, “a governor, a garrison, turnkeys,

and good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you

will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good

nature.”



Dantès pressed the gendarme’s hand as though he would crush it.



“You think, then,” said he, “that I am taken to the Château d’If to be

imprisoned there?”



“It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard.”



“Without any inquiry, without any formality?”



“All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already

made.”



“And so, in spite of M. de Villefort’s promises?”



“I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you,” said the gendarme,

“but I know we are taking you to the Château d’If. But what are you

doing? Help, comrades, help!”



By a rapid movement, which the gendarme’s practiced eye had perceived,

Dantès sprang forward to precipitate himself into the sea; but four

vigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the boat. He

fell back cursing with rage.



“Good!” said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest; “this is the

way you keep your word as a sailor! Believe soft-spoken gentlemen

again! Hark ye, my friend, I have disobeyed my first order, but I will

not disobey the second; and if you move, I will blow your brains out.”

And he levelled his carbine at Dantès, who felt the muzzle against his

temple.



For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending

the unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he bethought him of M.

de Villefort’s promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the hand of

a gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing

his teeth and wringing his hands with fury.



At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of

the sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as it ran through a pulley,

and Dantès guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that they

were mooring the boat.



His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise,

and dragged him towards the steps that lead to the gate of the

fortress, while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet

followed behind.



Dantès made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream; he saw

soldiers drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely that he was

ascending a flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed through a

door, and that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as

through a mist. He did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier

against freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.



They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his

thoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded by high walls;

he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the

light he saw the barrels of their muskets shine.



They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantès could not escape,

the gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting orders. The orders

came.



“Where is the prisoner?” said a voice.



“Here,” replied the gendarmes.



“Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell.”



“Go!” said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantès forward.



The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under

ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with

tears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly, and

showed Dantès the features of his conductor, an under-jailer,

ill-clothed, and of sullen appearance.



0113m







“Here is your chamber for tonight,” said he. “It is late, and the

governor is asleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, he may change you. In the

meantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a

prisoner can wish for. Goodnight.” And before Dantès could open his

mouth—before he had noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the

water—before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was, the

jailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door,

leaving stamped upon the prisoner’s mind the dim reflection of the

dripping walls of his dungeon.



Dantès was alone in darkness and in silence—cold as the shadows that he

felt breathe on his burning forehead. With the first dawn of day the

jailer returned, with orders to leave Dantès where he was. He found the

prisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with

weeping. He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The

jailer advanced; Dantès appeared not to perceive him. He touched him on

the shoulder. Edmond started.



“Have you not slept?” said the jailer.



“I do not know,” replied Dantès. The jailer stared.



“Are you hungry?” continued he.



“I do not know.”



“Do you wish for anything?”



“I wish to see the governor.”



The jailer shrugged his shoulders and left the chamber.



Dantès followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands

towards the open door; but the door closed. All his emotion then burst

forth; he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking

himself what crime he had committed that he was thus punished.



The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and

round the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One thought in particular

tormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so

still, whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and,

thanks to his powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained

the shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or Spanish

vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercédès and his father could

have joined him. He had no fears as to how he should live—good seamen

are welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish

like a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Mercédès and

his father, whereas he was now confined in the Château d’If, that

impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of his father and

Mercédès; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort’s promise.

The thought was maddening, and Dantès threw himself furiously down on

his straw. The next morning at the same hour, the jailer came again.



“Well,” said the jailer, “are you more reasonable today?” Dantès made

no reply.



“Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?”



“I wish to see the governor.”



“I have already told you it was impossible.”



“Why so?”



“Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask

for it.”



“What is allowed, then?”



“Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about.”



“I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to

walk about; but I wish to see the governor.”



“If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any

more to eat.”



“Well, then,” said Edmond, “if you do not, I shall die of hunger—that

is all.”



The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every

prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a more

subdued tone.



“What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will

be allowed to walk about, and some day you will meet the governor, and

if he chooses to reply, that is his affair.”



“But,” asked Dantès, “how long shall I have to wait?”



“Ah, a month—six months—a year.”



“It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once.”



“Ah,” said the jailer, “do not always brood over what is impossible, or

you will be mad in a fortnight.”



“You think so?”



“Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of

francs to the governor for his liberty that an abbé became mad, who was

in this chamber before you.”



0119m







“How long has he left it?”



“Two years.”



“Was he liberated, then?”



“No; he was put in a dungeon.”



“Listen!” said Dantès. “I am not an abbé, I am not mad; perhaps I shall

be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another

offer.”



“What is that?”



“I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give

you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will

seek out a young girl named Mercédès, at the Catalans, and give her two

lines from me.”



0120m







“If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is

worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to

run such a risk for three hundred.”



“Well,” said Dantès, “mark this; if you refuse at least to tell

Mercédès I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and

when you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool.”



“Threats!” cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the

defensive; “you are certainly going mad. The abbé began like you, and

in three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but,

fortunately, there are dungeons here.”



Dantès whirled the stool round his head.



“All right, all right,” said the jailer; “all right, since you will

have it so. I will send word to the governor.”



“Very well,” returned Dantès, dropping the stool and sitting on it as

if he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and returned in an

instant with a corporal and four soldiers.



“By the governor’s orders,” said he, “conduct the prisoner to the tier

beneath.”



“To the dungeon, then,” said the corporal.



“Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen.” The soldiers seized

Dantès, who followed passively.



He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and

he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantès advanced with

outstretched hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the

corner until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was

right; Dantès wanted but little of being utterly mad.







 Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal



Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de

Saint-Méran’s in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering the house

found that the guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in

the salon. Renée was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously

awaiting him, and his entrance was followed by a general exclamation.



“Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is

the matter?” said one. “Speak out.”



“Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?” asked another.



“Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?” cried a third.



“Marquise,” said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, “I

request your pardon for thus leaving you. Will the marquis honor me by

a few moments’ private conversation?”



“Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?” asked the marquis, remarking

the cloud on Villefort’s brow.



“So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so,” added

he, turning to Renée, “judge for yourself if it be not important.”



“You are going to leave us?” cried Renée, unable to hide her emotion at

this unexpected announcement.



“Alas,” returned Villefort, “I must!”



“Where, then, are you going?” asked the marquise.



“That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions

for Paris, a friend of mine is going there tonight, and will with

pleasure undertake them.” The guests looked at each other.



“You wish to speak to me alone?” said the marquis.



“Yes, let us go to the library, please.” The marquis took his arm, and

they left the salon.



“Well,” asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, “tell me what it

is?”



“An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate

presence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion, marquis, but have you

any landed property?”



“All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand

francs.”



“Then sell out—sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all.”



0123m







“But how can I sell out here?”



“You have a broker, have you not?”



“Yes.”



“Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an

instant’s delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive too late.”



“The deuce you say!” replied the marquis, “let us lose no time, then!”



And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to

sell out at the market price.



“Now, then,” said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, “I

must have another!”



“To whom?”



“To the king.”



“To the king?”



“Yes.”



“I dare not write to his majesty.”



“I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do

so. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king’s presence

without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would

occasion a loss of precious time.”



“But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of

entry at the Tuileries, and can procure you audience at any hour of the

day or night.”



“Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my

discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and

take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made

if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget

the service I do him.”



“In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write

the letter.”



“Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an

hour.”



“Tell your coachman to stop at the door.”



“You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renée,

whom I leave on such a day with great regret.”



“You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person.”



“A thousand thanks—and now for the letter.”



The marquis rang, a servant entered.



“Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him.”



“Now, then, go,” said the marquis.



“I shall be gone only a few moments.”



Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight

of the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to

throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At

his door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for

him. It was Mercédès, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come

unobserved to inquire after him.



As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantès had

spoken of Mercédès, and Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty

and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become

of her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the

accused.



“The young man you speak of,” said Villefort abruptly, “is a great

criminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle.” Mercédès burst

into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.



“But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is

alive or dead,” said she.



0125m







“I do not know; he is no longer in my hands,” replied Villefort.



And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and

closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not

thus banished; like Virgil’s wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his

wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was

almost a sob, and sank into a chair.



Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The

man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim immolated on

the altar of his father’s faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,

leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse,

not such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow

and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up to

the very moment of death. Then he had a moment’s hesitation. He had

frequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his

irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest

shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort’s brow, because they were

guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose

happiness he had destroyed. In this case he was not the judge, but the

executioner.



As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and

which had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his bosom, and fill

him with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles

instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be

healed, but Villefort’s was one of those that never close, or if they

do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment

the sweet voice of Renée had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or

the fair Mercédès had entered and said, “In the name of God, I conjure

you to restore me my affianced husband,” his cold and trembling hands

would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the

chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort’s valet, who came to

tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.



Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of

the drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold it contained into his

pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head,

muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his

servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the

carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Méran’s. The

hapless Dantès was doomed.



As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renée in

waiting. He started when he saw Renée, for he fancied she was again

about to plead for Dantès. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal: she

was thinking only of Villefort’s departure.



She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to

become her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and

Renée, far from pleading for Dantès, hated the man whose crime

separated her from her lover.



0127m







Meanwhile what of Mercédès? She had met Fernand at the corner of the

Rue de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly

cast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her

hand, and covered it with kisses that Mercédès did not even feel. She

passed the night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid

no heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not that it was

day. Grief had made her blind to all but one object—that was Edmond.



“Ah, you are there,” said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.



“I have not quitted you since yesterday,” returned Fernand sorrowfully.



M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that

Dantès had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends,

and the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in

circulation that Dantès was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the

most sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne

as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home

in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more

could be done.



Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking,

like M. Morrel, to aid Dantès, he had shut himself up with two bottles

of black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did

not succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and

yet not so intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows

on the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres

danced in the light of the unsnuffed candle—spectres such as Hoffmann

strews over his punch-drenched pages, like black, fantastic dust.



Danglars alone was content and joyous—he had got rid of an enemy and

made his own situation on the _Pharaon_ secure. Danglars was one of

those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a

heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life

of a man was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when,

by taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires.

He went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.



Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux’s letter, embraced

Renée, kissed the marquise’s hand, and shaken that of the marquis,

started for Paris along the Aix road.



Old Dantès was dying with anxiety to know what had become of Edmond.

But we know very well what had become of Edmond.







 Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries



We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling—thanks to

trebled fees—with all speed, and passing through two or three

apartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched

window, so well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon

and Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe.



There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from

Hartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not uncommon to great

people, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was

carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with

gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire,

and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius’s rather

inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace—a work which was

much indebted to the sagacious observations of the philosophical

monarch.



“You say, sir——” said the king.



“That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire.”



“Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean

kine?”



“No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and

seven years of scarcity; and with a king as full of foresight as your

majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared.”



“Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?”



“Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the

south.”



“Well, my dear duke,” replied Louis XVIII., “I think you are wrongly

informed, and know positively that, on the contrary, it is very fine

weather in that direction.” Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII.

liked a pleasant jest.



“Sire,” continued M. de Blacas, “if it only be to reassure a faithful

servant, will your majesty send into Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphiné,

trusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the feeling

in these three provinces?”



“_Canimus surdis_,” replied the king, continuing the annotations in his

Horace.



“Sire,” replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem to

comprehend the quotation, “your majesty may be perfectly right in

relying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether

wrong in dreading some desperate attempt.”



“By whom?”



“By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents.”



“My dear Blacas,” said the king, “you with your alarms prevent me from

working.”



“And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security.”



“Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on

the _Pastor quum traheret_—wait, and I will listen to you afterwards.”



There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as

small as possible, another note on the margin of his Horace, and then

looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of

his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said:



“Go on, my dear duke, go on—I listen.”



“Sire,” said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing

Villefort to his own profit, “I am compelled to tell you that these are

not mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a

serious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to

watch over the south” (the duke hesitated as he pronounced these

words), “has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens

the king, and so I hastened to you, sire.”



“_Mala ducis avi domum_,” continued Louis XVIII., still annotating.



“Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?”



“By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand.”



“Which?”



“Whichever you please—there to the left.”



“Here, sire?”



“I tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my

left—yes, there. You will find yesterday’s report of the minister of

police. But here is M. Dandré himself;” and M. Dandré, announced by the

chamberlain-in-waiting, entered.



“Come in,” said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, “come in, Baron,

and tell the duke all you know—the latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do

not conceal anything, however serious,—let us see, the Island of Elba

is a volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and

bristling war—_bella, horrida bella_.”



M. Dandré leaned very respectfully on the back of a chair with his two

hands, and said:



“Has your majesty perused yesterday’s report?”



“Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what

the report contains—give him the particulars of what the usurper is

doing in his islet.”



“Monsieur,” said the baron to the duke, “all the servants of his

majesty must approve of the latest intelligence which we have from the

Island of Elba. Bonaparte——”



M. Dandré looked at Louis XVIII., who, employed in writing a note, did

not even raise his head. “Bonaparte,” continued the baron, “is mortally

wearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at

Porto-Longone.”



“And scratches himself for amusement,” added the king.



“Scratches himself?” inquired the duke, “what does your majesty mean?”



“Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this

hero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of the skin which worries

him to death, _prurigo_?”



“And, moreover, my dear duke,” continued the minister of police, “we

are almost assured that, in a very short time, the usurper will be

insane.”



“Insane?”



“Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly,

sometimes laughs boisterously, at other time he passes hours on the

seashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes

‘duck-and-drake’ five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he

had gained another Marengo or Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that

these are indubitable symptoms of insanity.”



“Or of wisdom, my dear baron—or of wisdom,” said Louis XVIII.,

laughing; “the greatest captains of antiquity amused themselves by

casting pebbles into the ocean—see Plutarch’s life of Scipio

Africanus.”



M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the

truthful minister. Villefort, who did not choose to reveal the whole

secret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had

yet communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness.



“Well, well, Dandré,” said Louis XVIII., “Blacas is not yet convinced;

let us proceed, therefore, to the usurper’s conversion.” The minister

of police bowed.



“The usurper’s conversion!” murmured the duke, looking at the king and

Dandré, who spoke alternately, like Virgil’s shepherds. “The usurper

converted!”



“Decidedly, my dear duke.”



“In what way converted?”



“To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron.”



“Why, this is the way of it,” said the minister, with the gravest air

in the world: “Napoleon lately had a review, and as two or three of his

old veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their

dismissal, and exhorted them to ‘serve the good king.’ These were his

own words, of that I am certain.”



“Well, Blacas, what think you of this?” inquired the king triumphantly,

and pausing for a moment from the voluminous scholiast before him.



“I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am;

and as it is impossible it can be the minister of police as he has the

guardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable

that I am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will

interrogate the person of whom I spoke to you, and I will urge your

majesty to do him this honor.”



“Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person

you please, but you must not expect me to be too confiding. Baron, have

you any report more recent than this, dated the 20th February, and this

is the 3rd of March?”



“No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I

left my office.”



“Go thither, and if there be none—well, well,” continued Louis XVIII.,

“make one; that is the usual way, is it not?” and the king laughed

facetiously.



“Oh, sire,” replied the minister, “we have no occasion to invent any;

every day our desks are loaded with most circumstantial denunciations,

coming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services which

they seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon

some unexpected event in some way to justify their predictions.”



“Well, sir, go,” said Louis XVIII., “and remember that I am waiting for

you.”



“I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes.”



“And I, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “will go and find my messenger.”



“Wait, sir, wait,” said Louis XVIII. “Really, M. de Blacas, I must

change your armorial bearings; I will give you an eagle with

outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to

escape, and bearing this device—_Tenax_.”



0133m







“Sire, I listen,” said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience.



“I wish to consult you on this passage, ‘_Molli fugiens anhelitu_,’ you

know it refers to a stag flying from a wolf. Are you not a sportsman

and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the _molli

anhelitu_?”



“Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for

he has posted two hundred and twenty leagues in scarcely three days.”



“Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we

have a telegraph which transmits messages in three or four hours, and

that without getting in the least out of breath.”



“Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come

so far, and with so much ardor, to give your majesty useful

information. If only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him

to me, I entreat your majesty to receive him graciously.”



“M. de Salvieux, my brother’s chamberlain?”



“Yes, sire.”



“He is at Marseilles.”



“And writes me thence.”



“Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?”



“No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present

him to your majesty.”



“M. de Villefort!” cried the king, “is the messenger’s name M. de

Villefort?”



“Yes, sire.”



“And he comes from Marseilles?”



“In person.”



“Why did you not mention his name at once?” replied the king, betraying

some uneasiness.



“Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty.”



“No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding,

ambitious, too, and, _pardieu!_ you know his father’s name!”



“His father?”



“Yes, Noirtier.”



“Noirtier the Girondin?—Noirtier the senator?”



“He himself.”



“And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?”



“Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you

Villefort was ambitious, and to attain this ambition Villefort would

sacrifice everything, even his father.”



“Then, sire, may I present him?”



“This instant, duke! Where is he?”



“Waiting below, in my carriage.”



“Seek him at once.”



“I hasten to do so.”



The duke left the royal presence with the speed of a young man; his

really sincere royalism made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained

alone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened Horace, muttered:



“_Justum et tenacem propositi virum_.”



M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the

antechamber he was forced to appeal to the king’s authority.

Villefort’s dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut,

excited the susceptibility of M. de Brezé, who was all astonishment at

finding that this young man had the audacity to enter before the king

in such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a

word—his majesty’s order; and, in spite of the protestations which the

master of ceremonies made for the honor of his office and principles,

Villefort was introduced.



The king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On

opening the door, Villefort found himself facing him, and the young

magistrate’s first impulse was to pause.



“Come in, M. de Villefort,” said the king, “come in.”



Villefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited until the king

should interrogate him.



“M. de Villefort,” said Louis XVIII., “the Duc de Blacas assures me you

have some interesting information to communicate.”



“Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it

equally important.”



0137m







“In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as

bad in your opinion as I am asked to believe?”



“Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have

used, that it is not irreparable.”



“Speak as fully as you please, sir,” said the king, who began to give

way to the emotion which had showed itself in Blacas’s face and

affected Villefort’s voice. “Speak, sir, and pray begin at the

beginning; I like order in everything.”



“Sire,” said Villefort, “I will render a faithful report to your

majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if my anxiety leads to

some obscurity in my language.” A glance at the king after this

discreet and subtle exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his

august auditor, and he went on:



“Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your

majesty that I have discovered, in the exercise of my duties, not a

commonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the

lower ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy—a

storm which menaces no less than your majesty’s throne. Sire, the

usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which,

however mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have

left Elba, to go whither I know not, but assuredly to attempt a landing

either at Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores

of France. Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island

of Elba has maintained his relations with Italy and France?”



“I am, sir,” said the king, much agitated; “and recently we have had

information that the Bonapartist clubs have had meetings in the Rue

Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these

details?”



“Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a

man of Marseilles, whom I have watched for some time, and arrested on

the day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent character,

and whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of

Elba. There he saw the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral

message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could not extract from

him; but this mission was to prepare men’s minds for a return (it is

the man who says this, sire)—a return which will soon occur.”



“And where is this man?”



“In prison, sire.”



“And the matter seems serious to you?”



“So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst

of a family festival, on the very day of my betrothal, I left my bride

and friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your

majesty’s feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my

devotion.”



“True,” said Louis XVIII., “was there not a marriage engagement between

you and Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran?”



“Daughter of one of your majesty’s most faithful servants.”



“Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort.”



“Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy.”



“A conspiracy in these times,” said Louis XVIII., smiling, “is a thing

very easy to meditate, but more difficult to conduct to an end,

inasmuch as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors,

we have our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the

future. For the last ten months my ministers have redoubled their

vigilance, in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If

Bonaparte landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before

he could even reach Piombino; if he land in Tuscany, he will be in an

unfriendly territory; if he land in France, it must be with a handful

of men, and the result of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is

by the population. Take courage, sir; but at the same time rely on our

royal gratitude.”



“Ah, here is M. Dandré!” cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister

of police appeared at the door, pale, trembling, and as if ready to

faint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his

hand, restrained him.







 Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre



At the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him violently

the table at which he was sitting.



“What ails you, baron?” he exclaimed. “You appear quite aghast. Has

your uneasiness anything to do with what M. de Blacas has told me, and

M. de Villefort has just confirmed?” M. de Blacas moved suddenly

towards the baron, but the fright of the courtier pleaded for the

forbearance of the statesman; and besides, as matters were, it was much

more to his advantage that the prefect of police should triumph over

him than that he should humiliate the prefect.



“Sire,——” stammered the baron.



“Well, what is it?” asked Louis XVIII. The minister of police, giving

way to an impulse of despair, was about to throw himself at the feet of

Louis XVIII., who retreated a step and frowned.



“Will you speak?” he said.



“Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be pitied. I

can never forgive myself!”



“Monsieur,” said Louis XVIII., “I command you to speak.”



“Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and landed on

the 1st of March.”



“And where? In Italy?” asked the king eagerly.



“In France, sire,—at a small port, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan.”



“The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two

hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on the 1st of March, and you only

acquired this information today, the 3rd of March! Well, sir, what you

tell me is impossible. You must have received a false report, or you

have gone mad.”



“Alas, sire, it is but too true!” Louis made a gesture of indescribable

anger and alarm, and then drew himself up as if this sudden blow had

struck him at the same moment in heart and countenance.



“In France!” he cried, “the usurper in France! Then they did not watch

over this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps, in league with him.”



“Oh, sire,” exclaimed the Duc de Blacas, “M. Dandré is not a man to be

accused of treason! Sire, we have all been blind, and the minister of

police has shared the general blindness, that is all.”



“But——” said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself, he was

silent; then he continued, “Your pardon, sire,” he said, bowing, “my

zeal carried me away. Will your majesty deign to excuse me?”



“Speak, sir, speak boldly,” replied Louis. “You alone forewarned us of

the evil; now try and aid us with the remedy.”



“Sire,” said Villefort, “the usurper is detested in the south; and it

seems to me that if he ventured into the south, it would be easy to

raise Languedoc and Provence against him.”



“Yes, assuredly,” replied the minister; “but he is advancing by Gap and

Sisteron.”



“Advancing—he is advancing!” said Louis XVIII. “Is he then advancing on

Paris?” The minister of police maintained a silence which was

equivalent to a complete avowal.



“And Dauphiné, sir?” inquired the king, of Villefort. “Do you think it

possible to rouse that as well as Provence?”



“Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the feeling in

Dauphiné is quite the reverse of that in Provence or Languedoc. The

mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire.”



“Then,” murmured Louis, “he was well informed. And how many men had he

with him?”



“I do not know, sire,” answered the minister of police.



“What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain information on

that point? Of course it is of no consequence,” he added, with a

withering smile.



“Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply stated the fact

of the landing and the route taken by the usurper.”



“And how did this despatch reach you?” inquired the king. The minister

bowed his head, and while a deep color overspread his cheeks, he

stammered out:



“By the telegraph, sire.” Louis XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his

arms over his chest as Napoleon would have done.



0141m







“So then,” he exclaimed, turning pale with anger, “seven conjoined and

allied armies overthrew that man. A miracle of heaven replaced me on

the throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have,

during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the

people of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now,

when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I

hold in my hands bursts and shatters me to atoms!”



“Sire, it is fatality!” murmured the minister, feeling that the

pressure of circumstances, however light a thing to destiny, was too

much for any human strength to endure.



“What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt nothing,

forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I would console

myself; but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places

of honor, who ought to watch over me more carefully than over

themselves,—for my fortune is theirs—before me they were nothing—after

me they will be nothing, and perish miserably from

incapacity—ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are right—it is fatality!”



The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas

wiped the moisture from his brow. Villefort smiled within himself, for

he felt his increased importance.



“To fall,” continued King Louis, who at the first glance had sounded

the abyss on which the monarchy hung suspended,—“to fall, and learn of

that fall by telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my

brother, Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries

driven away by ridicule. Ridicule, sir—why, you know not its power in

France, and yet you ought to know it!”



“Sire, sire,” murmured the minister, “for pity’s——”



“Approach, M. de Villefort,” resumed the king, addressing the young

man, who, motionless and breathless, was listening to a conversation on

which depended the destiny of a kingdom. “Approach, and tell monsieur

that it is possible to know beforehand all that he has not known.”



“Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that man

concealed from all the world.”



“Really impossible! Yes—that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there

are great words, as there are great men; I have measured them. Really

impossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen

hundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going

on at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well, then, see, here is

a gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal—a

gentleman, only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all

your police, and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had

the power of directing a telegraph.” The look of the minister of police

was turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who bent his head in

modest triumph.



“I do not mean that for you, Blacas,” continued Louis XVIII.; “for if

you have discovered nothing, at least you have had the good sense to

persevere in your suspicions. Any other than yourself would have

considered the disclosure of M. de Villefort insignificant, or else

dictated by venal ambition.” These words were an allusion to the

sentiments which the minister of police had uttered with so much

confidence an hour before.



Villefort understood the king’s intent. Any other person would,

perhaps, have been overcome by such an intoxicating draught of praise;

but he feared to make for himself a mortal enemy of the police

minister, although he saw that Dandré was irrevocably lost. In fact,

the minister, who, in the plenitude of his power, had been unable to

unearth Napoleon’s secret, might in despair at his own downfall

interrogate Dantès and so lay bare the motives of Villefort’s plot.

Realizing this, Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen

minister, instead of aiding to crush him.



“Sire,” said Villefort, “the suddenness of this event must prove to

your majesty that the issue is in the hands of Providence; what your

majesty is pleased to attribute to me as profound perspicacity is

simply owing to chance, and I have profited by that chance, like a good

and devoted servant—that’s all. Do not attribute to me more than I

deserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the

first opinion you have been pleased to form of me.” The minister of

police thanked the young man by an eloquent look, and Villefort

understood that he had succeeded in his design; that is to say, that

without forfeiting the gratitude of the king, he had made a friend of

one on whom, in case of necessity, he might rely.



“’Tis well,” resumed the king. “And now, gentlemen,” he continued,

turning towards M. de Blacas and the minister of police, “I have no

further occasion for you, and you may retire; what now remains to do is

in the department of the minister of war.”



“Fortunately, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “we can rely on the army; your

majesty knows how every report confirms their loyalty and attachment.”



“Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what confidence to

place in them. Yet, speaking of reports, baron, what have you learned

with regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?”



“The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!” exclaimed Villefort, unable to

repress an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, he added, “Your pardon,

sire, but my devotion to your majesty has made me forget, not the

respect I have, for that is too deeply engraved in my heart, but the

rules of etiquette.”



“Go on, go on, sir,” replied the king; “you have today earned the right

to make inquiries here.”



“Sire,” interposed the minister of police, “I came a moment ago to give

your majesty fresh information which I had obtained on this head, when

your majesty’s attention was attracted by the terrible event that has

occurred in the gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your

majesty.”



“On the contrary, sir,—on the contrary,” said Louis XVIII., “this

affair seems to me to have a decided connection with that which

occupies our attention, and the death of General Quesnel will, perhaps,

put us on the direct track of a great internal conspiracy.” At the name

of General Quesnel, Villefort trembled.



“Everything points to the conclusion, sire,” said the minister of

police, “that death was not the result of suicide, as we first

believed, but of assassination. General Quesnel, it appears, had just

left a Bonapartist club when he disappeared. An unknown person had been

with him that morning, and made an appointment with him in the Rue

Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general’s valet, who was dressing his

hair at the moment when the stranger entered, heard the street

mentioned, but did not catch the number.” As the police minister

related this to the king, Villefort, who looked as if his very life

hung on the speaker’s lips, turned alternately red and pale. The king

looked towards him.



“Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom

they believed attached to the usurper, but who was really entirely

devoted to me, has perished the victim of a Bonapartist ambush?”



“It is probable, sire,” replied Villefort. “But is this all that is

known?”



“They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting with him.”



“On his track?” said Villefort.



“Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of from fifty

to fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes covered with shaggy

eyebrows, and a thick moustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat,

buttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an

officer of the Legion of Honor. Yesterday a person exactly

corresponding with this description was followed, but he was lost sight

of at the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Héron.”

Villefort leaned on the back of an armchair, for as the minister of

police went on speaking he felt his legs bend under him; but when he

learned that the unknown had escaped the vigilance of the agent who

followed him, he breathed again.



“Continue to seek for this man, sir,” said the king to the minister of

police; “for if, as I am all but convinced, General Quesnel, who would

have been so useful to us at this moment, has been murdered, his

assassins, Bonapartists or not, shall be cruelly punished.” It required

all Villefort’s coolness not to betray the terror with which this

declaration of the king inspired him.



“How strange,” continued the king, with some asperity; “the police

think that they have disposed of the whole matter when they say, ‘A

murder has been committed,’ and especially so when they can add, ‘And

we are on the track of the guilty persons.’”



“Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on this point at

least.”



“We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort, for you

must be fatigued after so long a journey; go and rest. Of course you

stopped at your father’s?” A feeling of faintness came over Villefort.



0145m







“No, sire,” he replied, “I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue

de Tournon.”



“But you have seen him?”



“Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas.”



“But you will see him, then?”



“I think not, sire.”



“Ah, I forgot,” said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved that all

these questions were not made without a motive; “I forgot you and M.

Noirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another

sacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be

recompensed.”



“Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me is a

recompense which so far surpasses my utmost ambition that I have

nothing more to ask for.”



“Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind easy. In the

meanwhile” (the king here detached the cross of the Legion of Honor

which he usually wore over his blue coat, near the cross of St. Louis,

above the order of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave

it to Villefort)—“in the meanwhile take this cross.”



“Sire,” said Villefort, “your majesty mistakes; this is an officer’s

cross.”



“_Ma foi!_” said Louis XVIII., “take it, such as it is, for I have not

the time to procure you another. Blacas, let it be your care to see

that the brevet is made out and sent to M. de Villefort.” Villefort’s

eyes were filled with tears of joy and pride; he took the cross and

kissed it.



“And now,” he said, “may I inquire what are the orders with which your

majesty deigns to honor me?”



“Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are not able to

serve me here in Paris, you may be of the greatest service to me at

Marseilles.”



“Sire,” replied Villefort, bowing, “in an hour I shall have quitted

Paris.”



“Go, sir,” said the king; “and should I forget you (kings’ memories are

short), do not be afraid to bring yourself to my recollection. Baron,

send for the minister of war. Blacas, remain.”



“Ah, sir,” said the minister of police to Villefort, as they left the

Tuileries, “you entered by luck’s door—your fortune is made.”



“Will it be long first?” muttered Villefort, saluting the minister,

whose career was ended, and looking about him for a hackney-coach. One

passed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the

driver, and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to

dreams of ambition.



Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to

be ready in two hours, and asked to have his breakfast brought to him.

He was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang sharp

and loud. The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard someone speak

his name.



0147m







“Who could know that I was here already?” said the young man. The valet

entered.



“Well,” said Villefort, “what is it?—Who rang?—Who asked for me?”



“A stranger who will not send in his name.”



“A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want with me?”



“He wishes to speak to you.”



“To me?”



“Yes.”



“Did he mention my name?”



“Yes.”



“What sort of person is he?”



“Why, sir, a man of about fifty.”



“Short or tall?”



“About your own height, sir.”



“Dark or fair?”



“Dark,—very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black eyebrows.”



“And how dressed?” asked Villefort quickly.



“In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the Legion of

Honor.”



“It is he!” said Villefort, turning pale.



0148m







“Eh, _pardieu!_” said the individual whose description we have twice

given, entering the door, “what a great deal of ceremony! Is it the

custom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their

anterooms?”



“Father!” cried Villefort, “then I was not deceived; I felt sure it

must be you.”



“Well, then, if you felt so sure,” replied the new-comer, putting his

cane in a corner and his hat on a chair, “allow me to say, my dear

Gérard, that it was not very filial of you to keep me waiting at the

door.”



“Leave us, Germain,” said Villefort. The servant quitted the apartment

with evident signs of astonishment.







 Chapter 12. Father and Son



M. Noirtier—for it was, indeed, he who entered—looked after the servant

until the door was closed, and then, fearing, no doubt, that he might

be overheard in the antechamber, he opened the door again, nor was the

precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of Germain, who

proved that he was not exempt from the sin which ruined our first

parents. M. Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the

antechamber door, then that of the bedchamber, and then extended his

hand to Villefort, who had followed all his motions with surprise which

he could not conceal.



“Well, now, my dear Gérard,” said he to the young man, with a very

significant look, “do you know, you seem as if you were not very glad

to see me?”



“My dear father,” said Villefort, “I am, on the contrary, delighted;

but I so little expected your visit, that it has somewhat overcome me.”



“But, my dear fellow,” replied M. Noirtier, seating himself, “I might

say the same thing to you, when you announce to me your wedding for the

28th of February, and on the 3rd of March you turn up here in Paris.”



“And if I have come, my dear father,” said Gérard, drawing closer to M.

Noirtier, “do not complain, for it is for you that I came, and my

journey will be your salvation.”



“Ah, indeed!” said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease in

the chair. “Really, pray tell me all about it, for it must be

interesting.”



“Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club in the Rue

Saint-Jacques?”



“No. 53; yes, I am vice-president.”



“Father, your coolness makes me shudder.”



“Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the mountaineers,

has escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been hunted over the plains of

Bordeaux by Robespierre’s bloodhounds, he becomes accustomed to most

things. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?”



“Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General Quesnel,

who quitted his own house at nine o’clock in the evening, was found the

next day in the Seine.”



0151m







“And who told you this fine story?”



“The king himself.”



“Well, then, in return for your story,” continued Noirtier, “I will

tell you another.”



“My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me.”



“Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?”



“Not so loud, father, I entreat of you—for your own sake as well as

mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for

three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible

speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay.”



“Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not

landed.”



“No matter, I was aware of his intention.”



“How did you know about it?”



“By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba.”



“To me?”



“To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger.

Had that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father,

would probably ere this have been shot.” Villefort’s father laughed.



“Come, come,” said he, “will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so

promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you

speak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing

to pass you.”



“I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain; for that

letter must have led to your condemnation.”



“And the destruction of your future prospects,” replied Noirtier; “yes,

I can easily comprehend that. But I have nothing to fear while I have

you to protect me.”



“I do better than that, sir—I save you.”



“You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic—explain

yourself.”



“I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques.”



“It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police. Why didn’t

they search more vigilantly? they would have found——”



“They have not found; but they are on the track.”



“Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it. When the

police is at fault, it declares that it is on the track; and the

government patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a

sneaking air, that the track is lost.”



“Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been killed, and in

all countries they call that a murder.”



“A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the

general was murdered. People are found every day in the Seine, having

thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to

swim.”



“Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown

himself in despair, and people do not bathe in the Seine in the month

of January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense

of the word.”



“And who thus designated it?”



“The king himself.”



“The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was

no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well

as I do, there are no men, but ideas—no feelings, but interests; in

politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all.

Would you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell

you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was

recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and

invited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends.

He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the

projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the

fullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at

each other,—he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an

ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear thus, and

yet, in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free—perfectly

free. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? why, my dear

fellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that’s all. A murder?

really, Villefort, you surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to found

an accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when you

were fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of

one of my party, ‘My son, you have committed a murder?’ No, I said,

‘Very well, sir, you have gained the victory; tomorrow, perchance, it

will be our turn.’”



“But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be

sweeping.”



“I do not understand you.”



“You rely on the usurper’s return?”



“We do.”



“You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of

France without being followed, tracked, and caught like a wild beast.”



“My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble;

on the 10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at

Paris.”



“The people will rise.”



“Yes, to go and meet him.”



“He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched

against him.”



“Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear Gérard, you are

but a child; you think yourself well informed because the telegraph has

told you, three days after the landing, ‘The usurper has landed at

Cannes with several men. He is pursued.’ But where is he? what is he

doing? You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to

Paris, without drawing a trigger.”



“Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an

impassable barrier.”



“Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm—all Lyons will

hasten to welcome him. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and

our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well,

you wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your

arrival half an hour after you had passed the barrier. You gave your

direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in

proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring,

then, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will

dine together.”



“Indeed!” replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment,

“you really do seem very well informed.”



“Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the

means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which

devotion prompts.”



“Devotion!” said Villefort, with a sneer.



“Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful

ambition.”



And Villefort’s father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon

the servant whom his son had not called. Villefort caught his arm.



“Wait, my dear father,” said the young man, “one word more.”



“Say on.”



“However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible

thing.”



“What is that?”



“The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General

Quesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house.”



“Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may

be that description?”



“Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers black; blue frock-coat,

buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor

in his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane.”



“Ah, ha, that’s it, is it?” said Noirtier; “and why, then, have they

not laid hands on him?”



“Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the

corner of the Rue Coq-Héron.”



“Didn’t I say that your police were good for nothing?”



“Yes; but they may catch him yet.”



“True,” said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, “true, if this

person were not on his guard, as he is;” and he added with a smile, “He

will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance.” At

these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went

towards a table on which lay his son’s toilet articles, lathered his

face, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising

whiskers. Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration.



His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took,

instead of his black cravat, a colored neckerchief which lay at the top

of an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned

frock-coat, a coat of Villefort’s of dark brown, and cut away in front;

tried on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son’s, which

appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner

where he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the

air with it once or twice, and walked about with that easy swagger

which was one of his principal characteristics.



“Well,” he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise

was completed, “well, do you think your police will recognize me now.”



“No, father,” stammered Villefort; “at least, I hope not.”



“And now, my dear boy,” continued Noirtier, “I rely on your prudence to

remove all the things which I leave in your care.”



“Oh, rely on me,” said Villefort.



“Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really

saved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter.”



Villefort shook his head.



“You are not convinced yet?”



“I hope at least, that you may be mistaken.”



“Shall you see the king again?”



“Perhaps.”



“Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?”



“Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father.”



“True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second

restoration, you would then pass for a great man.”



“Well, what should I say to the king?”



“Say this to him: ‘Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France,

as to the opinions of the towns, and the prejudices of the army; he

whom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled the

usurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at

Grenoble. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing

as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with

hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of

snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave

France to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but

by right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your

adversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be

humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of

Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.’ Tell him this, Gérard; or, rather, tell

him nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do not boast of what you have

come to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter

Marseilles at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain,

quiet, submissive, secret, and, above all, inoffensive; for this time,

I swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies.

Go, my son—go, my dear Gérard, and by your obedience to my paternal

orders, or, if you prefer it, friendly counsels, we will keep you in

your place. This will be,” added Noirtier, with a smile, “one means by

which you may a second time save me, if the political balance should

some day take another turn, and cast you aloft while hurling me down.

Adieu, my dear Gérard, and at your next journey alight at my door.”



Noirtier left the room when he had finished, with the same calmness

that had characterized him during the whole of this remarkable and

trying conversation. Villefort, pale and agitated, ran to the window,

put aside the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or

three ill-looking men at the corner of the street, who were there,

perhaps, to arrest a man with black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat,

and hat with broad brim.



Villefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had disappeared

at the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various articles he had left

behind him, put the black cravat and blue frock-coat at the bottom of

the portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into

small bits and flung it in the fire, put on his travelling-cap, and

calling his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was

ready to ask, paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which was ready,

learned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in the midst

of the tumult which prevailed along the road, at length reached

Marseilles, a prey to all the hopes and fears which enter into the

heart of man with ambition and its first successes.







 Chapter 13. The Hundred Days



M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he

had predicted. Everyone knows the history of the famous return from

Elba, a return which was unprecedented in the past, and will probably

remain without a counterpart in the future.



Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow;

the monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed tottered on its precarious

foundation, and at a sign from the emperor the incongruous structure of

ancient prejudices and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort,

therefore, gained nothing save the king’s gratitude (which was rather

likely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of the Legion

of Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas

had duly forwarded the brevet.



Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had it

not been for Noirtier, who was all powerful at court, and thus the

Girondin of ’93 and the Senator of 1806 protected him who so lately had

been his protector. All Villefort’s influence barely enabled him to

stifle the secret Dantès had so nearly divulged. The king’s procureur

alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism.



However, scarcely was the imperial power established—that is, scarcely

had the emperor re-entered the Tuileries and begun to issue orders from

the closet into which we have introduced our readers,—he found on the

table there Louis XVIII.’s half-filled snuff-box,—scarcely had this

occurred when Marseilles began, in spite of the authorities, to

rekindle the flames of civil war, always smouldering in the south, and

it required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater

violence than the shouts and insults with which they assailed the

royalists whenever they ventured abroad.



0159m







Owing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment—we

will not say all powerful, because Morrel was a prudent and rather a

timid man, so much so, that many of the most zealous partisans of

Bonaparte accused him of “moderation”—but sufficiently influential to

make a demand in favor of Dantès.



Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off until a more

favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained on the throne, Gérard

required a different alliance to aid his career; if Louis XVIII.

returned, the influence of M. de Saint-Méran, like his own, could be

vastly increased, and the marriage be still more suitable. The deputy

procureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one

morning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.



Anyone else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man

of ability, and he knew this would be a sign of weakness. He made

Morrel wait in the antechamber, although he had no one with him, for

the simple reason that the king’s procureur always makes everyone wait,

and after passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he

ordered M. Morrel to be admitted.



Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had

found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial

politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the

well-bred from the vulgar man.



He had entered Villefort’s office expecting that the magistrate would

tremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder

all over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his

desk, and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door;

Villefort gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him;

then, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned

his hat in his hands,



“M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort.



“Yes, sir.”



“Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the

hand, “and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.”



“Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel.



“Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be

delighted.”



“Everything depends on you.”



“Explain yourself, pray.”



“Monsieur,” said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, “do

you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the

emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who

was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of

Elba? What was the other day a crime is today a title to favor. You

then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor—it was your

duty; today you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him—it is

equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?”



0161m







Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. “What is his

name?” said he. “Tell me his name.”



“Edmond Dantès.”



Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a

pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but

he did not blanch.



“Dantès,” repeated he, “Edmond Dantès.”



“Yes, monsieur.” Villefort opened a large register, then went to a

table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to

Morrel,



“Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?” said he, in the

most natural tone in the world.



Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these

matters, he would have been surprised at the king’s procureur answering

him on such a subject, instead of referring him to the governors of the

prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in

his expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the other’s

condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.



“No,” said Morrel; “I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years,

the last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I

came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come today to

plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were

very severe with the Bonapartists in those days.”



“Monsieur,” returned Villefort, “I was then a royalist, because I

believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen

of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the

legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people.”



“That’s right!” cried Morrel. “I like to hear you speak thus, and I

augur well for Edmond from it.”



“Wait a moment,” said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register;

“I have it—a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I

recollect now; it was a very serious charge.”



“How so?”



“You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de

Justice.”



“Well?”



“I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was

carried off.”



“Carried off!” said Morrel. “What can they have done with him?”



“Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the

Sainte-Marguérite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take

command of your vessel.”



“Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not

already returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be

to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it.”



“Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel,” replied Villefort. “The order of

imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation

must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been

reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded.”



“But,” said Morrel, “is there no way of expediting all these

formalities—of releasing him from arrest?”



“There has been no arrest.”



“How?”



“It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man’s disappearance

without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may

defeat their wishes.”



“It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present——”



“It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV.

The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis

himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the

register is incalculable.” Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much

kindness would have dispelled them.



“Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?” asked he.



“Petition the minister.”



“Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions

every day, and does not read three.”



“That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented

by me.”



“And will you undertake to deliver it?”



“With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was then guilty, and now he is

innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn

him.” Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which,

however improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him

defenceless.



“But how shall I address the minister?”



“Sit down there,” said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, “and

write what I dictate.”



“Will you be so good?”



“Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already.”



“That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be

suffering.”



Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he had gone too far to draw

back. Dantès must be crushed to gratify Villefort’s ambition.



Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention,

no doubt, Dantès’ patriotic services were exaggerated, and he was made

out one of the most active agents of Napoleon’s return. It was evident

that at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release

him. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.



“That will do,” said he; “leave the rest to me.”



“Will the petition go soon?”



“Today.”



“Countersigned by you?”



“The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents

of your petition.” And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate

at the bottom.



“What more is to be done?”



“I will do whatever is necessary.” This assurance delighted Morrel, who

took leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dantès that he

would soon see his son.



As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved

the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantès, in the hopes of an

event that seemed not unlikely,—that is, a second restoration. Dantès

remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis

XVIII.’s throne, or the still more tragic destruction of the empire.



Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice

had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo,

and Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his power, and any

fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.



Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles had

become filled with remorseful memories, sought and obtained the

situation of king’s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards

he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, whose father now stood higher

at court than ever.



And so Dantès, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in

his dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven.



Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that

overwhelmed Dantès; and, when Napoleon returned to France, he, after

the manner of mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, _a decree of

Providence_. But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars’ heart

failed him, and he lived in constant fear of Dantès’ return on a

mission of vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to

quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish

merchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, that is,

ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s return. He then left for Madrid,

and was no more heard of.



Fernand understood nothing except that Dantès was absent. What had

become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the

absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of

deceiving Mercédès as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of

emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and

motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence

Marseilles and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of

a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of

vengeance. Fernand’s mind was made up; he would shoot Dantès, and then

kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never

kills himself, for he constantly hopes.



During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man

in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the

emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible

thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and

marry Mercédès. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have

done so when he parted from Mercédès. His devotion, and the compassion

he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce

on noble minds—Mercédès had always had a sincere regard for Fernand,

and this was now strengthened by gratitude.



“My brother,” said she, as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders,

“be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the

world.” These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand’s heart. Should

Dantès not return, Mercédès might one day be his.



0165m







Mercédès was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never

seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in

tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute

and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times

gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to

cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was

not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into

execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her.



Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married

and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantès,

who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon’s downfall.

Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the

hour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Mercédès’ arms. M. Morrel

paid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old

man had contracted.



There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the

south was aflame, and to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of

so dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantès, was stigmatized as a crime.







 Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners



A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by the

inspector-general of prisons. Dantès in his cell heard the noise of

preparation,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been

inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash

of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon.

He guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had

so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked

upon himself as dead.



The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of

several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended

them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed,

and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that

the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.



The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook

their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector

turned smilingly to the governor.



“I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless

visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,—always the same

thing,—ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?”



“Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.”



“Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of fatigue. “We

must play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.”



“Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners

sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be

sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall

a victim.”



“Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector.



Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a

stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight,

smell, and respiration.



“Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?”



“A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most

strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.”



“He is alone?”



“Certainly.”



“How long has he been there?”



“Nearly a year.”



“Was he placed here when he first arrived?”



“No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to

him.”



“To kill the turnkey?”



“Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked

the governor.



“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned the turnkey.



“He must be mad,” said the inspector.



“He is worse than that,—he is a devil!” returned the turnkey.



“Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector.



“Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another

year he will be quite so.”



“So much the better for him,—he will suffer less,” said the inspector.

He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every

way fit for his office.



“You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark proves

that you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon

about twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair,

an old abbé, formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here

since 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He

used to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had

better see him, for his madness is amusing.”



“I will see them both,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously

perform my duty.”



This was the inspector’s first visit; he wished to display his

authority.



“Let us visit this one first,” added he.



“By all means,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to

open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the

creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the

dungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a

narrow iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted

by two turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to

whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and

that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was

come, sprang forward with clasped hands.



The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought that he was

about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three

steps. Dantès saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing

all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the

inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.



The inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor,

observed, “He will become religious—he is already more gentle; he is

afraid, and retreated before the bayonets—madmen are not afraid of

anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.” Then,

turning to the prisoner, “What is it you want?” said he.



“I want to know what crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am

guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty.”



“Are you well fed?” said the inspector.



“I believe so; I don’t know; it’s of no consequence. What matters

really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is

that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an

infamous denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners.”



“You are very humble today,” remarked the governor; “you are not so

always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the

turnkey.”



“It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very

good to me, but I was mad.”



“And you are not so any longer?”



“No; captivity has subdued me—I have been here so long.”



“So long?—when were you arrested, then?” asked the inspector.



“The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.”



“Today is the 30th of July, 1816,—why, it is but seventeen months.”



“Only seventeen months,” replied Dantès. “Oh, you do not know what is

seventeen months in prison!—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man

who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition—to a man, who,

like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an

honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant—who

sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his

affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen

months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a

worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then,

and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a

verdict—a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be

denied to one who is accused!”



“We shall see,” said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, “On

my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against

him.”



“Certainly; but you will find terrible charges.”



“Monsieur,” continued Dantès, “I know it is not in your power to

release me; but you can plead for me—you can have me tried—and that is

all I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned.

Uncertainty is worse than all.”



“Go on with the lights,” said the inspector.



“Monsieur,” cried Dantès, “I can tell by your voice you are touched

with pity; tell me at least to hope.”



“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “I can only promise to

examine into your case.”



“Oh, I am free—then I am saved!”



“Who arrested you?”



“M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says.”



“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse.”



“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantès, “since my

only protector is removed.”



“Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?”



“None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.”



“I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?”



“Entirely.”



“That is well; wait patiently, then.”



Dantès fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but

this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès—Hope.



0173m







“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to

the other cell?”



“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector. “If I once went up those

stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again.”



“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting

than this one’s display of reason.”



“What is his folly?”



“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered

government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the

third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of

captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five

millions.”



“How curious!—what is his name?”



“The Abbé Faria.”



“No. 27,” said the inspector.



“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.”



The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber

of the _mad abbé_, as the prisoner was usually called.



In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of

plaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments

scarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines,

and seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the

soldier of Marcellus slew him. He did not move at the sound of the

door, and continued his calculations until the flash of the torches

lighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell; then,

raising his head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons

present. He hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it

round him.



“What is it you want?” said the inspector.



“I, monsieur,” replied the abbé with an air of surprise,—“I want

nothing.”



“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by

government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the

prisoners.”



“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbé; “and we shall understand each

other, I hope.”



“There, now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.”



“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome.

I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why,

I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have

demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.”



“Why from the French government?”



“Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and

Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.”



“Ah,” said the inspector, “you have not the latest news from Italy?”



“My information dates from the day on which I was arrested,” returned

the Abbé Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for

his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli

and Cæsar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom.”



“Monsieur,” returned the inspector, “Providence has changed this

gigantic plan you advocate so warmly.”



“It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and

independent.”



“Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire

if you have anything to ask or to complain of.”



“The food is the same as in other prisons,—that is, very bad; the

lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon;

but it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to

reveal of the greatest importance.”



“We are coming to the point,” whispered the governor.



“It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,” continued the abbé,

“although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which,

if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton’s system. Could you allow

me a few words in private.”



“What did I tell you?” said the governor.



“You knew him,” returned the inspector with a smile.



“What you ask is impossible, monsieur,” continued he, addressing Faria.



0175m







“But,” said the abbé, “I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting

to five millions.”



“The very sum you named,” whispered the inspector in his turn.



“However,” continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was about to

depart, “it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the

governor can be present.”



“Unfortunately,” said the governor, “I know beforehand what you are

about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?” Faria fixed his

eyes on him with an expression that would have convinced anyone else of

his sanity.



“Of course,” said he; “of what else should I speak?”



“Mr. Inspector,” continued the governor, “I can tell you the story as

well as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five

years.”



“That proves,” returned the abbé, “that you are like those of Holy

Writ, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.”



“My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures,”

replied the inspector; “keep them until you are liberated.” The abbé’s

eyes glistened; he seized the inspector’s hand.



“But what if I am not liberated,” cried he, “and am detained here until

my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit

by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the

rest, if they will only give me my liberty.”



“On my word,” said the inspector in a low tone, “had I not been told

beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says.”



“I am not mad,” replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar

to prisoners. “The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to

sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot

where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask

no more.”



The governor laughed. “Is the spot far from here?”



“A hundred leagues.”



“It is not ill-planned,” said the governor. “If all the prisoners took

it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians

consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of

escaping.”



“The scheme is well known,” said the inspector; “and the abbé’s plan

has not even the merit of originality.”



Then turning to Faria, “I inquired if you are well fed?” said he.



“Swear to me,” replied Faria, “to free me if what I tell you prove

true, and I will stay here while you go to the spot.”



“Are you well fed?” repeated the inspector.



“Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so

there is no chance of my escaping.”



“You do not reply to my question,” replied the inspector impatiently.



“Nor you to mine,” cried the abbé. “You will not accept my gold; I will

keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.” And

the abbé, casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued

his calculations.



0177m







“What is he doing there?” said the inspector.



“Counting his treasures,” replied the governor.



Faria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They

went out. The turnkey closed the door behind them.



“He was wealthy once, perhaps?” said the inspector.



“Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.”



“After all,” said the inspector, “if he had been rich, he would not

have been here.”



So the matter ended for the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and

this visit only increased the belief in his insanity.



Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the

impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his

wealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern

times, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither

courage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the

eye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves

sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are

not inviolable.



It has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer

the victims of their persecutions to reappear. As the Inquisition

rarely allowed its victims to be seen with their limbs distorted and

their flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its

cell, from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy

hospital, where the doctor has no thought for man or mind in the

mutilated being the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the

Abbé Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.



The inspector kept his word with Dantès; he examined the register, and

found the following note concerning him:



_Edmond Dantès:_



Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from Elba.



The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised.



This note was in a different hand from the rest, which showed that it

had been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend

against this accusation; he simply wrote, _Nothing to be done._



This visit had infused new vigor into Dantès; he had, till then,

forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the

date, 30th July, 1816, and made a mark every day, in order not to lose

his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months—Dantès

still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This

fortnight expired, he decided that the inspector would do nothing until

his return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his

circuit was finished, he therefore fixed three months; three months

passed away, then six more. Finally ten months and a half had gone by

and no favorable change had taken place, and Dantès began to fancy the

inspector’s visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain.



At the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he had

obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him several of his

subordinates, and amongst them Dantès’ jailer. A new governor arrived;

it would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners;

he learned their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty

cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell,

and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès—he was now

number 34.







 Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27



Dantès passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners in

suspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious

innocence which is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own

innocence, which justified in some measure the governor’s belief in his

mental alienation; and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he

addressed his supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the

last resource. Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have

any hope in him till they have exhausted all other means of

deliverance.



Dantès asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another, even

if it were darker and deeper, for a change, however disadvantageous,

was still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated

to be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing

materials. His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the

same. He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the

latter was, if possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to

speak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dantès spoke for the

sake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but

the sound of his voice terrified him.



Often, before his captivity, Dantès’ mind had revolted at the idea of

assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers.

He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face

besides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the

infamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The

galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other.

They were very happy.



He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, were it

even the mad abbé. The jailer, though rough and hardened by the

constant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of

his heart he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man

who suffered so; and he laid the request of number 34 before the

governor; but the latter sapiently imagined that Dantès wished to

conspire or attempt an escape, and refused his request. Dantès had

exhausted all human resources, and he then turned to God.



All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; he

recollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new

meaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere medley

of words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first

understands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the

pity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at the

sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid

every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to

accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty

oftener addressed to man than to God: “Forgive us our trespasses as we

forgive them that trespass against us.” Yet in spite of his earnest

prayers, Dantès remained a prisoner.



Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantès was a man of great

simplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore,

in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history

of the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild

the ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the

imagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors

in Martin’s Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past

life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so

doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness!

No distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would

have exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle

in a cage. He clung to one idea—that of his happiness, destroyed,

without apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and

reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable

Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.



Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantès uttered blasphemies that made

his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the

walls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly

upon himself, so that the least thing,—a grain of sand, a straw, or a

breath of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the

letter that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every

line gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the _mene, mene,

tekel upharsin_ of Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity

of man, and not the vengeance of Heaven, that had thus plunged him into

the deepest misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most

horrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient,

because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at

least the boon of unconsciousness.



By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death,

and if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must

be invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the

brink of misfortune, broods over ideas like these!



Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye;

but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself

struggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once

thus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all

is over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This

state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings

that precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a

sort of consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the

bottom of which lie darkness and obscurity.



Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his

sufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell

when the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantès reviewed his past

life with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future

existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.



“Sometimes,” said he, “in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded

other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the

storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with

its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled

and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight

of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then

terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a

sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was

happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed

of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a

creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the

gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound

me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own

manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I

have paced three thousand times round my cell,—that is thirty thousand

steps, or about ten leagues.”



No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more

composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and

slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt

that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two

methods of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself

with his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of

starvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dantès had always

entertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the

yard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He

resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his

resolve.



0185m







Nearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had

ceased to mark the lapse of time. Dantès said, “I wish to die,” and had

chosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he

had taken an oath to die. “When my morning and evening meals are

brought,” thought he, “I will cast them out of the window, and they

will think that I have eaten them.”



He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture,

the provisions his jailer brought him—at first gayly, then with

deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of

his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once

repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at

a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted

fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life

contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less

sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young—he was only

four or five-and-twenty—he had nearly fifty years to live. What

unforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to

liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary

Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would

not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient

strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next

morning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously

ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.



Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over

him which brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain

at his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his

eyes he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the

will-o’-the-wisps that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of

that mysterious country called Death!



Suddenly, about nine o’clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow

sound in the wall against which he was lying.



So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did

not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his

faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond

raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made

by a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the

stones.



Although weakened, the young man’s brain instantly responded to the

idea that haunts all prisoners—liberty! It seemed to him that heaven

had at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on

the very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had

so often thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the

distance that separated them.



No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams

that forerun death!



Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then

heard a noise of something falling, and all was silent.



Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond

was intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered.



For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that

he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the

attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter

with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously

at him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it,

and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last

moments.



The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantès raised himself up and

began to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food,

about the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order

to have an excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his

jailer, who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread

for his prisoner.



Fortunately, he fancied that Dantès was delirious; and placing the food

on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound

became more and more distinct.



“There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some prisoner who

is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help

him!”



Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to

misfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope—the idea that the

noise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the

neighboring dungeon.



It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It

was easy to call his jailer’s attention to the noise, and watch his

countenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy

hopes far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own

curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that he

could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but one

means of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned

his eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggered

towards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents

with a feeling of indescribable pleasure.



He had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard that

shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much

food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour,

and returned to his couch—he did not wish to die. He soon felt that his

ideas became again collected—he could think, and strengthen his

thoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself:



“I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it

is a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to

work, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as

his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it.

If, on the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him,

he will cease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep.”



Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his

sight was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone,

and with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck

thrice.



At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.



Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no

sound was heard from the wall—all was silent there.



Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and,

thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh

recovered.



The day passed away in utter silence—night came without recurrence of

the noise.



“It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. His brain was on fire, and

life and energy returned.



The night passed in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.



In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions—he had already

devoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously

for the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars

of the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise,

and so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he

listened to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient

at the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been

disturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as himself.



Three days passed—seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off

by minutes!



At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time

that night, Dantès, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall,

fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He

moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and

then went back and listened.



The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other

side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had

substituted a lever for a chisel.



Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the

indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around

for anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist

cement, and displace a stone.



He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating

was of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All

his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug.

The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it

would have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and

chair had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had

been removed.



0189m







Dantès had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one

of the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the

floor, and it broke in pieces.



Dantès concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed,

leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural

an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,

but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was

working against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited

for day.



All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his

way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantès told him that the jug had

fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went

grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to

remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised

the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.



Dantès heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the

sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw by

the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored

uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of

removing the plaster that surrounded it.



The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantès was able to break it

off—in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had

scraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in

two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage

twenty feet long and two feet broad, might be formed.



The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours

he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six

years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?



This idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded, with

the utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the

stone-work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give

strength to the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at intervals

imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must

remove from its socket.



Dantès strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The

fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dantès

paused with anguish on his brow.



Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive

until his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea

occurred to him—he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.



The jailer always brought Dantès’ soup in an iron saucepan; this

saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantès had noticed that

it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave

it to him or to his companion first.



The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given ten

years of his life in exchange for it.



0191m







The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into

Dantès’ plate, and Dantès, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,

washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening

came Dantès put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as

he entered, stepped on it and broke it.



This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there,

but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer,

therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour

the soup into; Dantès’ entire dinner service consisted of one

plate—there was no alternative.



“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès; “you can take it away when you bring

me my breakfast.”



This advice was to the jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity

of making another trip. He left the saucepan.



Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and

after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and

return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted

the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and

employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantès that all

went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the

wall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.



Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of

his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best use

of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work

without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his

bed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece

of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.



“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said Dantès.



“No,” replied the turnkey; “you destroy everything. First you break

your jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners

followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave

you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I

hope you will not be so destructive.”



Dantès raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the

coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of

iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that

the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was

a greater reason for proceeding—if his neighbor would not come to him,

he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by

the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and

fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived,

Dantès straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and

placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of

soup into it, together with the fish—for thrice a week the prisoners

were deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time,

had not Dantès long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the

turnkey retired.



Dantès wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased to

work. He listened—all was silent, as it had been for the last three

days. Dantès sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him.

However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but

after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no

impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantès touched it, and found

that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole

Dantès had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.

The unhappy young man had not thought of this.



“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you,

that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my

liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to

existence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!”



0193m







“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice that

seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,

sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hair

stood on end, and he rose to his knees.



“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard anyone

speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to

a prisoner—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding

strength to restraints of oak and iron.



“In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound

of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?”



“Who are you?” said the voice.



“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantès, who made no hesitation in

answering.



“Of what country?”



“A Frenchman.”



“Your name?”



“Edmond Dantès.”



“Your profession?”



“A sailor.”



“How long have you been here?”



“Since the 28th of February, 1815.”



“Your crime?”



“I am innocent.”



“But of what are you accused?”



“Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.”



“What! For the emperor’s return?—the emperor is no longer on the

throne, then?”



“He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of

Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all

this?”



“Since 1811.”



Dantès shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in

prison.



“Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how high up is

your excavation?”



“On a level with the floor.”



“How is it concealed?”



“Behind my bed.”



“Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?”



“No.”



“What does your chamber open on?”



“A corridor.”



“And the corridor?”



“On a court.”



“Alas!” murmured the voice.



“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Dantès.



“I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong

angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the

wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress.”



“But then you would be close to the sea?”



“That is what I hoped.”



“And supposing you had succeeded?”



“I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands

near here—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen—and then I should

have been safe.”



“Could you have swum so far?”



“Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.”



“All?”



“Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait

until you hear from me.”



“Tell me, at least, who you are?”



“I am—I am No. 27.”



“You mistrust me, then,” said Dantès. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter

laugh resounding from the depths.



“Oh, I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that this

man meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by him who died for us that

naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I

conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have

got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against

the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.”



“How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.”



“I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been

here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested,

the 28th of February, 1815.”



“Not quite twenty-six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he cannot be a

traitor.”



“Oh, no, no,” cried Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betray

you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!”



“You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I

was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures

me. I will not forget you. Wait.”



“How long?”



“I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.”



“But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me

come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you

of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love

somebody?”



“No, I am alone in the world.”



“Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if

you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he

yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercédès. My father

has not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves

me still; I shall love you as I loved my father.”



“It is well,” returned the voice; “tomorrow.”



These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his

sincerity; Dantès rose, dispersed the fragments with the same

precaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then

gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was,

perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a

companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints

made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are

gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.



All day Dantès walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on

his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he

bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind

that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already;

and then his mind was made up—when the jailer moved his bed and stooped

to examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would

be condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when

this miraculous noise recalled him to life.



The jailer came in the evening. Dantès was on his bed. It seemed to him

that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was

a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, “Come, are you

going mad again?”



Dantès did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would

betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dantès

hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but

he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed

from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.



“Is it you?” said he; “I am here.”



“Is your jailer gone?”



“Yes,” said Dantès; “he will not return until the evening; so that we

have twelve hours before us.”



“I can work, then?” said the voice.



“Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you.”



In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantès was resting his two

hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; he

drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a

hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from

the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to

measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastly

the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.



0197m









 Chapter 16. A Learned Italian



Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantès

almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view

of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled

through the grating.



He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering

and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating eye, almost

buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black)

beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by

care, and the bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened a

man more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his physical

strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow,

while the garments that hung about him were so ragged that one could

only guess at the pattern upon which they had originally been

fashioned.



The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a

certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made it

probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time.

He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with

evident pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled and

invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked him

with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at

that moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where

he had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.



“Let us first see,” said he, “whether it is possible to remove the

traces of my entrance here—our future tranquillity depends upon our

jailers being entirely ignorant of it.”



Advancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in

spite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said:



“You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools

to aid you.”



“Why,” exclaimed Dantès, with astonishment, “do you possess any?”



“I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that

are necessary,—a chisel, pincers, and lever.”



0201m







“Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and

patience.”



“Well, in the first place, here is my chisel.”



So saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of

beechwood.



“And with what did you contrive to make that?” inquired Dantès.



“With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed

me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of about

fifty feet.”



“Fifty feet!” responded Dantès, almost terrified.



“Do not speak so loud, young man—don’t speak so loud. It frequently

occurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outside

the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the

prisoners.”



“But they believe I am shut up alone here.”



“That makes no difference.”



“And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get

here?”



“I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from

mine; only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the

necessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion,

instead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I

expected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it,

and throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor

on which your chamber opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is

all in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled

with soldiers.”



“That’s true,” said Dantès; “but the corridor you speak of only bounds

_one_ side of my cell; there are three others—do you know anything of

their situation?”



“This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten

experienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as many

years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor’s

apartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get

into some lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. The

fourth and last side of your cell faces on—faces on—stop a minute, now

where does it face?”



The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loophole

by which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole, which

gradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an

opening through which a child could not have passed, was, for better

security, furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all

apprehensions even in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the

possibility of a prisoner’s escape. As the stranger asked the question,

he dragged the table beneath the window.



“Climb up,” said he to Dantès.



The young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the wishes of

his companion, placed his back securely against the wall and held out

both hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantès knew only by the number of

his cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected in a

person of his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or a

lizard, climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dantès, and

from them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of

the dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed to

slip his head between the upper bars of the window, so as to be able to

command a perfect view from top to bottom.



An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, “I thought

so!” and sliding from the shoulders of Dantès as dextrously as he had

ascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground.



“What was it that you thought?” asked the young man anxiously, in his

turn descending from the table.



The elder prisoner pondered the matter. “Yes,” said he at length, “it

is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery,

where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and

night.”



“Are you quite sure of that?”



“Certain. I saw the soldier’s shape and the top of his musket; that

made me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see

me.”



“Well?” inquired Dantès.



“You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your

dungeon?”



“Then——” pursued the young man eagerly.



“Then,” answered the elder prisoner, “the will of God be done!” And as

the old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of profound

resignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dantès gazed

on the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and

ardently nourished with an astonishment mingled with admiration.



“Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?” said he at length.

“Never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself.”



“Willingly,” answered the stranger; “if, indeed, you feel any curiosity

respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way.”



“Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own

powerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?”



The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. “Then listen,” said he. “I am

the Abbé Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Château

d’If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined for

three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was

transferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned that

the destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon,

had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was

very far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of;

namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would be

overthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment—Napoleon II.?”



“No, Louis XVIII.”



“The brother of Louis XVI.! How inscrutable are the ways of

Providence—for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased Heaven

to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased?”



Dantès’ whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his

own misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others.



“Yes, yes,” continued he, “’Twill be the same as it was in England.

After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II., and then James

II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, a

stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people,

then a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!” said the abbé,

turning towards Dantès, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a

prophet, “you are young, you will see all this come to pass.”



“Probably, if ever I get out of prison!”



“True,” replied Faria, “we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes,

and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond

these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty.”



“But wherefore are you here?”



“Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize

in 1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political

face of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a

quantity of petty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical

ruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and,

lastly, because I fancied I had found my Cæsar Borgia in a crowned

simpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was

the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed

now, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to

complete his work. Italy seems fated to misfortune.” And the old man

bowed his head.



Dantès could not understand a man risking his life for such matters.

Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen and

spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he knew nothing.



“Are you not,” he asked, “the priest who here in the Château d’If is

generally thought to be—ill?”



“Mad, you mean, don’t you?”



“I did not like to say so,” answered Dantès, smiling.



“Well, then,” resumed Faria with a bitter smile, “let me answer your

question in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner of

the Château d’If, for many years permitted to amuse the different

visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability,

I should be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, if

such innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to

suffering and despair.”



Dantès remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he

said:



“Then you abandon all hope of escape?”



“I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to

attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve.”



“Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to

succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in

another direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?”



“Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to

effect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginning

over again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I

possess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard

as granite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to remove

huge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days

have I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well

repaid if, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of

this hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as

the stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I

dug up, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the

fruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so

completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add

another handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also

that I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my

undertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to

make it just hold out to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at

the moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed

from me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to renew

attempts evidently at variance with the Almighty’s pleasure.”



Dantès held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the

thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the

failure of the abbé’s plans.



The abbé sank upon Edmond’s bed, while Edmond himself remained

standing. Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed,

some things which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on

them for an instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet—to devote

three years to a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a

precipice overhanging the sea—to plunge into the waves from the height

of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to

pieces against the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have

escaped the fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils

past, then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three

miles ere you could reach the shore—were difficulties so startling and

formidable that Dantès had never even dreamed of such a scheme,

resigning himself rather to death.



But the sight of an old man clinging to life with so desperate a

courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new

courage. Another, older and less strong than he, had attempted what he

had not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed only

because of an error in calculation. This same person, with almost

incredible patience and perseverance, had contrived to provide himself

with tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt. Another had done

all this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantès? Faria had dug his way

through fifty feet, Dantès would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of

fifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was but half as

old, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk

from the idea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three

miles to one of the islands—Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a

hardy sailor, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar

task; should he, who had so often for mere amusement’s sake plunged to

the bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright coral branch, hesitate to

entertain the same project? He could do it in an hour, and how many

times had he, for pure pastime, continued in the water for more than

twice as long! At once Dantès resolved to follow the brave example of

his energetic companion, and to remember that what has once been done

may be done again.



After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man

suddenly exclaimed, “I have found what you were in search of!”



Faria started: “Have you, indeed?” cried he, raising his head with

quick anxiety; “pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?”



“The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you

occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does

it not?”



0207m







“It does.”



“And is not above fifteen feet from it?”



“About that.”



“Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through

the corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the

top part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately;

we shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel

who guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is

courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient

in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours—you shall now see

me prove mine.”



“One instant, my dear friend,” replied the abbé; “it is clear you do

not understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and

what use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider

that I have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the

task of the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day.

But then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention),

then I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the

Almighty in trying to set an innocent being at liberty—one who had

committed no offence, and merited not condemnation.”



“And have your notions changed?” asked Dantès with much surprise; “do

you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have

encountered me?”



“No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself

merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it no

sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so

easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life.”



A slight movement of surprise escaped Dantès.



“Is it possible,” said he, “that where your liberty is at stake you can

allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?”



“Tell me,” replied Faria, “what has hindered you from knocking down

your jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing

yourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?”



“Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,” answered Dantès.



“Because,” said the old man, “the natural repugnance to the commission

of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is

because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us

from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature

teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell

to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this

instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to

spring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of

blood—it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a

shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and

physiological formation——”



Dantès was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts

which had unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for

there are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head

and those that emanate from the heart.



0209m







“Since my imprisonment,” said Faria, “I have thought over all the most

celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful.

Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated

upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the

Duc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes, that of the Abbé

Dubuquoi from For l’Evêque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are

those for which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the

best of all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable

moment, and when it presents itself, profit by it.”



“Ah,” said Dantès, “you might well endure the tedious delay; you were

constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with

toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you.”



“I assure you,” replied the old man, “I did not turn to that source for

recreation or support.”



“What did you do then?”



“I wrote or studied.”



“Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?”



“Oh, no,” answered the abbé; “I had none but what I made for myself.”



“You made paper, pens and ink?”



“Yes.”



Dantès gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing.

Faria saw this.



“When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend,” said he, “I will

show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of

my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the

Colosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark’s column at Venice, and on

the borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that

they would be arranged in order within the walls of the Château d’If.

The work I speak of is called _A Treatise on the Possibility of a

General Monarchy in Italy_, and will make one large quarto volume.”



“And on what have you written all this?”



“On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as

smooth and as easy to write on as parchment.”



“You are, then, a chemist?”



“Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis.”



“But for such a work you must have needed books—had you any?”



“I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after

reading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and

fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of

all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I

devoted three years of my life to reading and studying these one

hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that

since I have been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled

me to recall their contents as readily as though the pages were open

before me. I could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon,

Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne,

Shakespeare, Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most

important.”



“You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to

have been able to read all these?”



“Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues—that is to say, German,

French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I

learned modern Greek—I don’t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am

still trying to improve myself.”



“Improve yourself!” repeated Dantès; “why, how can you manage to do

so?”



“Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and

arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through their

medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is

absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred

thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I

certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;

and that would be quite as much as I should ever require.”



Stronger grew the wonder of Dantès, who almost fancied he had to do

with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some

imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings,

he added, “Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage

to write the work you speak of?”



“I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally

preferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings

are served to us on _maigre_ days. Well, I selected the cartilages of

the heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight

with which I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and

Saturday, as affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for

I will freely confess that my historical labors have been my greatest

solace and relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and

traversing at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am

myself a prisoner.”



“But the ink,” said Dantès; “of what did you make your ink?”



“There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon,” replied Faria, “but it

was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it

must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a

coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought

to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired.

For very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I

pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood.”



“And when,” asked Dantès, “may I see all this?”



“Whenever you please,” replied the abbé.



“Oh, then let it be directly!” exclaimed the young man.



“Follow me, then,” said the abbé, as he re-entered the subterranean

passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantès.







 Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber



After having passed with tolerable ease through the subterranean

passage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves

erect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, into

which the abbé’s cell opened; from that point the passage became much

narrower, and barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees.

The floor of the abbé’s cell was paved, and it had been by raising one

of the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had been able to

commence the laborious task of which Dantès had witnessed the

completion.



As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès cast around one eager

and searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more

than common met his view.



“It is well,” said the abbé; “we have some hours before us—it is now

just a quarter past twelve o’clock.” Instinctively Dantès turned round

to observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accurately

to specify the hour.



“Look at this ray of light which enters by my window,” said the abbé,

“and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of these

lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, and

the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the

precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that

might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth

never vary in their appointed paths.”



This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantès, who had always

imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in

the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement

of the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared

to him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion’s

lips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging

out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda,

which he could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in

his earliest youth.



“Come,” said he to the abbé, “I am anxious to see your treasures.”



The abbé smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by

the help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the

hearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a

safe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantès.



0213m







“What do you wish to see first?” asked the abbé.



“Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy!”



Faria then drew forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of

linen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls

consisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long;

they were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing, so

legible that Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out the

sense—it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provençal, perfectly

understood.



“There,” said he, “there is the work complete. I wrote the word _finis_

at the end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up

two of my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to

complete the precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find

in all Italy a printer courageous enough to publish what I have

composed, my literary reputation is forever secured.”



“I see,” answered Dantès. “Now let me behold the curious pens with

which you have written your work.”



“Look!” said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six

inches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine

painting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one

of those cartilages of which the abbé had before spoken to Dantès; it

was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantès

examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the

instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.



“Ah, yes,” said Faria; “the penknife. That’s my masterpiece. I made it,

as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick.” The

penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it

would serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.



Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the same

attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools

exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the

South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading

vessels.



“As for the ink,” said Faria, “I told you how I managed to obtain

that—and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it.”



“One thing still puzzles me,” observed Dantès, “and that is how you

managed to do all this by daylight?”



“I worked at night also,” replied Faria.



“Night!—why, for Heaven’s sake, are your eyes like cats’, that you can

see to work in the dark?”



“Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence

that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I

furnished myself with a light.”



“You did? Pray tell me how.”



“I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made

oil—here is my lamp.” So saying, the abbé exhibited a sort of torch

very similar to those used in public illuminations.



“But how do you procure a light?”



“Oh, here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen.”



“And matches?”



“I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little

sulphur, which was readily supplied.”



Dantès laid the different things he had been looking at on the table,

and stood with his head drooping on his breast, as though overwhelmed

by the perseverance and strength of Faria’s mind.



0215m







“You have not seen all yet,” continued Faria, “for I did not think it

wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut

this one up.” They put the stone back in its place; the abbé sprinkled

a little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed,

rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the

other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it

stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting

in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this

space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.

Dantès closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and

compact enough to bear any weight.



“Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?”



“I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets

of my bed, during my three years’ imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when

I was removed to the Château d’If, I managed to bring the ravellings

with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here.”



“And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?”



“Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the

edges over again.”



“With what?”



“With this needle,” said the abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, he

showed Dantès a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye for

the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it.



“I once thought,” continued Faria, “of removing these iron bars, and

letting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat

wider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more

preparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merely

have dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the

project altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I

carefully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseen

opportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden chance

frequently brings about.”



While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind

of Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so

intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé might probably be

able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself

could see nothing.



“What are you thinking of?” asked the abbé smilingly, imputing the deep

abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe

and wonder.



“I was reflecting, in the first place,” replied Dantès, “upon the

enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to

reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you

not have accomplished if you had been free?”



“Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a

state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is

needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.

Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my

mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the

collision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity,

lightning, from lightning, illumination.”



“No,” replied Dantès. “I know nothing. Some of your words are to me

quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the

knowledge you have.”



The abbé smiled. “Well,” said he, “but you had another subject for your

thoughts; did you not say so just now?”



“I did!”



“You have told me as yet but one of them—let me hear the other.”



“It was this,—that while you had related to me all the particulars of

your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine.”



“Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit

of your having passed through any very important events.”



“It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved

misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no

longer vent reproaches upon Heaven.”



“Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?”



“I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon

earth,—my father and Mercédès.”



“Come,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed

back to its original situation, “let me hear your story.”



Dantès obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which

consisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three

voyages to the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his last

cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet

to be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with

that personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a

letter addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier—his arrival at Marseilles, and

interview with his father—his affection for Mercédès, and their nuptial

feast—his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at

the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Château d’If.

From this point everything was a blank to Dantès—he knew nothing more,

not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital

finished, the abbé reflected long and earnestly.



“There is,” said he, at the end of his meditations, “a clever maxim,

which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and

that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved

mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.

Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices,

and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle

within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and

wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you

visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover

the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any

way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,—to whom could your

disappearance have been serviceable?”



“To no one, by Heaven! I was a very insignificant person.”



“Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor

philosophy; everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king

who stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his

rival out of a place. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his

successor inherits a crown,—when the employee dies, the supernumerary

steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand

livres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are

as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Everyone, from

the highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder,

and is beset by stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in

Descartes’ theory of pressure and impulsion. But these forces increase

as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason

rests upon the apex and not on the base. Now let us return to your

particular world. You say you were on the point of being made captain

of the _Pharaon_?”



“Yes.”



“And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?”



“Yes.”



“Now, could anyone have had any interest in preventing the

accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the

question as to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from

being captain of the _Pharaon_. What say you?”



“I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board,

and had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain

themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me.

There was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of

ill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him some time previously, and

had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused.”



“Now we are getting on. And what was this man’s name?”



“Danglars.”



“What rank did he hold on board?”



“He was supercargo.”



“And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his

employment?”



“Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed

inaccuracies in his accounts.”



“Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last

conversation with Captain Leclere?”



“No; we were quite alone.”



“Could your conversation have been overheard by anyone?”



“It might, for the cabin door was open—and—stay; now I

recollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was

giving me the packet for the grand marshal.”



“That’s better,” cried the abbé; “now we are on the right scent. Did

you take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?”



“Nobody.”



“Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of

it, I think?”



“Yes; the grand marshal did.”



“And what did you do with that letter?”



“Put it into my portfolio.”



“You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find

room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official

letter?”



“You are right; it was left on board.”



“Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter

in the portfolio?”



“No.”



“And what did you do with this same letter while returning from

Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?”



“I carried it in my hand.”



“So that when you went on board the _Pharaon_, everybody could see that

you held a letter in your hand?”



“Yes.”



“Danglars, as well as the rest?”



“Danglars, as well as others.”



“Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your

arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you

was formulated?”



“Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my

memory.”



“Repeat it to me.”



Dantès paused a moment, then said, “This is it, word for word: ‘The

king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion,

that one Edmond Dantès, mate on board the _Pharaon_, this day arrived

from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been

intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the

usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of

his guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will

be found either about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his

cabin on board the _Pharaon_.’”



The abbé shrugged his shoulders. “The thing is clear as day,” said he;

“and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good

heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair.”



“Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous.”



“How did Danglars usually write?”



“In a handsome, running hand.”



“And how was the anonymous letter written?”



“Backhanded.”



Again the abbé smiled. “Disguised.”



“It was very boldly written, if disguised.”



“Stop a bit,” said the abbé, taking up what he called his pen, and,

after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen,

with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.

Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé with a sensation almost

amounting to terror.



“How very astonishing!” cried he at length. “Why your writing exactly

resembles that of the accusation.”



“Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand;

and I have noticed that——”



“What?”



“That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand

varies, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform.”



“You have evidently seen and observed everything.”



“Let us proceed.”



“Oh, yes, yes!”



“Now as regards the second question.”



“I am listening.”



“Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage

with Mercédès?”



“Yes; a young man who loved her.”



“And his name was——”



“Fernand.”



“That is a Spanish name, I think?”



“He was a Catalan.”



“You imagine him capable of writing the letter?”



“Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife

into me.”



“That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an

assassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice,

never.”



“Besides,” said Dantès, “the various circumstances mentioned in the

letter were wholly unknown to him.”



“You had never spoken of them yourself to anyone?”



“To no one.”



“Not even to your mistress?”



“No, not even to my betrothed.”



“Then it is Danglars.”



“I feel quite sure of it now.”



“Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?”



“No—yes, he was. Now I recollect——”



“What?”



“To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at

Père Pamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They

were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way,

but Fernand looked pale and agitated.”



“Were they alone?”



“There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who

had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named

Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!—stay!—How strange that it

should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that

on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper.

Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!” exclaimed Dantès, pressing

his hand to his throbbing brows.



“Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the

villany of your friends?” inquired the abbé with a laugh.



“Yes, yes,” replied Dantès eagerly; “I would beg of you, who see so

completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery

seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent

no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was

condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?”



“That is altogether a different and more serious matter,” responded the

abbé. “The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be

easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been

child’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of

the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on

every point.”



“Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see

more clearly into my life than I do myself.”



“In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, his

deputy, or a magistrate?”



“The deputy.”



“Was he young or old?”



“About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say.”



“So,” answered the abbé. “Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to

be corrupt. And how did he treat you?”



“With more of mildness than severity.”



“Did you tell him your whole story?”



“I did.”



“And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?”



“He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought

me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.”



“By your misfortune?”



“Yes.”



“Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?”



“He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.”



“And that?”



“He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.”



“What? the accusation?”



“No; the letter.”



“Are you sure?”



“I saw it done.”



“That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater

scoundrel than you have thought possible.”



“Upon my word,” said Dantès, “you make me shudder. Is the world filled

with tigers and crocodiles?”



“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more

dangerous than the others.”



“Never mind; let us go on.”



“With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?”



“He did; saying at the same time, ‘You see I thus destroy the only

proof existing against you.’”



“This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.”



“You think so?”



“I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?”



“To M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13, Paris.”



“Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could

possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?”



“Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me

promise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuring

me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he

insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned

in the address.”



“Noirtier!” repeated the abbé; “Noirtier!—I knew a person of that name

at the court of the Queen of Etruria,—a Noirtier, who had been a

Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?”



“De Villefort!” The abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès

gazed on him in utter astonishment.



“What ails you?” said he at length.



“Do you see that ray of sunlight?”



“I do.”



“Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you.

Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed

great sympathy and commiseration for you?”



“He did.”



“And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?”



“Yes.”



“And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?”



“Yes.”



“Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this

Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? This

Noirtier was his father!”



Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantès, or hell opened its

yawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely

transfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected

words. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to

prevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, “His father! his

father!”



“Yes, his father,” replied the abbé; “his right name was Noirtier de

Villefort.”



At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, and

cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change that

had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of the

letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the

magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce

punishment,—all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried

out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried

to the opening that led from the abbé’s cell to his own, and said, “I

must be alone, to think over all this.”



When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the

turnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and

contracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these

hours of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he

had formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by

a solemn oath.



Dantès was at length roused from his reverie by the voice of Faria,

who, having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his

fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his

mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the

abbé unusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter

quality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a

small quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbé had come to

ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him.



Dantès followed him; his features were no longer contracted, and now

wore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance

that bespoke one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria

bent on him his penetrating eye.



“I regret now,” said he, “having helped you in your late inquiries, or

having given you the information I did.”



“Why so?” inquired Dantès.



“Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart—that of

vengeance.”



Dantès smiled. “Let us talk of something else,” said he.



Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in

accordance with Dantès’ request, he began to speak of other matters.

The elder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like

that of all who have experienced many trials, contained many useful and

important hints as well as sound information; but it was never

egotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows.

Dantès listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his

remarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sort

of knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of

the good abbé’s words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him;

but, like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes,

opened new vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave

fantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the

delight an intellectual mind would have in following one so richly

gifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where he was so much at

home.



“You must teach me a small part of what you know,” said Dantès, “if

only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so

learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being

tormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself.

If you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention

another word about escaping.”



The abbé smiled.



“Alas, my boy,” said he, “human knowledge is confined within very

narrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics, physics,

history, and the three or four modern languages with which I am

acquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely

require two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I

possess.”



“Two years!” exclaimed Dantès; “do you really believe I can acquire all

these things in so short a time?”



“Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; to

learn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory

makes the one, philosophy the other.”



“But cannot one learn philosophy?”



“Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to

truth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into

heaven.”



“Well, then,” said Dantès, “What shall you teach me first? I am in a

hurry to begin. I want to learn.”



“Everything,” said the abbé. And that very evening the prisoners

sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day.

Dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing

quickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his

mind rendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally

poetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality

of arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He

already knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaic

dialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these two

languages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, so

that at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, and

German.



In strict accordance with the promise made to the abbé, Dantès spoke no

more of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him left no

room for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had pledged

his word (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from referring

in any way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months, passed by

unheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of a year

Dantès was a new man. Dantès observed, however, that Faria, in spite of

the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed

incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall

into long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise,

and, with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon.

One day he stopped all at once, and exclaimed:



“Ah, if there were no sentinel!”



“There shall not be one a minute longer than you please,” said Dantès,

who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though

his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest

operations.



“I have already told you,” answered the abbé, “that I loathe the idea

of shedding blood.”



“And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a

measure of self-preservation.”



“No matter! I could never agree to it.”



“Still, you have thought of it?”



“Incessantly, alas!” cried the abbé.



“And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you

not?” asked Dantès eagerly.



“I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in

the gallery beyond us.”



“He shall be both blind and deaf,” replied the young man, with an air

of determination that made his companion shudder.



“No, no,” cried the abbé; “impossible!”



Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in

token of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three

months passed away.



“Are you strong?” the abbé asked one day of Dantès. The young man, in

reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, and

then as readily straightened it.



“And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last

resort?”



“I promise on my honor.”



“Then,” said the abbé, “we may hope to put our design into execution.”



“And how long shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?”



“At least a year.”



“And shall we begin at once?”



“At once.”



“We have lost a year to no purpose!” cried Dantès.



“Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?” asked the

abbé.



“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply.



“Tut, tut!” answered the abbé, “man is but man after all, and you are

about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me

show you my plan.”



The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape. It

consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, with the

passage which united them. In this passage he proposed to drive a level

as they do in mines; this level would bring the two prisoners

immediately beneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch; once

there, a large excavation would be made, and one of the flag-stones

with which the gallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the

desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who,

stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantès

before he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to

make their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let

themselves down from the outer walls by means of the abbé’s ladder of

cords.



Dantès’ eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at

the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed.

That very day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity

proportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of

ultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work except

the necessity that each was under of returning to his cell in

anticipation of the turnkey’s visits. They had learned to distinguish

the almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towards

their dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his

coming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and which

would have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees

and with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria’s or

Dantès’ cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the

night wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to

remain.



More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools

for which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still

continuing to instruct Dantès by conversing with him, sometimes in one

language, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the history

of nations and great men who from time to time have risen to fame and

trodden the path of glory. The abbé was a man of the world, and had,

moreover, mixed in the first society of the day; he wore an air of

melancholy dignity which Dantès, thanks to the imitative powers

bestowed on him by nature, easily acquired, as well as that outward

polish and politeness he had before been wanting in, and which is

seldom possessed except by those who have been placed in constant

intercourse with persons of high birth and breeding.



At the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation

completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly

hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over

their heads. Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently

dark to favor their flight, they were obliged to defer their final

attempt till that auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread

now was lest the stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall

should give way before its right time, and this they had in some

measure provided against by propping it up with a small beam which they

had discovered in the walls through which they had worked their way.

Dantès was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard

Faria, who had remained in Edmond’s cell for the purpose of cutting a

peg to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of

great suffering. Dantès hastened to his dungeon, where he found him

standing in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead

streaming with perspiration, and his hands clenched tightly together.



“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès, “what is the matter? what has

happened?”



“Quick! quick!” returned the abbé, “listen to what I have to say.”



Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria,

whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles,

while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair

seemed to stand on end.



“Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?” cried Dantès, letting his

chisel fall to the floor.



“Alas,” faltered out the abbé, “all is over with me. I am seized with a

terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fast

approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my

imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you

what that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of

the feet that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out

for the purpose of containing a small phial you will see there

half-filled with a red-looking fluid. Bring it to me—or rather—no,

no!—I may be found here, therefore help me back to my room while I have

the strength to drag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how

long the attack may last?”



In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly

frustrated his hopes, Dantès did not lose his presence of mind, but

descended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with

him; then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the

abbé’s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.



“Thanks,” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filled

with ice. “I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it

comes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though

dead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms

may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful

convulsions, foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries

are not heard, for if they are it is more than probable I should be

removed to another part of the prison, and we be separated forever.

When I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and

not before,—be careful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife,

pour from eight to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down

my throat, and I may perhaps revive.”



“Perhaps!” exclaimed Dantès in grief-stricken tones.



“Help! help!” cried the abbé, “I—I—die—I——”



0229m







So sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was

unable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole

frame, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one

side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself

about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès

prevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. The

fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder

and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled

under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became

as rigid as a corpse.



Edmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then,

taking up the knife, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed

jaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, and

anxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gave

no sign of returning animation. Dantès began to fear he had delayed too

long ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his

hair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At

length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned

to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the

sufferer made a feeble effort to move.



“He is saved! he is saved!” cried Dantès in a paroxysm of delight.



The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident

anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished

the approaching steps of the jailer. It was therefore near seven

o’clock; but Edmond’s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his

head.



The young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully

drawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had

scarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the

prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key

had turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer

had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose

restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the

food brought him, hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the

stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s

couch. Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay

helpless and exhausted on his miserable bed.



“I did not expect to see you again,” said he feebly, to Dantès.



“And why not?” asked the young man. “Did you fancy yourself dying?”



“No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I

thought you might have made your escape.”



The deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dantès.



“Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?”



“At least,” said the abbé, “I now see how wrong such an opinion would

have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this

attack.”



“Be of good cheer,” replied Dantès; “your strength will return.” And as

he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his

hands. The abbé shook his head.



“The last attack I had,” said he, “lasted but half an hour, and after

it I was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my

right arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that

there has been a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will

either carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life.”



“No, no,” cried Dantès; “you are mistaken—you will not die! And your

third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at

liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only

with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command

every requisite assistance.”



“My good Edmond,” answered the abbé, “be not deceived. The attack which

has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison.

None can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk.”



“Well, we will wait,—a week, a month, two months, if need be,—and

meanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our

flight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able

to swim we will go.”



“I shall never swim again,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralyzed; not

for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken.”



The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight,

perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him.



“You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?” asked the abbé. “Depend

upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of

this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it,

for it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of

it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I

have twice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated

Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me.”



0233m







“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “And as for your

poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my

shoulders, and swim for both of us.”



“My son,” said the abbé, “you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must

know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done

fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain

hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I

shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all

human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are

young and active, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back

your promise.”



“It is well,” said Dantès. “Then I shall also remain.” Then, rising and

extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, he

slowly added, “By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while

you live.”



Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled

young friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of the

sincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose.



“Thanks,” murmured the invalid, extending one hand. “I accept. You may

one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But

as I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to

fill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, by

chance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention

of his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery

which would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set

about this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance;

keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow

till after the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the

greatest importance to communicate to you.”



Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it.

Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his

task, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to show

towards his aged friend.







 Chapter 18. The Treasure



When Dantès returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in

captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed. In the ray of

light which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in

his left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the

use, a sheet of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small

compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He

did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantès.



“What is that?” he inquired.



“Look at it,” said the abbé with a smile.



“I have looked at it with all possible attention,” said Dantès, “and I

only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters

inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink.”



“This paper, my friend,” said Faria, “I may now avow to you, since I

have the proof of your fidelity—this paper is my treasure, of which,

from this day forth, one-half belongs to you.”



The sweat started forth on Dantès’ brow. Until this day and for how

long a time!—he had refrained from talking of the treasure, which had

brought upon the abbé the accusation of madness. With his instinctive

delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord,

and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old

man for a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by Faria,

after so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a serious relapse into

mental alienation.



“Your treasure?” stammered Dantès. Faria smiled.



“Yes,” said he. “You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by

your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at this

moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dantès, and

if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes—you. No one

would listen or believe me, because everyone thought me mad; but you,

who must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me so afterwards

if you will.”



“Alas,” murmured Edmond to himself, “this is a terrible relapse! There

was only this blow wanting.” Then he said aloud, “My dear friend, your

attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile?

Tomorrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but today I wish to

nurse you carefully. Besides,” he said, “a treasure is not a thing we

need hurry about.”



“On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond!”

replied the old man. “Who knows if tomorrow, or the next day after, the

third attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes,

indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which

would make the wealth of a dozen families, will be forever lost to

those men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I

tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my

captivity. But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you; now

that I see you, young and with a promising future,—now that I think of

all that may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I

shudder at any delay, and tremble lest I should not assure to one as

worthy as yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden

wealth.”



Edmond turned away his head with a sigh.



“You persist in your incredulity, Edmond,” continued Faria. “My words

have not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then, read this

paper, which I have never shown to anyone.”



“Tomorrow, my dear friend,” said Edmond, desirous of not yielding to

the old man’s madness. “I thought it was understood that we should not

talk of that until tomorrow.”



“Then we will not talk of it until tomorrow; but read this paper

today.”



“I will not irritate him,” thought Edmond, and taking the paper, of

which half was wanting,—having been burnt, no doubt, by some

accident,—he read:



“this treasure, which may amount to two...



of Roman crowns in the most distant a...



of the second opening wh...



declare to belong to him alo...



heir.



                    “25th April, 149’”





“Well!” said Faria, when the young man had finished reading it.



“Why,” replied Dantès, “I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected

words, which are rendered illegible by fire.”



“Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not for

me, who have grown pale over them by many nights’ study, and have

reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought.”



“And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?”



“I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen

to the history of this paper.”



“Silence!” exclaimed Dantès. “Steps approach—I go—adieu!”



And Dantès, happy to escape the history and explanation which would be

sure to confirm his belief in his friend’s mental instability, glided

like a snake along the narrow passage; while Faria, restored by his

alarm to a certain amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with

his foot, and covered it with a mat in order the more effectually to

avoid discovery.



It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria’s illness from the jailer,

had come in person to see him.



Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that he

might conceal from the governor the paralysis that had already half

stricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor, touched with

pity, might order him to be removed to better quarters, and thus

separate him from his young companion. But fortunately this was not the

case, and the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for

whom in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only troubled with a

slight indisposition.



During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his hands,

tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria, since their first

acquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical, so

wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how so

much wisdom on all points could be allied with madness. Was Faria

deceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria?



Dantès remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his

friend, thinking thus to defer the moment when he should be convinced,

once for all, that the abbé was mad—such a conviction would be so

terrible!



But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit had

gone by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear, tried to move and get

over the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered when he heard

the painful efforts which the old man made to drag himself along; his

leg was inert, and he could no longer make use of one arm. Edmond was

obliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have been able to

enter by the small aperture which led to Dantès’ chamber.



“Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly,” he said with a benignant

smile. “You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen

to me.”



Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his bed, he

seated himself on the stool beside him.



“You know,” said the abbé, “that I was the secretary and intimate

friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that name. I owe

to this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich,

although the wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I

heard the phrase very often, ‘As rich as a Spada.’ But he, like public

rumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise.

I was tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the

world, I tried by absolute devotion to his will, to make up to him all

he had done for me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The

cardinal’s house had no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble

patron annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly searching amongst dusty

family manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him for his

unavailing searches, and deploring the prostration of mind that

followed them, he looked at me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume

relating to the History of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth

chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines,

which I can never forget:—



“‘The great wars of Romagna had ended; Cæsar Borgia, who had completed

his conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy. The pope had

also need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII. King of

France, who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and

it was necessary, therefore, to have recourse to some profitable

scheme, which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished

condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined

to make two cardinals.’



“By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich

men—_this_ was the return the Holy Father looked for. In the first

place, he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which

the cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell

besides. There was a third point in view, which will appear hereafter.



“The pope and Cæsar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they

were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of

the Holy See, and Cæsar Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the

Roman nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope.

They were ambitious, and Cæsar Borgia soon found purchasers for their

appointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being

cardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals

held before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns

entered into the coffers of the speculators.



0239m







“It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The

pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred upon them

the insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their

affairs and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and Cæsar

Borgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of

dispute between the Holy Father and his son. Cæsar thought they could

make use of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends,

that is to say, in the first place, the famous key which was given to

certain persons with the request that they go and open a designated

cupboard. This key was furnished with a small iron point,—a negligence

on the part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to effect the

opening of the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person

was pricked by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the

ring with the lion’s head, which Cæsar wore when he wanted to greet his

friends with a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored,

and at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal.



“Cæsar proposed to his father, that they should either ask the

cardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander

VI. replied: ‘Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi,

let us ask both of them to dinner, something tells me that we shall get

that money back. Besides, you forget, Cæsar, an indigestion declares

itself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day

or two.’ Cæsar gave way before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals

were consequently invited to dinner.



“The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San

Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very well by

report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a

good appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man,

and greatly attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest

promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent word to

his nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the

servant did not find him.



“Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so

eminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a

centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, ‘Cæsar wills that

you die.’ but it was a legate _à latere_, who came with a smile on his

lips to say from the pope, ‘His holiness requests you to dine with

him.’



“Spada set out about two o’clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited

him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was that of his

nephew, in full costume, and Cæsar Borgia paying him most marked

attentions. Spada turned pale, as Cæsar looked at him with an ironical

air, which proved that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was

well spread.



“They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire of his nephew if

he had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly

comprehending the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had

already drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by

the pope’s butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach

him, which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician

declared they were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died

on the threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door,

making signs which his wife could not comprehend.



“Then Cæsar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under

pretense of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the inheritance

consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had written:—‘I

bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst

others, my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve

in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.’



“The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the

furniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich man, was

really the most miserable of uncles—no treasures—unless they were those

of science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was all.

Cæsar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but found

nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand crowns

in plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to

say to his wife before he expired: ‘Look well among my uncle’s papers;

there is a will.’



“They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had done, but

it was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard behind the

Palatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not much value,

and the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the family since they

were beneath the rapacity of the pope and his son. Months and years

rolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned,—you know by what mistake.

Cæsar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a

snake; but the new skin was spotted by the poison till it looked like a

tiger’s. Then, compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself

obscurely killed in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history.



“After the pope’s death and his son’s exile, it was supposed that the

Spada family would resume the splendid position they had held before

the cardinal’s time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in

doubtful ease, a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public

rumor was, that Cæsar, a better politician than his father, had carried

off from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two,

because Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any precaution, was

completely despoiled.



“Up to this point,” said Faria, interrupting the thread of his

narrative, “this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?”



“Oh, my friend,” cried Dantès, “on the contrary, it seems as if I were

reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of you.”



“I will. The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years

rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others

diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some

were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I

was—the Count of Spada. I had often heard him complain of the

disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest

all he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income. The

celebrated breviary remained in the family, and was in the count’s

possession. It had been handed down from father to son; for the

singular clause of the only will that had been found, had caused it to

be regarded as a genuine relic, preserved in the family with

superstitious veneration. It was an illuminated book, with beautiful

Gothic characters, and so weighty with gold, that a servant always

carried it before the cardinal on days of great solemnity.



“At the sight of papers of all sorts,—titles, contracts, parchments,

which were kept in the archives of the family, all descending from the

poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of

documents, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but

in spite of the most exhaustive researches, I found—nothing. Yet I had

read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for

the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had

occurred to them on the death of the Cardinal Cæsar Spada; but could

only trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi,

his companion in misfortune.



“I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited

the Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed like the

treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth

under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated

a thousand and a thousand times the income and expenditure of the

family for three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my

ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty.



“My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers,

his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous

breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman crowns,

which he had in ready money, on condition that I would have anniversary

masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a

genealogical tree and history of his house. All this I did

scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion.



“In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the

death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will see

presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for

the thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was

sold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at

Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed,

my library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor

at the same thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my head

dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o’clock in the

afternoon.



0243m







“I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in

utter darkness. I rang for a light, but, as no one came, I determined

to find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple

manners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took

a wax-candle in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece

of paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a

light from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing,

however, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a

moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary, which

was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and

which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by the request

of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and

putting it into the expiring flame, set light to it.



“But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire

ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I grasped it

in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper

in the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible

emotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that these characters had

been traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when

exposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by

the flame. It was that paper you read this morning; read it again,

Dantès, and then I will complete for you the incomplete words and

unconnected sense.”



Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantès, who this

time read the following words, traced with an ink of a reddish color

resembling rust:



     “This 25th day of April, 1498, be...



     Alexander VI., and fearing that not...



     he may desire to become my heir, and re...



     and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...



     my sole heir, that I have bu...



     and has visited with me, that is, in...



     Island of The Trial, all I poss...



     jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...



     may amount to nearly two mil...



     will find on raising the twentieth ro...



     creek to the east in a right line. Two open...



     in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...



     which treasure I bequeath and leave en...



     as my sole heir.



     “25th April, 1498.



     “Cæs...





“And now,” said the abbé, “read this other paper;” and he presented to

Dantès a second leaf with fragments of lines written on it, which

Edmond read as follows:



           “...ing invited to dine by his Holiness



        ...content with making me pay for my hat,



   ...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara



           ...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada



                      ...ried in a place he knows



                        ...the caves of the small



                 ...essed of ingots, gold, money,



 ...know of the existence of this treasure, which



           ...lions of Roman crowns, and which he



                             ...ck from the small



                           ...ings have been made



                           ...ngle in the second;



                                   ...tire to him



                                    ...ar † Spada.”





Faria followed him with an excited look.



“And now,” he said, when he saw that Dantès had read the last line,

“put the two fragments together, and judge for yourself.” Dantès

obeyed, and the conjointed pieces gave the following:



0245m







“This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing invited to dine by his Holiness

Alexander VI., and fearing that not...content with making me pay for my

hat, he may desire to become my heir, and re...serves for me the fate

of Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...I declare to

my nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu...ried in a place

he knows and has visited with me, that is, in...the caves of the small

Island of The Trial, all I poss...essed of ingots, gold, money,

jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...know of the existence of this

treasure, which may amount to nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns,

and which he will find on raising the twentieth ro...ck from the small

creek to the east in a right line. Two open...ings have been made in

these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...ngle in the second;

which treasure I bequeath and leave en...tire to him as my sole heir.

“25th April, 1498. “Cæs...ar † Spada.”



“Well, do you comprehend now?” inquired Faria.



“It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long sought

for,” replied Edmond, still incredulous.



“Yes; a thousand times, yes!”



“And who completed it as it now is?”



“I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring

the length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden

meaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a

cavern by the small ray of light above us.”



“And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion?”



“I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant, carrying

with me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the Italian

kingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this period,

quite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to

him, wished for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my

hasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to guess, having

aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at the very moment I was

leaving Piombino.



“Now,” continued Faria, addressing Dantès with an almost paternal

expression, “now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do myself. If

we ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if I die here,

and you escape alone, the whole belongs to you.”



“But,” inquired Dantès hesitating, “has this treasure no more

legitimate possessor in the world than ourselves?”



“No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last Count

of Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this symbolic

breviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no, make your mind

satisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this fortune, we may enjoy

it without remorse.”



“And you say this treasure amounts to——”



“Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our money.”2



“Impossible!” said Dantès, staggered at the enormous amount.



“Impossible? and why?” asked the old man. “The Spada family was one of

the oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth century; and in

those times, when other opportunities for investment were wanting, such

accumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare; there are at

this day Roman families perishing of hunger, though possessed of nearly

a million in diamonds and jewels, handed down by entail, and which they

cannot touch.”



Edmond thought he was in a dream—he wavered between incredulity and

joy.



“I have only kept this secret so long from you,” continued Faria, “that

I might test your character, and then surprise you. Had we escaped

before my attack of catalepsy, I should have conducted you to Monte

Cristo; now,” he added, with a sigh, “it is you who will conduct me

thither. Well, Dantès, you do not thank me?”



“This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend,” replied Dantès, “and to

you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours.”



“You are my son, Dantès,” exclaimed the old man. “You are the child of

my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God has sent you

to me to console, at one and the same time, the man who could not be a

father, and the prisoner who could not get free.”



And Faria extended the arm of which alone the use remained to him to

the young man, who threw himself upon his neck and wept.







 Chapter 19. The Third Attack



Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé’s

meditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria really

loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day he

expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantès all the good which, with

thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days

to his friends; and then Dantès’ countenance became gloomy, for the

oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected

how much ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions

could do to his enemies.



The abbé did not know the Island of The Trial; but Dantès knew it,

and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa,

between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there.

This island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It

is a rock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been

thrust up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean.

Dantès drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès

advice as to the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But

Dantès was far from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man.

It was past a question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in

which he had achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the

suspicion of his madness, increased Edmond’s admiration of him; but at

the same time Dantès could not believe that the deposit, supposing it

had ever existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure

as by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.



However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last

chance, and making them understand that they were condemned to

perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on

the sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had

repaired it completely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the

hole Dantès had partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it

will be remembered, the abbé had made to Edmond, the misfortune would

have been still greater, for their attempt to escape would have been

detected, and they would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a

stronger, and more inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the

realization of their hopes.



“You see,” said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to

Faria, “that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for

what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever

with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure

will be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this

prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits

me beneath the sombre rocks of The Trial, it is your presence, our

living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is

the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages

you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with

all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you

have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of

them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced

them—this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have

made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better

for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as

problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the

sea, which we take for _terra firma_, and which evaporate and vanish as

we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear

your eloquent speech,—which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul,

and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I

should ever be free,—so fills my whole existence, that the despair to

which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no

longer any hold over me; and this—this is my fortune—not chimerical,

but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the

sovereigns of the earth, even Cæsar Borgia himself, could not deprive

me of this.”



Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed

together went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence

as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied

would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left

leg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he was

continually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion,

and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might

be some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantès to learn it by heart;

and Dantès knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed

the second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would

be able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed

while Faria was giving instructions to Dantès,—instructions which were

to serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and

hour and moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought,

which was, to gain The Trial by some means, and remain there alone

under some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, to

endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed

spot,—the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle in

the second opening.



In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.

Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand

and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had

gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught his

youthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, who

learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually

employed,—Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantès, for

fear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his

memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for

them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose

activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of

Providence.



But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young

man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many

stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when

Edmond returned to his cell.



One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone

calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or

rather a plaintive voice which essayed to pronounce his name, reached

him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow.

Undoubtedly the call came from Faria’s dungeon.



“Alas,” murmured Edmond; “can it be?”



He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and

reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the

light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken,

Dantès saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead.

His features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he

already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them

for the first time.



“Alas, my dear friend,” said Faria in a resigned tone, “you understand,

do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?”



Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed

towards the door, exclaiming, “Help, help!”



Faria had just sufficient strength to restrain him.



“Silence,” he said, “or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my

dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your

flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done

here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew

we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear

Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty;

some other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you

will appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young,

strong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape,

while I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead

body tied to you as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence

has done something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away,

and it was time I should die.”



Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, “Oh, my friend, my

friend, speak not thus!” and then resuming all his presence of mind,

which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,

which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, “Oh, I have

saved you once, and I will save you a second time!” And raising the

foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the

red liquor.



“See,” he exclaimed, “there remains still some of the magic draught.

Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh

instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen.”



“There is not a hope,” replied Faria, shaking his head, “but no matter;

God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has so

profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to

preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet

always so dear.”



“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantès; “and I tell you that I will save you

yet.”



“Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing

towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter

and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in

five minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an

hour there will be nothing left of me but a corpse.”



“Oh!” exclaimed Dantès, his heart wrung with anguish.



“Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of

life are now exhausted in me, and death,” he continued, looking at his

paralyzed arm and leg, “has but half its work to do. If, after having

made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not

recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for

I can no longer support myself.”



Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.



“And now, my dear friend,” said Faria, “sole consolation of my wretched

existence,—you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a

priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,—at the moment of

separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the

prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!”



The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the

old man’s bed.



“Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of

the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by

time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes

pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight

of so much riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom

all the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to The Trial—avail

yourself of the fortune—for you have indeed suffered long enough.”



A violent convulsion attacked the old man. Dantès raised his head and

saw Faria’s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood

had ascended from the chest to the head.



“Adieu, adieu!” murmured the old man, clasping Edmond’s hand

convulsively—“adieu!”



“Oh, no,—no, not yet,” he cried; “do not forsake me! Oh, succor him!

Help—help—help!”



“Hush! hush!” murmured the dying man, “that they may not separate us if

you save me!”



“You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides,

although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you

were before.”



“Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to

endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youth

to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, ’tis

here—’tis here—’tis over—my sight is gone—my senses fail! Your hand,

Dantès! Adieu! adieu!”



And raising himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his

faculties, he said,—“The Trial, forget not The Trial!” And he

fell back on the bed.



The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs, swollen

eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture,

in place of the intellectual being who so lately rested there.



Dantès took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed,

whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on the

distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze

he awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.



When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife,

pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before,

counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial

contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a

quarter of an hour, half an hour,—no change took place. Trembling, his

hair erect, his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds

by the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the

last trial, and he put the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and

without having occasion to force open his jaws, which had remained

extended, he poured the whole of the liquid down his throat.



0255m







The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded

the old man’s limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon

them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed

body returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining

open.



Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this

period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied to

his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart’s

pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length it

stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid,

the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.



It was six o’clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its

feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of

the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man,

and at times gave it the appearance of life. While the struggle between

day and night lasted, Dantès still doubted; but as soon as the daylight

gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then

an invincible and extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not

again press the hand that hung out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze

on those fixed and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but

in vain—they opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp,

carefully concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could

the entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended.



It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began his

rounds at Dantès’ cell, and on leaving him he went on to Faria’s

dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened

that the man knew anything of what had occurred. He went on his way.



Dantès was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what was

going on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore

returned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear the

exclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeys

came, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all

came the governor.



Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard

the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on the dead

man’s face; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the prisoner

did not recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out,

and words of pity fell on Dantès’ listening ears, mingled with brutal

laughter.



“Well, well,” said one, “the madman has gone to look after his

treasure. Good journey to him!”



“With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!”

said another.



“Oh,” added a third voice, “the shrouds of the Château d’If are not

dear!”



0257m







“Perhaps,” said one of the previous speakers, “as he was a churchman,

they may go to some expense in his behalf.”



“They may give him the honors of the sack.”



Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what was

said. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if everyone had

left the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left

some turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and

motionless, hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he

heard a faint noise, which increased. It was the governor who returned,

followed by the doctor and other attendants. There was a moment’s

silence,—it was evident that the doctor was examining the dead body.

The inquiries soon commenced.



The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner

had succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions and answers

followed in a nonchalant manner that made Dantès indignant, for he felt

that all the world should have for the poor abbé a love and respect

equal to his own.



“I am very sorry for what you tell me,” said the governor, replying to

the assurance of the doctor, “that the old man is really dead; for he

was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no

watching.”



“Ah,” added the turnkey, “there was no occasion for watching him; he

would have stayed here fifty years, I’ll answer for it, without any

attempt to escape.”



“Still,” said the governor, “I believe it will be requisite,

notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, but

in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured

that the prisoner is dead.”



There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantès, still

listening, knew that the doctor was examining the corpse a second time.



“You may make your mind easy,” said the doctor; “he is dead. I will

answer for that.”



“You know, sir,” said the governor, persisting, “that we are not

content in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite

of all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by

fulfilling the formalities described by law.”



“Let the irons be heated,” said the doctor; “but really it is a useless

precaution.”



This order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder. He heard hasty steps,

the creaking of a door, people going and coming, and some minutes

afterwards a turnkey entered, saying:



“Here is the brazier, lighted.”



There was a moment’s silence, and then was heard the crackling of

burning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even

behind the wall where Dantès was listening in horror. The perspiration

poured forth upon the young man’s brow, and he felt as if he should

faint.



“You see, sir, he is really dead,” said the doctor; “this burn in the

heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and delivered

from his captivity.”



“Wasn’t his name Faria?” inquired one of the officers who accompanied

the governor.



0259m







“Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very

learned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to his

treasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable.”



“It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,” said the doctor.



“You had never anything to complain of?” said the governor to the

jailer who had charge of the abbé.



“Never, sir,” replied the jailer, “never; on the contrary, he sometimes

amused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wife

was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her.”



“Ah, ah!” said the doctor, “I did not know that I had a rival; but I

hope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect in

consequence.”



“Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the

newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?”



“Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?” inquired a

turnkey.



“Certainly. But make haste—I cannot stay here all day.” Other

footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards

the noise of rustling canvas reached Dantès’ ears, the bed creaked, and

the heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor;

then the bed again creaked under the weight deposited upon it.



“This evening,” said the governor.



“Will there be any mass?” asked one of the attendants.



“That is impossible,” replied the governor. “The chaplain of the

château came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to

take a trip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the

prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbé had not been in such a

hurry, he might have had his requiem.”



“Pooh, pooh;” said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his

profession; “he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and

not give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.” A shout

of laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of

putting the body in the sack was going on.



“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended.



“At what hour?” inquired a turnkey.



“Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.”



“Shall we watch by the corpse?”



“Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive—that is

all.”



Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the distance; the

noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and a

silence more sombre than that of solitude ensued,—the silence of death,

which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to the very soul of

Dantès.



Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked

carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantès emerged from the

tunnel.







 Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If



On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale light

that came from the window, lay a sack of canvas, and under its rude

folds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was Faria’s last

winding-sheet,—a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey said, cost so

little. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had been placed between

Dantès and his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those

wide-open eyes which had seemed to be penetrating the mysteries of

death; no longer could he clasp the hand which had done so much to make

his existence blessed. Faria, the beneficent and cheerful companion,

with whom he was accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed.

He seated himself on the edge of that terrible bed, and fell into

melancholy and gloomy reverie.



Alone! he was alone again! again condemned to silence—again face to

face with nothingness! Alone!—never again to see the face, never again

to hear the voice of the only human being who united him to earth! Was

not Faria’s fate the better, after all—to solve the problem of life at

its source, even at the risk of horrible suffering?



The idea of suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by

his cheerful presence, now hovered like a phantom over the abbé’s dead

body.



“If I could die,” he said, “I should go where he goes, and should

assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,” he went on

with a smile; “I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens

the door, strangle him, and then they will guillotine me.”



But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail bark is

tossed from the depths to the top of the wave. Dantès recoiled from the

idea of so infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an

ardent desire for life and liberty.



“Die? oh, no,” he exclaimed—“not die now, after having lived and

suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago; but now

to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I

want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back

the happiness of which I have been deprived. Before I die I must not

forget that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who

knows, some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I

shall die in my dungeon like Faria.”



As he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before him like

one overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought. Suddenly he arose,

lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain were giddy, paced twice or

thrice round the dungeon, and then paused abruptly by the bed.



“Just God!” he muttered, “whence comes this thought? Is it from thee?

Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take the

place of the dead!”



Without giving himself time to reconsider his decision, and, indeed,

that he might not allow his thoughts to be distracted from his

desperate resolution, he bent over the appalling shroud, opened it with

the knife which Faria had made, drew the corpse from the sack, and bore

it along the tunnel to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied

around its head the rag he wore at night around his own, covered it

with his counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried

vainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the

head towards the wall, so that the jailer might, when he brought the

evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent custom;

entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall, returned to

the other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle and thread, flung

off his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh beneath the coarse

canvas, and getting inside the sack, placed himself in the posture in

which the dead body had been laid, and sewed up the mouth of the sack

from the inside.



He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by any

mischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dantès might have

waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid that the

governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to be removed

earlier. In that case his last hope would have been destroyed.



Now his plans were fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If

while he was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that

they were bearing a live instead of a dead body, Dantès did not intend

to give them time to recognize him, but with a sudden cut of the knife,

he meant to open the sack from top to bottom, and, profiting by their

alarm, escape; if they tried to catch him, he would use his knife to

better purpose.



0263m







If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he would

allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was night, the

grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs before he would

have worked his way through the yielding soil and escaped. He hoped

that the weight of earth would not be so great that he could not

overcome it. If he was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy,

he would be stifled, and then—so much the better, all would be over.



Dantès had not eaten since the preceding evening, but he had not

thought of hunger, nor did he think of it now. His situation was too

precarious to allow him even time to reflect on any thought but one.



The first risk that Dantès ran was, that the jailer, when he brought

him his supper at seven o’clock, might perceive the change that had

been made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or

fatigue, Dantès had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed

his bread and soup on the table, and went away without saying a word.

This time the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to

Dantès, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus

discover all.



When seven o’clock came, Dantès’ agony really began. His hand placed

upon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while, with the

other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time

chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of

ice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on

without any unusual disturbance, and Dantès knew that he had escaped

the first peril. It was a good augury.



At length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were

heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived, summoned

up all his courage, held his breath, and would have been happy if at

the same time he could have repressed the throbbing of his veins. The

footsteps—they were double—paused at the door—and Dantès guessed that

the two grave-diggers had come to seek him—this idea was soon converted

into certainty, when he heard the noise they made in putting down the

hand-bier.



The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantès’ eyes through the

coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a

third remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men,

approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.



“He’s heavy, though, for an old and thin man,” said one, as he raised

the head.



“They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones,”

said another, lifting the feet.



“Have you tied the knot?” inquired the first speaker.



“What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?” was the reply,

“I can do that when we get there.”



“Yes, you’re right,” replied the companion.



“What’s the knot for?” thought Dantès.



They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened

himself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the party,

lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs.

Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dantès knew that

the mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in which pleasure and pain

were strangely mingled.



The bearers went on for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier

down on the ground. One of them went away, and Dantès heard his shoes

striking on the pavement.



“Where am I?” he asked himself.



“Really, he is by no means a light load!” said the other bearer,

sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow.



Dantès’ first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not attempt

it.



“Give us a light,” said the other bearer, “or I shall never find what I

am looking for.”



The man with the torch complied, although not asked in the most polite

terms.



“What can he be looking for?” thought Edmond. “The spade, perhaps.”



An exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the grave-digger had

found the object of his search. “Here it is at last,” he said, “not

without some trouble, though.”



“Yes,” was the answer, “but it has lost nothing by waiting.”



As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy

metallic substance laid down beside him, and at the same moment a cord

was fastened round his feet with sudden and painful violence.



“Well, have you tied the knot?” inquired the grave-digger, who was

looking on.



“Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you,” was the answer.



“Move on, then.” And the bier was lifted once more, and they proceeded.



They advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a door,

then went forward again. The noise of the waves dashing against the

rocks on which the château is built, reached Dantès’ ear distinctly as

they went forward.



“Bad weather!” observed one of the bearers; “not a pleasant night for a

dip in the sea.”



“Why, yes, the abbé runs a chance of being wet,” said the other; and

then there was a burst of brutal laughter.



Dantès did not comprehend the jest, but his hair stood erect on his

head.



“Well, here we are at last,” said one of them.



“A little farther—a little farther,” said the other. “You know very

well that the last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the

governor told us next day that we were careless fellows.”



They ascended five or six more steps, and then Dantès felt that they

took him, one by the head and the other by the heels, and swung him to

and fro.



“One!” said the grave-diggers, “two! three!”



And at the same instant Dantès felt himself flung into the air like a

wounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his blood

curdle. Although drawn downwards by the heavy weight which hastened his

rapid descent, it seemed to him as if the fall lasted for a century. At

last, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into the ice-cold

water, and as he did so he uttered a shrill cry, stifled in a moment by

his immersion beneath the waves.



Dantès had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its depths by

a thirty-six-pound shot tied to his feet.



The sea is the cemetery of the Château d’If.



0267m









 Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen



Dantès, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient presence

of mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand (prepared as he was

for every chance) held his knife open, he rapidly ripped up the sack,

extricated his arm, and then his body; but in spite of all his efforts

to free himself from the shot, he felt it dragging him down still

lower. He then bent his body, and by a desperate effort severed the

cord that bound his legs, at the moment when it seemed as if he were

actually strangled. With a mighty leap he rose to the surface of the

sea, while the shot dragged down to the depths the sack that had so

nearly become his shroud.



Dantès waited only to get breath, and then dived, in order to avoid

being seen. When he arose a second time, he was fifty paces from where

he had first sunk. He saw overhead a black and tempestuous sky, across

which the wind was driving clouds that occasionally suffered a

twinkling star to appear; before him was the vast expanse of waters,

sombre and terrible, whose waves foamed and roared as if before the

approach of a storm. Behind him, blacker than the sea, blacker than the

sky, rose phantom-like the vast stone structure, whose projecting crags

seemed like arms extended to seize their prey, and on the highest rock

was a torch lighting two figures.



He fancied that these two forms were looking at the sea; doubtless

these strange grave-diggers had heard his cry. Dantès dived again, and

remained a long time beneath the water. This was an easy feat to him,

for he usually attracted a crowd of spectators in the bay before the

lighthouse at Marseilles when he swam there, and was unanimously

declared to be the best swimmer in the port. When he came up again the

light had disappeared.



He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau and Pomègue are the nearest

islands of all those that surround the Château d’If, but Ratonneau and

Pomègue are inhabited, as is also the islet of Daume. Tiboulen and

Lemaire were therefore the safest for Dantès’ venture. The islands of

Tiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Château d’If; Dantès,

nevertheless, determined to make for them. But how could he find his

way in the darkness of the night?



At this moment he saw the light of Planier, gleaming in front of him

like a star. By leaving this light on the right, he kept the Island of

Tiboulen a little on the left; by turning to the left, therefore, he

would find it. But, as we have said, it was at least a league from the

Château d’If to this island. Often in prison Faria had said to him,

when he saw him idle and inactive:



“Dantès, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be

drowned if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly

exercised and prepared for exertion.”



These words rang in Dantès’ ears, even beneath the waves; he hastened

to cleave his way through them to see if he had not lost his strength.

He found with pleasure that his captivity had taken away nothing of his

power, and that he was still master of that element on whose bosom he

had so often sported as a boy.



Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantès’ efforts. He listened for

any sound that might be audible, and every time that he rose to the top

of a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to penetrate the darkness.

He fancied that every wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he

redoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the

château, but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already the

terrible château had disappeared in the darkness. He could not see it,

but he _felt_ its presence.



An hour passed, during which Dantès, excited by the feeling of freedom,

continued to cleave the waves.



“Let us see,” said he, “I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is

against me, that has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken,

I must be close to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken?”



A shudder passed over him. He sought to tread water, in order to rest

himself; but the sea was too violent, and he felt that he could not

make use of this means of recuperation.



“Well,” said he, “I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp

seizes me, and then I shall sink;” and he struck out with the energy of

despair.



Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more dense,

and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the same time he

felt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment that he had been

shot, and listened for the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put

out his hand, and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew

that he had gained the shore.



Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled nothing so

much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent

combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dantès rose, advanced a few

steps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on

the granite, which seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of

the wind and rain, he fell into the deep, sweet sleep of utter

exhaustion. At the expiration of an hour Edmond was awakened by the

roar of thunder. The tempest was let loose and beating the atmosphere

with its mighty wings; from time to time a flash of lightning stretched

across the heavens like a fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that

rolled on in vast chaotic waves.



Dantès had not been deceived—he had reached the first of the two

islands, which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew that it was barren and

without shelter; but when the sea became more calm, he resolved to

plunge into its waves again, and swim to Lemaire, equally arid, but

larger, and consequently better adapted for concealment.



An overhanging rock offered him a temporary shelter, and scarcely had

he availed himself of it when the tempest burst forth in all its fury.

Edmond felt the trembling of the rock beneath which he lay; the waves,

dashing themselves against it, wetted him with their spray. He was

safely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy in the midst of the warring of

the elements and the dazzling brightness of the lightning. It seemed to

him that the island trembled to its base, and that it would, like a

vessel at anchor, break moorings, and bear him off into the centre of

the storm.



He then recollected that he had not eaten or drunk for four-and-twenty

hours. He extended his hands, and drank greedily of the rainwater that

had lodged in a hollow of the rock.



As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed to rive the remotest

heights of heaven, illumined the darkness. By its light, between the

Island of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant,

Dantès saw a fishing-boat driven rapidly like a spectre before the

power of winds and waves. A second after, he saw it again, approaching

with frightful rapidity. Dantès cried at the top of his voice to warn

them of their danger, but they saw it themselves. Another flash showed

him four men clinging to the shattered mast and the rigging, while a

fifth clung to the broken rudder. The men he beheld saw him

undoubtedly, for their cries were carried to his ears by the wind.

Above the splintered mast a sail rent to tatters was waving; suddenly

the ropes that still held it gave way, and it disappeared in the

darkness of the night like a vast sea-bird.



At the same moment a violent crash was heard, and cries of distress.

Dantès from his rocky perch saw the shattered vessel, and among the

fragments the floating forms of the hapless sailors. Then all was dark

again.



Dantès ran down the rocks at the risk of being himself dashed to

pieces; he listened, he groped about, but he heard and saw nothing—the

cries had ceased, and the tempest continued to rage. By degrees the

wind abated, vast gray clouds rolled towards the west, and the blue

firmament appeared studded with bright stars. Soon a red streak became

visible in the horizon, the waves whitened, a light played over them,

and gilded their foaming crests with gold. It was day.



Dantès stood mute and motionless before this majestic spectacle, as if

he now beheld it for the first time; and indeed since his captivity in

the Château d’If he had forgotten that such scenes were ever to be

witnessed. He turned towards the fortress, and looked at both sea and

land. The gloomy building rose from the bosom of the ocean with

imposing majesty and seemed to dominate the scene. It was about five

o’clock. The sea continued to get calmer.



“In two or three hours,” thought Dantès, “the turnkey will enter my

chamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for me in

vain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered; the men

who cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I uttered,

will be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers will pursue

the wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn everyone to refuse shelter

to a man wandering about naked and famished. The police of Marseilles

will be on the alert by land, whilst the governor pursues me by sea. I

am cold, I am hungry. I have lost even the knife that saved me. Oh, my

God, I have suffered enough surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what

I am unable to do for myself.”



As Dantès (his eyes turned in the direction of the Château d’If)

uttered this prayer, he saw off the farther point of the Island of

Pomègue a small vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea like a gull in

search of prey; and with his sailor’s eye he knew it to be a Genoese

tartan. She was coming out of Marseilles harbor, and was standing out

to sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving through the waves.



“Oh,” cried Edmond, “to think that in half an hour I could join her,

did I not fear being questioned, detected, and conveyed back to

Marseilles! What can I do? What story can I invent? under pretext of

trading along the coast, these men, who are in reality smugglers, will

prefer selling me to doing a good action. I must wait. But I cannot—I

am starving. In a few hours my strength will be utterly exhausted;

besides, perhaps I have not been missed at the fortress. I can pass as

one of the sailors wrecked last night. My story will be accepted, for

there is no one left to contradict me.”



As he spoke, Dantès looked toward the spot where the fishing-vessel had

been wrecked, and started. The red cap of one of the sailors hung to a

point of the rock and some timbers that had formed part of the vessel’s

keel, floated at the foot of the crag. In an instant Dantès’ plan was

formed. He swam to the cap, placed it on his head, seized one of the

timbers, and struck out so as to cut across the course the vessel was

taking.



“I am saved!” murmured he. And this conviction restored his strength.



He soon saw that the vessel, with the wind dead ahead, was tacking

between the Château d’If and the tower of Planier. For an instant he

feared lest, instead of keeping in shore, she should stand out to sea;

but he soon saw that she would pass, like most vessels bound for Italy,

between the islands of Jaros and Calaseraigne.



However, the vessel and the swimmer insensibly neared one another, and

in one of its tacks the tartan bore down within a quarter of a mile of

him. He rose on the waves, making signs of distress; but no one on

board saw him, and the vessel stood on another tack. Dantès would have

shouted, but he knew that the wind would drown his voice.



It was then he rejoiced at his precaution in taking the timber, for

without it he would have been unable, perhaps, to reach the

vessel—certainly to return to shore, should he be unsuccessful in

attracting attention.



Dantès, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would take, had

yet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood towards him. Then he

advanced; but before they could meet, the vessel again changed her

course. By a violent effort he rose half out of the water, waving his

cap, and uttering a loud shout peculiar to sailors. This time he was

both seen and heard, and the tartan instantly steered towards him. At

the same time, he saw they were about to lower the boat.



An instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly towards

him. Dantès let go of the timber, which he now thought to be useless,

and swam vigorously to meet them. But he had reckoned too much upon his

strength, and then he realized how serviceable the timber had been to

him. His arms became stiff, his legs lost their flexibility, and he was

almost breathless.



He shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and one of

them cried in Italian, “Courage!”



The word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the strength

to surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the surface,

struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a

third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were

again tied to his feet. The water passed over his head, and the sky

turned gray. A convulsive movement again brought him to the surface. He

felt himself seized by the hair, then he saw and heard nothing. He had

fainted.



When he opened his eyes Dantès found himself on the deck of the tartan.

His first care was to see what course they were taking. They were

rapidly leaving the Château d’If behind. Dantès was so exhausted that

the exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a sigh.



As we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing his

limbs with a woollen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the one who

had cried out “Courage!” held a gourd full of rum to his mouth; while

the third, an old sailor, at once the pilot and captain, looked on with

that egotistical pity men feel for a misfortune that they have escaped

yesterday, and which may overtake them tomorrow.



A few drops of the rum restored suspended animation, while the friction

of his limbs restored their elasticity.



“Who are you?” said the pilot in bad French.



“I am,” replied Dantès, in bad Italian, “a Maltese sailor. We were

coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook

us at Cape Morgiou, and we were wrecked on these rocks.”



“Where do you come from?”



“From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our

captain and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel, and

fearful of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam off on a

piece of wreckage to try and intercept your course. You have saved my

life, and I thank you,” continued Dantès. “I was lost when one of your

sailors caught hold of my hair.”



“It was I,” said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance; “and it was

time, for you were sinking.”



“Yes,” returned Dantès, holding out his hand, “I thank you again.”



“I almost hesitated, though,” replied the sailor; “you looked more like

a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair

a foot long.”



Dantès recollected that his hair and beard had not been cut all the

time he was at the Château d’If.



“Yes,” said he, “I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to cut my

hair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of danger; but

today the vow expires.”



“Now what are we to do with you?” said the captain.



“Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely escaped;

but I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you make; I shall be

sure to find employment.”



“Do you know the Mediterranean?”



“I have sailed over it since my childhood.”



“You know the best harbors?”



“There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a bandage

over my eyes.”



“I say, captain,” said the sailor who had cried “Courage!” to Dantès,

“if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with us?”



“If he says true,” said the captain doubtingly. “But in his present

condition he will promise anything, and take his chance of keeping it

afterwards.”



“I will do more than I promise,” said Dantès.



“We shall see,” returned the other, smiling.



“Where are you going?” asked Dantès.



“To Leghorn.”



“Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail nearer the

wind?”



“Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion.”



“You shall pass it by twenty fathoms.”



“Take the helm, and let us see what you know.”



The young man took the helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the

rudder promptly and seeing that, without being a first-rate sailor, she

yet was tolerably obedient.



“To the sheets,” said he. The four seamen, who composed the crew,

obeyed, while the pilot looked on. “Haul taut.”



They obeyed.



“Belay.” This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as Dantès

had predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.



“Bravo!” said the captain.



“Bravo!” repeated the sailors. And they all looked with astonishment at

this man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence and his body a vigor

they had not thought him capable of showing.



“You see,” said Dantès, quitting the helm, “I shall be of some use to

you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you

can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get,

for my food and the clothes you lend me.”



“Ah,” said the captain, “we can agree very well, if you are

reasonable.”



“Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,” returned

Dantès.



“That’s not fair,” said the seaman who had saved Dantès; “for you know

more than we do.”



“What is that to you, Jacopo?” returned the Captain. “Everyone is free

to ask what he pleases.”



“That’s true,” replied Jacopo; “I only make a remark.”



“Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of

trousers, if you have them.”



“No,” said Jacopo; “but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers.”



“That is all I want,” interrupted Dantès. Jacopo dived into the hold

and soon returned with what Edmond wanted.



“Now, then, do you wish for anything else?” said the patron.



“A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for I

have not eaten or drunk for a long time.” He had not tasted food for

forty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered him the

gourd.



“Larboard your helm,” cried the captain to the steersman. Dantès

glanced that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused with

hand in mid-air.



“Hollo! what’s the matter at the Château d’If?” said the captain.



A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantès’ attention, crowned the

summit of the bastion of the Château d’If. At the same moment the faint

report of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at one another.



“What is this?” asked the captain.



“A prisoner has escaped from the Château d’If, and they are firing the

alarm gun,” replied Dantès. The captain glanced at him, but he had

lifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so much composure,

that suspicions, if the captain had any, died away.



0277m







“Pretty strong rum!” said Dantès, wiping his brow with his sleeve.



“At any rate,” murmured he, “if it be, so much the better, for I have

made a rare acquisition.”



0279m







Under pretence of being fatigued, Dantès asked to take the helm; the

steersman, glad to be relieved, looked at the captain, and the latter

by a sign indicated that he might abandon it to his new comrade. Dantès

could thus keep his eyes on Marseilles.



“What is the day of the month?” asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside

him.



“The 28th of February.”



“In what year?”



“In what year—you ask me in what year?”



“Yes,” replied the young man, “I ask you in what year!”



“You have forgotten then?”



“I got such a fright last night,” replied Dantès, smiling, “that I have

almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?”



“The year 1829,” returned Jacopo.



It was fourteen years, day for day, since Dantès’ arrest. He was

nineteen when he entered the Château d’If; he was thirty-three when he

escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked himself what

had become of Mercédès, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes

lighted up with hatred as he thought of the three men who had caused

him so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed against Danglars,

Fernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable vengeance he had made in

his dungeon.



This oath was no longer a vain menace; for the fastest sailor in the

Mediterranean would have been unable to overtake the little tartan,

that with every stitch of canvas set was flying before the wind to

Leghorn.







 Chapter 22. The Smugglers



Dantès had not been a day on board before he had a very clear idea of

the men with whom his lot had been cast. Without having been in the

school of the Abbé Faria, the worthy master of _La Jeune Amélie_ (the

name of the Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of all the tongues spoken

on the shores of that large lake called the Mediterranean, from the

Arabic to the Provençal, and this, while it spared him interpreters,

persons always troublesome and frequently indiscreet, gave him great

facilities of communication, either with the vessels he met at sea,

with the small boats sailing along the coast, or with the people

without name, country, or occupation, who are always seen on the quays

of seaports, and who live by hidden and mysterious means which we must

suppose to be a direct gift of Providence, as they have no visible

means of support. It is fair to assume that Dantès was on board a

smuggler.



At first the captain had received Dantès on board with a certain degree

of distrust. He was very well known to the customs officers of the

coast; and as there was between these worthies and himself a perpetual

battle of wits, he had at first thought that Dantès might be an

emissary of these industrious guardians of rights and duties, who

perhaps employed this ingenious means of learning some of the secrets

of his trade. But the skilful manner in which Dantès had handled the

lugger had entirely reassured him; and then, when he saw the light

plume of smoke floating above the bastion of the Château d’If, and

heard the distant report, he was instantly struck with the idea that he

had on board his vessel one whose coming and going, like that of kings,

was accompanied with salutes of artillery. This made him less uneasy,

it must be owned, than if the new-comer had proved to be a customs

officer; but this supposition also disappeared like the first, when he

beheld the perfect tranquillity of his recruit.



Edmond thus had the advantage of knowing what the owner was, without

the owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor and his crew

tried to “pump” him, they extracted nothing more from him; he gave

accurate descriptions of Naples and Malta, which he knew as well as

Marseilles, and held stoutly to his first story. Thus the Genoese,

subtle as he was, was duped by Edmond, in whose favor his mild

demeanor, his nautical skill, and his admirable dissimulation, pleaded.

Moreover, it is possible that the Genoese was one of those shrewd

persons who know nothing but what they should know, and believe nothing

but what they should believe.



In this state of mutual understanding, they reached Leghorn. Here

Edmond was to undergo another trial; he was to find out whether he

could recognize himself, as he had not seen his own face for fourteen

years. He had preserved a tolerably good remembrance of what the youth

had been, and was now to find out what the man had become. His comrades

believed that his vow was fulfilled. As he had twenty times touched at

Leghorn, he remembered a barber in St. Ferdinand Street; he went there

to have his beard and hair cut. The barber gazed in amazement at this

man with the long, thick and black hair and beard, which gave his head

the appearance of one of Titian’s portraits. At this period it was not

the fashion to wear so large a beard and hair so long; now a barber

would only be surprised if a man gifted with such advantages should

consent voluntarily to deprive himself of them. The Leghorn barber said

nothing and went to work.



When the operation was concluded, and Edmond felt that his chin was

completely smooth, and his hair reduced to its usual length, he asked

for a looking-glass. He was now, as we have said, three-and-thirty

years of age, and his fourteen years’ imprisonment had produced a great

transformation in his appearance.



Dantès had entered the Château d’If with the round, open, smiling face

of a young and happy man, with whom the early paths of life have been

smooth, and who anticipates a future corresponding with his past. This

was now all changed. The oval face was lengthened, his smiling mouth

had assumed the firm and marked lines which betoken resolution; his

eyebrows were arched beneath a brow furrowed with thought; his eyes

were full of melancholy, and from their depths occasionally sparkled

gloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred; his complexion, so long kept

from the sun, had now that pale color which produces, when the features

are encircled with black hair, the aristocratic beauty of the man of

the north; the profound learning he had acquired had besides diffused

over his features a refined intellectual expression; and he had also

acquired, being naturally of a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame

possesses which has so long concentrated all its force within itself.



0283m







To the elegance of a nervous and slight form had succeeded the solidity

of a rounded and muscular figure. As to his voice, prayers, sobs, and

imprecations had changed it so that at times it was of a singularly

penetrating sweetness, and at others rough and almost hoarse.



Moreover, from being so long in twilight or darkness, his eyes had

acquired the faculty of distinguishing objects in the night, common to

the hyena and the wolf. Edmond smiled when he beheld himself; it was

impossible that his best friend—if, indeed, he had any friend

left—could recognize him; he could not recognize himself.



The master of _La Jeune Amélie_, who was very desirous of retaining

amongst his crew a man of Edmond’s value, had offered to advance him

funds out of his future profits, which Edmond had accepted. His next

care on leaving the barber’s who had achieved his first metamorphosis

was to enter a shop and buy a complete sailor’s suit—a garb, as we all

know, very simple, and consisting of white trousers, a striped shirt,

and a cap.



It was in this costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the shirt and

trousers he had lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain of

the lugger, who had made him tell his story over and over again before

he could believe him, or recognize in the neat and trim sailor the man

with thick and matted beard, hair tangled with seaweed, and body

soaking in seabrine, whom he had picked up naked and nearly drowned.

Attracted by his prepossessing appearance, he renewed his offers of an

engagement to Dantès; but Dantès, who had his own projects, would not

agree for a longer time than three months.



_La Jeune Amélie_ had a very active crew, very obedient to their

captain, who lost as little time as possible. He had scarcely been a

week at Leghorn before the hold of his vessel was filled with printed

muslins, contraband cottons, English powder, and tobacco on which the

excise had forgotten to put its mark. The master was to get all this

out of Leghorn free of duties, and land it on the shores of Corsica,

where certain speculators undertook to forward the cargo to France.



They sailed; Edmond was again cleaving the azure sea which had been the

first horizon of his youth, and which he had so often dreamed of in

prison. He left Gorgone on his right and La Pianosa on his left, and

went towards the country of Paoli and Napoleon.



The next morning going on deck, as he always did at an early hour, the

patron found Dantès leaning against the bulwarks gazing with intense

earnestness at a pile of granite rocks, which the rising sun tinged

with rosy light. It was the Island of The Trial.



_La Jeune Amélie_ left it three-quarters of a league to the larboard

and kept on for Corsica. Dantès thought, as they passed so closely to

the island whose name was so interesting to him, that he had only to

leap into the sea and in half an hour be at the promised land. But then

what could he do without instruments to discover his treasure, without

arms to defend himself? Besides, what would the sailors say? What would

the patron think? He must wait.



Fortunately, Dantès had learned how to wait; he had waited fourteen

years for his liberty, and now he was free he could wait at least six

months or a year for wealth. Would he not have accepted liberty without

riches if it had been offered to him? Besides, were not those riches

chimerical?—offspring of the brain of the poor Abbé Faria, had they not

died with him? It is true, the letter of the Cardinal Spada was

singularly circumstantial, and Dantès repeated it to himself, from one

end to the other, for he had not forgotten a word.



0285m







Evening came, and Edmond saw the island tinged with the shades of

twilight, and then disappear in the darkness from all eyes but his own,

for he, with vision accustomed to the gloom of a prison, continued to

behold it last of all, for he remained alone upon deck. The next morn

broke off the coast of Aleria; all day they coasted, and in the evening

saw fires lighted on land; the position of these was no doubt a signal

for landing, for a ship’s lantern was hung up at the mast-head instead

of the streamer, and they came to within a gunshot of the shore. Dantès

noticed that the captain of _La Jeune Amélie_ had, as he neared the

land, mounted two small culverins, which, without making much noise,

can throw a four ounce ball a thousand paces or so.



But on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and everything

proceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness. Four shallops came

off with very little noise alongside the lugger, which, no doubt, in

acknowledgement of the compliment, lowered her own shallop into the

sea, and the five boats worked so well that by two o’clock in the

morning all the cargo was out of _La Jeune Amélie_ and on _terra

firma_. The same night, such a man of regularity was the patron of _La

Jeune Amélie_, the profits were divided, and each man had a hundred

Tuscan livres, or about eighty francs.



But the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit towards

Sardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to replace

what had been discharged. The second operation was as successful as the

first, _La Jeune Amélie_ was in luck. This new cargo was destined for

the coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely of

Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines.



There they had a bit of a skirmish in getting rid of the duties; the

excise was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of the patron of _La Jeune

Amélie_. A customs officer was laid low, and two sailors wounded;

Dantès was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in the left

shoulder. Dantès was almost glad of this affray, and almost pleased at

being wounded, for they were rude lessons which taught him with what

eye he could view danger, and with what endurance he could bear

suffering. He had contemplated danger with a smile, and when wounded

had exclaimed with the great philosopher, “Pain, thou art not an evil.”



He had, moreover, looked upon the customs officer wounded to death,

and, whether from heat of blood produced by the encounter, or the chill

of human sentiment, this sight had made but slight impression upon him.

Dantès was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the

end he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in

his bosom. Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him killed, and

rushing towards him raised him up, and then attended to him with all

the kindness of a devoted comrade.



This world was not then so good as Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither

was it so wicked as Dantès thought it, since this man, who had nothing

to expect from his comrade but the inheritance of his share of the

prize-money, manifested so much sorrow when he saw him fall.

Fortunately, as we have said, Edmond was only wounded, and with certain

herbs gathered at certain seasons, and sold to the smugglers by the old

Sardinian women, the wound soon closed. Edmond then resolved to try

Jacopo, and offered him in return for his attention a share of his

prize-money, but Jacopo refused it indignantly.



As a result of the sympathetic devotion which Jacopo had from the first

bestowed on Edmond, the latter was moved to a certain degree of

affection. But this sufficed for Jacopo, who instinctively felt that

Edmond had a right to superiority of position—a superiority which

Edmond had concealed from all others. And from this time the kindness

which Edmond showed him was enough for the brave seaman.



Then in the long days on board ship, when the vessel, gliding on with

security over the azure sea, required no care but the hand of the

helmsman, thanks to the favorable winds that swelled her sails, Edmond,

with a chart in his hand, became the instructor of Jacopo, as the poor

Abbé Faria had been his tutor. He pointed out to him the bearings of

the coast, explained to him the variations of the compass, and taught

him to read in that vast book opened over our heads which they call

heaven, and where God writes in azure with letters of diamonds.



And when Jacopo inquired of him, “What is the use of teaching all these

things to a poor sailor like me?” Edmond replied, “Who knows? You may

one day be the captain of a vessel. Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte,

became emperor.” We had forgotten to say that Jacopo was a Corsican.



Two months and a half elapsed in these trips, and Edmond had become as

skilful a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman; he had formed an

acquaintance with all the smugglers on the coast, and learned all the

Masonic signs by which these half pirates recognize each other. He had

passed and re-passed his Island of The Trial twenty times, but not

once had he found an opportunity of landing there.



He then formed a resolution. As soon as his engagement with the patron

of _La Jeune Amélie_ ended, he would hire a small vessel on his own

account—for in his several voyages he had amassed a hundred

piastres—and under some pretext land at the Island of The Trial.

Then he would be free to make his researches, not perhaps entirely at

liberty, for he would be doubtless watched by those who accompanied

him. But in this world we must risk something. Prison had made Edmond

prudent, and he was desirous of running no risk whatever. But in vain

did he rack his imagination; fertile as it was, he could not devise any

plan for reaching the island without companionship.



Dantès was tossed about on these doubts and wishes, when the patron,

who had great confidence in him, and was very desirous of retaining him

in his service, took him by the arm one evening and led him to a tavern

on the Via del’ Oglio, where the leading smugglers of Leghorn used to

congregate and discuss affairs connected with their trade. Already

Dantès had visited this maritime Bourse two or three times, and seeing

all these hardy free-traders, who supplied the whole coast for nearly

two hundred leagues in extent, he had asked himself what power might

not that man attain who should give the impulse of his will to all

these contrary and diverging minds. This time it was a great matter

that was under discussion, connected with a vessel laden with Turkey

carpets, stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It was necessary to find

some neutral ground on which an exchange could be made, and then to try

and land these goods on the coast of France. If the venture was

successful the profit would be enormous, there would be a gain of fifty

or sixty piastres each for the crew.



The patron of _La Jeune Amélie_ proposed as a place of landing the

Island of The Trial, which being completely deserted, and having

neither soldiers nor revenue officers, seemed to have been placed in

the midst of the ocean since the time of the heathen Olympus by

Mercury, the god of merchants and robbers, classes of mankind which we

in modern times have separated if not made distinct, but which

antiquity appears to have included in the same category.



At the mention of The Trial Dantès started with joy; he rose to

conceal his emotion, and took a turn around the smoky tavern, where all

the languages of the known world were jumbled in a _lingua franca_.



When he again joined the two persons who had been discussing the

matter, it had been decided that they should touch at The Trial and

set out on the following night. Edmond, being consulted, was of opinion

that the island afforded every possible security, and that great

enterprises to be well done should be done quickly.



Nothing then was altered in the plan, and orders were given to get

under weigh next night, and, wind and weather permitting, to make the

neutral island by the following day.



0289m









 Chapter 23. The Island of The Trial



Thus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune which

sometimes befall those who have for a long time been the victims of an

evil destiny, Dantès was about to secure the opportunity he wished for,

by simple and natural means, and land on the island without incurring

any suspicion. One night more and he would be on his way.



The night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress visions,

good and evil, passed through Dantès’ mind. If he closed his eyes, he

saw Cardinal Spada’s letter written on the wall in characters of

flame—if he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain. He

ascended into grottos paved with emeralds, with panels of rubies, and

the roof glowing with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as

subterranean waters filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed,

wonderstruck, filled his pockets with the radiant gems and then

returned to daylight, when he discovered that his prizes had all

changed into common pebbles. He then endeavored to re-enter the

marvellous grottos, but they had suddenly receded, and now the path

became a labyrinth, and then the entrance vanished, and in vain did he

tax his memory for the magic and mysterious word which opened the

splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the Arabian fisherman. All was useless,

the treasure disappeared, and had again reverted to the genii from whom

for a moment he had hoped to carry it off.



The day came at length, and was almost as feverish as the night had

been, but it brought reason to the aid of imagination, and Dantès was

then enabled to arrange a plan which had hitherto been vague and

unsettled in his brain. Night came, and with it the preparation for

departure, and these preparations served to conceal Dantès’ agitation.

He had by degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he

was almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always

clear, distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with

celerity and pleasure.



The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the

superiority of Dantès over the crew and himself. He saw in the young

man his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a daughter,

that he might have bound Edmond to him by a more secure alliance. At

seven o’clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten minutes past

seven they doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon was kindled. The

sea was calm, and, with a fresh breeze from the south-east, they sailed

beneath a bright blue sky, in which God also lighted up in turn his

beacon lights, each of which is a world. Dantès told them that all

hands might turn in, and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for

so they called Dantès) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went

to their bunks contentedly.



This frequently happened. Dantès, cast from solitude into the world,

frequently experienced an imperious desire for solitude; and what

solitude is more complete, or more poetical, than that of a ship

floating in isolation on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in

the silence of immensity, and under the eye of Heaven?



Now this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up

by his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When

the patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with every sail set, and

every sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an

hour. The Island of The Trial loomed large in the horizon. Edmond

resigned the lugger to the master’s care, and went and lay down in his

hammock; but, in spite of a sleepless night, he could not close his

eyes for a moment.



Two hours afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about to double

the Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond the

flat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of The Trial

reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky. Dantès

ordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La Pianosa

to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course by two or

three knots. About five o’clock in the evening the island was distinct,

and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that clearness

of the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the rays of the sun cast

at its setting.



Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the

variety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the deepest

blue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow darkened, and

a mist passed over his eyes. Never did a gamester, whose whole fortune

is staked on one cast of the die, experience the anguish which Edmond

felt in his paroxysms of hope.



Night came, and at ten o’clock they anchored. _La Jeune Amélie_ was

first at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command over himself,

Dantès could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first to jump on

shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have “kissed his

mother earth.” It was dark, but at eleven o’clock the moon rose in the

midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then, “ascending

high,” played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second

Pelion.



The island was familiar to the crew of _La Jeune Amélie_,—it was one of

her regular haunts. As to Dantès, he had passed it on his voyage to and

from the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo.



“Where shall we pass the night?” he inquired.



“Why, on board the tartan,” replied the sailor.



“Should we not do better in the grottos?”



“What grottos?”



“Why, the grottos—caves of the island.”



“I do not know of any grottos,” replied Jacopo.



The cold sweat sprang forth on Dantès’ brow.



“What, are there no grottos at The Trial?” he asked.



“None.”



For a moment Dantès was speechless; then he remembered that these caves

might have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the

sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to

discover the hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and

Dantès therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides,

a signal made half a league out at sea, and to which _La Jeune Amélie_

replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had

come.



The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all was

well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and cast

anchor within a cable’s length of shore.



Then the landing began. Dantès reflected, as he worked, on the shout of

joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he

gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded his heart;

but, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that he

had already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual

questions, his minute observations and evident preoccupation, aroused

suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his

painful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and the

glimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but

transitory.



No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a

fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantès declared his intention to go

and kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to

rock, his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a desire for

solitude. However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and Dantès did not

oppose this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust.

Scarcely, however, had they gone a quarter of a league when, having

killed a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to his comrades, and request

them to cook it, and when ready to let him know by firing a gun. This

and some dried fruits and a flask of Monte Pulciano, was the bill of

fare.



Dantès went on, looking from time to time behind and around about him.

Having reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath

him, his companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy

preparing the repast which Edmond’s skill as a marksman had augmented

with a capital dish.



Edmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and gentle smile of a

man superior to his fellows.



“In two hours’ time,” said he, “these persons will depart richer by

fifty piastres each, to go and risk their lives again by endeavoring to

gain fifty more; then they will return with a fortune of six hundred

francs, and waste this treasure in some city with the pride of sultans

and the insolence of nabobs. At this moment hope makes me despise their

riches, which seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance tomorrow deception

will so act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a

contemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no!” exclaimed

Edmond, “that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be

mistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to

continue to lead this low and wretched life.”



Thus Dantès, who but three months before had no desire but liberty had

now not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in

Dantès, but in Providence, who, while limiting the power of man, has

filled him with boundless desires.



Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a path worn

by a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human foot had never

before trod, Dantès approached the spot where he supposed the grottos

must have existed. Keeping along the shore, and examining the smallest

object with serious attention, he thought he could trace, on certain

rocks, marks made by the hand of man.



Time, which encrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as

it invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness, seemed to have

respected these signs, which apparently had been made with some degree

of regularity, and probably with a definite purpose. Occasionally the

marks were hidden under tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes

laden with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. So Edmond had to

separate the branches or brush away the moss to know where the

guide-marks were. The sight of marks renewed Edmond’s fondest hopes.

Might it not have been the cardinal himself who had first traced them,

in order that they might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event

of a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so

complete. This solitary place was precisely suited to the requirements

of a man desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not these betraying

marks have attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and

had the dark and wondrous island indeed faithfully guarded its precious

secret?



0295m







It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades by the

inequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the harbor the

marks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A large round rock,

placed solidly on its base, was the only spot to which they seemed to

lead. Edmond concluded that perhaps instead of having reached the end

of the route he had only explored its beginning, and he therefore

turned round and retraced his steps.



Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some water from

a spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the kid. Just at

the moment when they were taking the dainty animal from the spit, they

saw Edmond springing with the boldness of a chamois from rock to rock,

and they fired the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed

his direction, and ran quickly towards them. But even while they

watched his daring progress, Edmond’s foot slipped, and they saw him

stagger on the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed towards

him, for all loved Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo

reached him first.



He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He had

rolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured a little

rum down his throat, and this remedy which had before been so

beneficial to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond opened

his eyes, complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of heaviness

in his head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished to carry him to

the shore; but when they touched him, although under Jacopo’s

directions, he declared, with heavy groans, that he could not bear to

be moved.



It may be supposed that Dantès did not now think of his dinner, but he

insisted that his comrades, who had not his reasons for fasting, should

have their meal. As for himself, he declared that he had only need of a

little rest, and that when they returned he should be easier. The

sailors did not require much urging. They were hungry, and the smell of

the roasted kid was very savory, and your tars are not very

ceremonious. An hour afterwards they returned. All that Edmond had been

able to do was to drag himself about a dozen paces forward to lean

against a moss-grown rock.



But, instead of growing easier, Dantès’ pains appeared to increase in

violence. The old patron, who was obliged to sail in the morning in

order to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and France,

between Nice and Fréjus, urged Dantès to try and rise. Edmond made

great exertions in order to comply; but at each effort he fell back,

moaning and turning pale.



“He has broken his ribs,” said the commander, in a low voice. “No

matter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him. We will

try and carry him on board the tartan.”



Dantès declared, however, that he would rather die where he was than

undergo the agony which the slightest movement cost him.



“Well,” said the patron, “let what may happen, it shall never be said

that we deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening.”



This very much astonished the sailors, although, not one opposed it.

The patron was so strict that this was the first time they had ever

seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay in its execution. Dantès

would not allow that any such infraction of regular and proper rules

should be made in his favor.



“No, no,” he said to the patron, “I was awkward, and it is just that I

pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a

gun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and

a pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming back for

me.”



“But you’ll die of hunger,” said the patron.



“I would rather do so,” was Edmond’s reply, “than suffer the

inexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me.”



The patron turned towards his vessel, which was rolling on the swell in

the little harbor, and, with sails partly set, would be ready for sea

when her toilet should be completed.



“What are we to do, Maltese?” asked the captain. “We cannot leave you

here so, and yet we cannot stay.”



“Go, go!” exclaimed Dantès.



“We shall be absent at least a week,” said the patron, “and then we

must run out of our course to come here and take you up again.”



“Why,” said Dantès, “if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat,

desire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my

passage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me.”

The patron shook his head.



“Listen, Captain Baldi; there’s one way of settling this,” said Jacopo.

“Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man.”



“And give up your share of the venture,” said Edmond, “to remain with

me?”



“Yes,” said Jacopo, “and without any hesitation.”



“You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate,” replied Edmond,

“and heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do

not wish anyone to stay with me. A day or two of rest will set me up,

and I hope I shall find among the rocks certain herbs most excellent

for bruises.”



A peculiar smile passed over Dantès’ lips; he squeezed Jacopo’s hand

warmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain—and remain

alone.



The smugglers left with Edmond what he had requested and set sail, but

not without turning about several times, and each time making signs of

a cordial farewell, to which Edmond replied with his hand only, as if

he could not move the rest of his body.



Then, when they had disappeared, he said with a smile,—“’Tis strange

that it should be among such men that we find proofs of friendship and

devotion.” Then he dragged himself cautiously to the top of a rock,

from which he had a full view of the sea, and thence he saw the tartan

complete her preparations for sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing

herself as gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set

sail.



At the end of an hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was

impossible for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot

where he was. Then Dantès rose more agile and light than the kid among

the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand,

his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the

marks he had noted terminated.



“And now,” he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman,

which Faria had related to him, “now, Open Sesame!”







 Chapter 24. The Secret Cave



The sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching rays fell

full on the rocks, which seemed themselves sensible of the heat.

Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in the bushes, chirped with a

monotonous and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive trees

waved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took he

disturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off

he saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a word, the island

was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone, guided by the hand of

God.



He felt an indescribable sensation somewhat akin to dread—that dread of

the daylight which even in the desert makes us fear we are watched and

observed. This feeling was so strong that at the moment when Edmond was

about to begin his labor, he stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized his

gun, mounted to the summit of the highest rock, and from thence gazed

round in every direction.



But it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he could

distinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba, with its

historical associations; or upon the almost imperceptible line that to

the experienced eye of a sailor alone revealed the coast of Genoa the

proud, and Leghorn the commercial, that he gazed. It was at the

brigantine that had left in the morning, and the tartan that had just

set sail, that Edmond fixed his eyes.



The first was just disappearing in the straits of Bonifacio; the other,

following an opposite direction, was about to round the Island of

Corsica.



This sight reassured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He

saw that he was on the highest point of the island,—a statue on this

vast pedestal of granite, nothing human appearing in sight, while the

blue ocean beat against the base of the island, and covered it with a

fringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for he

dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so adroitly feigned

should happen in reality.



Dantès, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks, and he

had noticed that they led to a small creek, which was hidden like the

bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its

mouth, and deep in the centre, to admit of the entrance of a small

vessel of the lugger class, which would be perfectly concealed from

observation.



Then following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbé Faria, had been

so skilfully used to guide him through the Dædalian labyrinth of

probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be

watched, had entered the creek, concealed his little barque, followed

the line marked by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had

buried his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dantès back to

the circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his

theory. How could this rock, which weighed several tons, have been

lifted to this spot, without the aid of many men?



Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. Instead of raising it,

thought he, they have lowered it. And he sprang from the rock in order

to inspect the base on which it had formerly stood.



He soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and the rock had slid

along this until it stopped at the spot it now occupied. A large stone

had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been inserted around it,

so as to conceal the orifice; this species of masonry had been covered

with earth, and grass and weeds had grown there, moss had clung to the

stones, myrtle-bushes had taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to

the earth.



0301m







Dantès dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he

detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented by

the hand of time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes’ labor the wall

gave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was opened.



Dantès went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped

off its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever. But

the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be moved by anyone

man, were he Hercules himself. Dantès saw that he must attack the

wedge. But how?



He cast his eyes around, and saw the horn full of powder which his

friend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would

serve him for this purpose.



With the aid of his pickaxe, Dantès, after the manner of a labor-saving

pioneer, dug a mine between the upper rock and the one that supported

it, filled it with powder, then made a match by rolling his

handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired.



The explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its base by

the terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew into pieces;

thousands of insects escaped from the aperture Dantès had previously

formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure,

rolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared.



Dantès approached the upper rock, which now, without any support,

leaned towards the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker walked round it,

and, selecting the spot from whence it appeared most susceptible to

attack, placed his lever in one of the crevices, and strained every

nerve to move the mass.



The rock, already shaken by the explosion, tottered on its base. Dantès

redoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who

uprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods. The rock

yielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and finally

disappeared in the ocean.



On the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing an iron ring

let into a square flag-stone.



Dantès uttered a cry of joy and surprise; never had a first attempt

been crowned with more perfect success. He would fain have continued,

but his knees trembled, and his heart beat so violently, and his sight

became so dim, that he was forced to pause.



This feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the

ring and exerted all his strength; the flag-stone yielded, and

disclosed steps that descended until they were lost in the obscurity of

a subterraneous grotto.



Anyone else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantès turned pale,

hesitated, and reflected.



“Come,” said he to himself, “be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I

must not be cast down by the discovery that I have been deceived. What,

then, would be the use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when,

after having been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions

destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no

treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Cæsar Borgia,

the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has

followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as I have done,

raised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing.”



He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy

aperture that was open at his feet.



“Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the

slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter of

curiosity.” And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.



“Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied career of

that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link in a long

chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a

sword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock,

perhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea, while their master

descended, as I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his

awe-inspiring progress.”



0303m







“But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret?”

asked Dantès of himself.



“The fate,” replied he, smiling, “of those who buried Alaric, and were

interred with the corpse.”



“Yet, had he come,” thought Dantès, “he would have found the treasure,

and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which he could

devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to waste it in

replacing this rock. I will go down.”



Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last word of

human philosophy, “Perhaps!”



But instead of the darkness, and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he

had expected to find, Dantès saw a dim and bluish light, which, as well

as the air, entered, not merely by the aperture he had just formed, but

by the interstices and crevices of the rock which were visible from

without, and through which he could distinguish the blue sky and the

waving branches of the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the creepers

that grew from the rocks.



After having stood a few minutes in the cavern, the atmosphere of which

was rather warm than damp, Dantès’ eye, habituated as it was to

darkness, could pierce even to the remotest angles of the cavern, which

was of granite that sparkled like diamonds.



“Alas,” said Edmond, smiling, “these are the treasures the cardinal has

left; and the good abbé, seeing in a dream these glittering walls, has

indulged in fallacious hopes.”



But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by heart.

“In the farthest angle of the second opening,” said the cardinal’s

will. He had only found the first grotto; he had now to seek the

second. Dantès continued his search. He reflected that this second

grotto must penetrate deeper into the island; he examined the stones,

and sounded one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed,

masked for precaution’s sake.



The pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of

Dantès’ forehead large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to him

that one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper echo; he

eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception that no one but

a prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all probability, the opening

must be.



However, he, like Cæsar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in order

to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with his

pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding nothing

that appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall whence

issued the consoling sound he had before heard.



He again struck it, and with greater force. Then a singular thing

occurred. As he struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used

in the ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in

flakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture of the rock had been

closed with stones, then this stucco had been applied, and painted to

imitate granite. Dantès struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which

entered someway between the interstices.



It was there he must dig.



But by some strange play of emotion, in proportion as the proofs that

Faria, had not been deceived became stronger, so did his heart give

way, and a feeling of discouragement stole over him. This last proof,

instead of giving him fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe

descended, or rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand

over his brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an

excuse, a desire to be assured that no one was watching him, but in

reality because he felt that he was about to faint.



The island was deserted, and the sun seemed to cover it with its fiery

glance; afar off, a few small fishing boats studded the bosom of the

blue ocean.



Dantès had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such a

moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again entered the

cavern.



The pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now like a feather in his

grasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall. After several blows he

perceived that the stones were not cemented, but had been merely placed

one upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the point of

his pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, with joy soon saw the

stone turn as if on hinges, and fall at his feet.



He had nothing more to do now, but with the iron tooth of the pickaxe

to draw the stones towards him one by one. The aperture was already

sufficiently large for him to enter, but by waiting, he could still

cling to hope, and retard the certainty of deception. At last, after

renewed hesitation, Dantès entered the second grotto.



The second grotto was lower and more gloomy than the first; the air

that could only enter by the newly formed opening had the mephitic

smell Dantès was surprised not to find in the outer cavern. He waited

in order to allow pure air to displace the foul atmosphere, and then

went on.



At the left of the opening was a dark and deep angle. But to Dantès’

eye there was no darkness. He glanced around this second grotto; it

was, like the first, empty.



The treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The time had at

length arrived; two feet of earth removed, and Dantès’ fate would be

decided.



He advanced towards the angle, and summoning all his resolution,

attacked the ground with the pickaxe. At the fifth or sixth blow the

pickaxe struck against an iron substance. Never did funeral knell,

never did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect on the hearer. Had

Dantès found nothing he could not have become more ghastly pale.



He again struck his pickaxe into the earth, and encountered the same

resistance, but not the same sound.



“It is a casket of wood bound with iron,” thought he.



At this moment a shadow passed rapidly before the opening; Dantès

seized his gun, sprang through the opening, and mounted the stair. A

wild goat had passed before the mouth of the cave, and was feeding at a

little distance. This would have been a favorable occasion to secure

his dinner; but Dantès feared lest the report of his gun should attract

attention.



He thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree, lighted it at the

fire at which the smugglers had prepared their breakfast, and descended

with this torch.



He wished to see everything. He approached the hole he had dug, and

now, with the aid of the torch, saw that his pickaxe had in reality

struck against iron and wood. He planted his torch in the ground and

resumed his labor.



In an instant a space three feet long by two feet broad was cleared,

and Dantès could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the

middle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which was still

untarnished, the arms of the Spada family—viz., a sword, _en pale_, on

an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and surmounted

by a cardinal’s hat.



Dantès easily recognized them, Faria had so often drawn them for him.

There was no longer any doubt: the treasure was there—no one would have

been at such pains to conceal an empty casket. In an instant he had

cleared every obstacle away, and he saw successively the lock, placed

between two padlocks, and the two handles at each end, all carved as

things were carved at that epoch, when art rendered the commonest

metals precious.



Dantès seized the handles, and strove to lift the coffer; it was

impossible. He sought to open it; lock and padlock were fastened; these

faithful guardians seemed unwilling to surrender their trust. Dantès

inserted the sharp end of the pickaxe between the coffer and the lid,

and pressing with all his force on the handle, burst open the

fastenings. The hinges yielded in their turn and fell, still holding in

their grasp fragments of the wood, and the chest was open.



0307m







Edmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid it beside

him. He then closed his eyes as children do in order that they may see

in the resplendent night of their own imagination more stars than are

visible in the firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless

with amazement.



Three compartments divided the coffer. In the first, blazed piles of

golden coin; in the second, were ranged bars of unpolished gold, which

possessed nothing attractive save their value; in the third, Edmond

grasped handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they fell

on one another, sounded like hail against glass.



After having touched, felt, examined these treasures, Edmond rushed

through the caverns like a man seized with frenzy; he leaped on a rock,

from whence he could behold the sea. He was alone—alone with these

countless, these unheard-of treasures! Was he awake, or was it but a

dream? Was it a transient vision, or was he face to face with reality?



He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not strength

enough; for an instant he leaned his head in his hands as if to prevent

his senses from leaving him, and then rushed madly about the rocks of

The Trial, terrifying the wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls with

his wild cries and gestures; then he returned, and, still unable to

believe the evidence of his senses, rushed into the grotto, and found

himself before this mine of gold and jewels.



This time he fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands convulsively,

uttered a prayer intelligible to God alone. He soon became calmer and

more happy, for only now did he begin to realize his felicity.



He then set himself to work to count his fortune. There were a thousand

ingots of gold, each weighing from two to three pounds; then he piled

up twenty-five thousand crowns, each worth about eighty francs of our

money, and bearing the effigies of Alexander VI. and his predecessors;

and he saw that the complement was not half empty. And he measured ten

double handfuls of pearls, diamonds, and other gems, many of which,

mounted by the most famous workmen, were valuable beyond their

intrinsic worth.



Dantès saw the light gradually disappear, and fearing to be surprised

in the cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and a

small quantity of rum formed his supper, and he snatched a few hours’

sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.



It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous

emotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his lifetime.







 Chapter 25. The Unknown



Day, for which Dantès had so eagerly and impatiently waited with open

eyes, again dawned. With the first light Dantès resumed his search.

Again he climbed the rocky height he had ascended the previous evening,

and strained his view to catch every peculiarity of the landscape; but

it wore the same wild, barren aspect when seen by the rays of the

morning sun which it had done when surveyed by the fading glimmer of

eve.



Descending into the grotto, he lifted the stone, filled his pockets

with gems, put the box together as well and securely as he could,

sprinkled fresh sand over the spot from which it had been taken, and

then carefully trod down the earth to give it everywhere a uniform

appearance; then, quitting the grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping

on it broken masses of rocks and rough fragments of crumbling granite,

filling the interstices with earth, into which he deftly inserted

rapidly growing plants, such as the wild myrtle and flowering thorn,

then carefully watering these new plantations, he scrupulously effaced

every trace of footsteps, leaving the approach to the cavern as

savage-looking and untrodden as he had found it. This done, he

impatiently awaited the return of his companions. To wait at Monte

Cristo for the purpose of watching like a dragon over the almost

incalculable riches that had thus fallen into his possession satisfied

not the cravings of his heart, which yearned to return to dwell among

mankind, and to assume the rank, power, and influence which are always

accorded to wealth—that first and greatest of all the forces within the

grasp of man.



On the sixth day, the smugglers returned. From a distance Dantès

recognized the rig and handling of _La Jeune Amélie_, and dragging

himself with affected difficulty towards the landing-place, he met his

companions with an assurance that, although considerably better than

when they quitted him, he still suffered acutely from his late

accident. He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. To this

question the smugglers replied that, although successful in landing

their cargo in safety, they had scarcely done so when they received

intelligence that a guard-ship had just quitted the port of Toulon and

was crowding all sail towards them. This obliged them to make all the

speed they could to evade the enemy, when they could but lament the

absence of Dantès, whose superior skill in the management of a vessel

would have availed them so materially. In fact, the pursuing vessel had

almost overtaken them when, fortunately, night came on, and enabled

them to double the Cape of Corsica, and so elude all further pursuit.

Upon the whole, however, the trip had been sufficiently successful to

satisfy all concerned; while the crew, and particularly Jacopo,

expressed great regrets that Dantès had not been an equal sharer with

themselves in the profits, which amounted to no less a sum than fifty

piastres each.



0311m







Edmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering the

faintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration of all

the benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit the island;

but as _La Jeune Amélie_ had merely come to The Trial to fetch him

away, he embarked that same evening, and proceeded with the captain to

Leghorn.



Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the house of a Jew, a dealer in

precious stones, to whom he disposed of four of his smallest diamonds

for five thousand francs each. Dantès half feared that such valuable

jewels in the hands of a poor sailor like himself might excite

suspicion; but the cunning purchaser asked no troublesome questions

concerning a bargain by which he gained a round profit of at least

eighty per cent.



The following day Dantès presented Jacopo with an entirely new vessel,

accompanying the gift by a donation of one hundred piastres, that he

might provide himself with a suitable crew and other requisites for his

outfit, upon condition that he would go at once to Marseilles for the

purpose of inquiring after an old man named Louis Dantès, residing in

the Allées de Meilhan, and also a young woman called Mercédès, an

inhabitant of the Catalan village.



Jacopo could scarcely believe his senses at receiving this magnificent

present, which Dantès hastened to account for by saying that he had

merely been a sailor from whim and a desire to spite his family, who

did not allow him as much money as he liked to spend; but that on his

arrival at Leghorn he had come into possession of a large fortune, left

him by an uncle, whose sole heir he was. The superior education of

Dantès gave an air of such extreme probability to this statement that

it never once occurred to Jacopo to doubt its accuracy.



The term for which Edmond had engaged to serve on board _La Jeune

Amélie_ having expired, Dantès took leave of the captain, who at first

tried all his powers of persuasion to induce him to remain as one of

the crew, but having been told the history of the legacy, he ceased to

importune him further.



The following morning Jacopo set sail for Marseilles, with directions

from Dantès to join him at the Island of The Trial.



Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dantès proceeded to make

his final adieus on board _La Jeune Amélie_, distributing so liberal a

gratuity among her crew as to secure for him the good wishes of all,

and expressions of cordial interest in all that concerned him. To the

captain he promised to write when he had made up his mind as to his

future plans. Then Dantès departed for Genoa.



At the moment of his arrival a small yacht was under trial in the bay;

this yacht had been built by order of an Englishman, who, having heard

that the Genoese excelled all other builders along the shores of the

Mediterranean in the construction of fast-sailing vessels, was desirous

of possessing a specimen of their skill; the price agreed upon between

the Englishman and the Genoese builder was forty thousand francs.

Dantès, struck with the beauty and capability of the little vessel,

applied to its owner to transfer it to him, offering sixty thousand

francs, upon condition that he should be allowed to take immediate

possession. The proposal was too advantageous to be refused, the more

so as the person for whom the yacht was intended had gone upon a tour

through Switzerland, and was not expected back in less than three weeks

or a month, by which time the builder reckoned upon being able to

complete another. A bargain was therefore struck. Dantès led the owner

of the yacht to the dwelling of a Jew; retired with the latter for a

few minutes to a small back parlor, and upon their return the Jew

counted out to the shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand francs in

bright gold pieces.



The delighted builder then offered his services in providing a suitable

crew for the little vessel, but this Dantès declined with many thanks,

saying he was accustomed to cruise about quite alone, and his principal

pleasure consisted in managing his yacht himself; the only thing the

builder could oblige him in would be to contrive a sort of secret

closet in the cabin at his bed’s head, the closet to contain three

divisions, so constructed as to be concealed from all but himself. The

builder cheerfully undertook the commission, and promised to have these

secret places completed by the next day, Dantès furnishing the

dimensions and plan in accordance with which they were to be

constructed.



0313m







Two hours afterward Dantès sailed from the port of Genoa, under the

inspection of an immense crowd drawn together by curiosity to see the

rich Spanish nobleman who preferred managing his own yacht. But their

wonder was soon changed to admiration at seeing the perfect skill with

which Dantès handled the helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated

with almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the slightest

touch; and Dantès required but a short trial of his beautiful craft to

acknowledge that the Genoese had not without reason attained their high

reputation in the art of shipbuilding.



The spectators followed the little vessel with their eyes as long as it

remained visible; they then turned their conjectures upon her probable

destination. Some insisted she was making for Corsica, others the

Island of Elba; bets were offered to any amount that she was bound for

Spain; while Africa was positively reported by many persons as her

intended course; but no one thought of The Trial.



Yet thither it was that Dantès guided his vessel, and at The Trial

he arrived at the close of the second day; his boat had proved herself

a first-class sailor, and had come the distance from Genoa in

thirty-five hours. Dantès had carefully noted the general appearance of

the shore, and, instead of landing at the usual place, he dropped

anchor in the little creek. The island was utterly deserted, and bore

no evidence of having been visited since he went away; his treasure was

just as he had left it.



Early on the following morning he commenced the removal of his riches,

and ere nightfall the whole of his immense wealth was safely deposited

in the compartments of the secret locker.



A week passed by. Dantès employed it in manœuvring his yacht round the

island, studying it as a skilful horseman would the animal he destined

for some important service, till at the end of that time he was

perfectly conversant with its good and bad qualities. The former Dantès

proposed to augment, the latter to remedy.



Upon the eighth day he discerned a small vessel under full sail

approaching The Trial. As it drew near, he recognized it as the boat

he had given to Jacopo. He immediately signalled it. His signal was

returned, and in two hours afterwards the new-comer lay at anchor

beside the yacht.



A mournful answer awaited each of Edmond’s eager inquiries as to the

information Jacopo had obtained. Old Dantès was dead, and Mercédès had

disappeared.



Dantès listened to these melancholy tidings with outward calmness; but,

leaping lightly ashore, he signified his desire to be quite alone. In a

couple of hours he returned. Two of the men from Jacopo’s boat came on

board the yacht to assist in navigating it, and he gave orders that she

should be steered direct to Marseilles. For his father’s death he was

in some manner prepared; but he knew not how to account for the

mysterious disappearance of Mercédès.



Without divulging his secret, Dantès could not give sufficiently clear

instructions to an agent. There were, besides, other particulars he was

desirous of ascertaining, and those were of a nature he alone could

investigate in a manner satisfactory to himself. His looking-glass had

assured him, during his stay at Leghorn, that he ran no risk of

recognition; moreover, he had now the means of adopting any disguise he

thought proper. One fine morning, then, his yacht, followed by the

little fishing-boat, boldly entered the port of Marseilles, and

anchored exactly opposite the spot from whence, on the

never-to-be-forgotten night of his departure for the Château d’If, he

had been put on board the boat destined to convey him thither.



0315m







Still Dantès could not view without a shudder the approach of a

gendarme who accompanied the officers deputed to demand his bill of

health ere the yacht was permitted to hold communication with the

shore; but with that perfect self-possession he had acquired during his

acquaintance with Faria, Dantès coolly presented an English passport he

had obtained from Leghorn, and as this gave him a standing which a

French passport would not have afforded, he was informed that there

existed no obstacle to his immediate debarkation.



The first person to attract the attention of Dantès, as he landed on

the Canebière, was one of the crew belonging to the _Pharaon_. Edmond

welcomed the meeting with this fellow—who had been one of his own

sailors—as a sure means of testing the extent of the change which time

had worked in his own appearance. Going straight towards him, he

propounded a variety of questions on different subjects, carefully

watching the man’s countenance as he did so; but not a word or look

implied that he had the slightest idea of ever having seen before the

person with whom he was then conversing.



Giving the sailor a piece of money in return for his civility, Dantès

proceeded onwards; but ere he had gone many steps he heard the man

loudly calling him to stop.



Dantès instantly turned to meet him.



“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the honest fellow, in almost breathless

haste, “but I believe you made a mistake; you intended to give me a

two-franc piece, and see, you gave me a double Napoleon.”



“Thank you, my good friend. I see that I have made a trifling mistake,

as you say; but by way of rewarding your honesty I give you another

double Napoleon, that you may drink to my health, and be able to ask

your messmates to join you.”



So extreme was the surprise of the sailor, that he was unable even to

thank Edmond, whose receding figure he continued to gaze after in

speechless astonishment. “Some nabob from India,” was his comment.



Dantès, meanwhile, went on his way. Each step he trod oppressed his

heart with fresh emotion; his first and most indelible recollections

were there; not a tree, not a street, that he passed but seemed filled

with dear and cherished memories. And thus he proceeded onwards till he

arrived at the end of the Rue de Noailles, from whence a full view of

the Allées de Meilhan was obtained. At this spot, so pregnant with fond

and filial remembrances, his heart beat almost to bursting, his knees

tottered under him, a mist floated over his sight, and had he not clung

for support to one of the trees, he would inevitably have fallen to the

ground and been crushed beneath the many vehicles continually passing

there. Recovering himself, however, he wiped the perspiration from his

brows, and stopped not again till he found himself at the door of the

house in which his father had lived.



The nasturtiums and other plants, which his father had delighted to

train before his window, had all disappeared from the upper part of the

house.



Leaning against the tree, he gazed thoughtfully for a time at the upper

stories of the shabby little house. Then he advanced to the door, and

asked whether there were any rooms to be let. Though answered in the

negative, he begged so earnestly to be permitted to visit those on the

fifth floor, that, in despite of the oft-repeated assurance of the

_concierge_ that they were occupied, Dantès succeeded in inducing the

man to go up to the tenants, and ask permission for a gentleman to be

allowed to look at them.



The tenants of the humble lodging were a young couple who had been

scarcely married a week; and seeing them, Dantès sighed heavily.

Nothing in the two small chambers forming the apartments remained as it

had been in the time of the elder Dantès; the very paper was different,

while the articles of antiquated furniture with which the rooms had

been filled in Edmond’s time had all disappeared; the four walls alone

remained as he had left them.



The bed belonging to the present occupants was placed as the former

owner of the chamber had been accustomed to have his; and, in spite of

his efforts to prevent it, the eyes of Edmond were suffused in tears as

he reflected that on that spot the old man had breathed his last,

vainly calling for his son.



The young couple gazed with astonishment at the sight of their

visitor’s emotion, and wondered to see the large tears silently chasing

each other down his otherwise stern and immovable features; but they

felt the sacredness of his grief, and kindly refrained from questioning

him as to its cause, while, with instinctive delicacy, they left him to

indulge his sorrow alone.



0317m







When he withdrew from the scene of his painful recollections, they both

accompanied him downstairs, reiterating their hope that he would come

again whenever he pleased, and assuring him that their poor dwelling

would ever be open to him.



As Edmond passed the door on the fourth floor, he paused to inquire

whether Caderousse the tailor still dwelt there; but he received for

reply, that the person in question had got into difficulties, and at

the present time kept a small inn on the route from Bellegarde to

Beaucaire.



Having obtained the address of the person to whom the house in the

Allées de Meilhan belonged, Dantès next proceeded thither, and, under

the name of Lord Wilmore (the name and title inscribed on his

passport), purchased the small dwelling for the sum of twenty-five

thousand francs, at least ten thousand more than it was worth; but had

its owner asked half a million, it would unhesitatingly have been

given.



The very same day the occupants of the apartments on the fifth floor of

the house, now become the property of Dantès, were duly informed by the

notary who had arranged the necessary transfer of deeds, etc., that the

new landlord gave them their choice of any of the rooms in the house,

without the least augmentation of rent, upon condition of their giving

instant possession of the two small chambers they at present inhabited.



This strange event aroused great wonder and curiosity in the

neighborhood of the Allées de Meilhan, and a multitude of theories were

afloat, none of which was anywhere near the truth. But what raised

public astonishment to a climax, and set all conjecture at defiance,

was the knowledge that the same stranger who had in the morning visited

the Allées de Meilhan had been seen in the evening walking in the

little village of the Catalans, and afterwards observed to enter a poor

fisherman’s hut, and to pass more than an hour in inquiring after

persons who had either been dead or gone away for more than fifteen or

sixteen years.



But on the following day the family from whom all these particulars had

been asked received a handsome present, consisting of an entirely new

fishing-boat, with two seines and a tender.



The delighted recipients of these munificent gifts would gladly have

poured out their thanks to their generous benefactor, but they had seen

him, upon quitting the hut, merely give some orders to a sailor, and

then springing lightly on horseback, leave Marseilles by the Porte

d’Aix.







 Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn



Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of

France may perchance have noticed, about midway between the town of

Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,—a little nearer to the former

than to the latter,—a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung,

creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a

grotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of

entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the post road, and backed

upon the Rhône. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a

garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, on the side opposite to

the main entrance reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy

olives and stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their

withered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict.

Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes,

and eschalots; while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a

tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this

unattractive spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped

summit dried and cracked by the fierce heat of the sub-tropical sun.



All these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to which

the Mistral blows, one of the three curses of Provence, the others

being the Durance and the Parliament.



In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solid

ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, no

doubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturists of the

country to see whether such a thing as the raising of grain in those

parched regions was practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for a

grasshopper, which regaled the passers-by through this Egyptian scene

with its strident, monotonous note.



For about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a man

and his wife, with two servants,—a chambermaid named Trinette, and a

hostler called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all the

requirements, for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had

revolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and

the stagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily misery which this

prosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate innkeeper, whose utter

ruin it was fast accomplishing, it was situated between the Rhône from

which it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a

hundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a brief but faithful

description.



The innkeeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years of

age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those

southern latitudes; he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked

nose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like

his beard, which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and in

spite of his age but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threads.

His naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of

brown from the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing

himself from morning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the

lookout for guests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day,

exposed to the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other

protection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted around it,

after the manner of the Spanish muleteers. This man was our old

acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse.



His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine

Radelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the neighborhood

of Arles, she had shared in the beauty for which its women are

proverbial; but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the

devastating influence of the slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by

the ponds of Aiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained

nearly always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair, or

stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her husband kept his

daily watch at the door—a duty he performed with so much the greater

willingness, as it saved him the necessity of listening to the endless

plaints and murmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breaking

out into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which her husband

would calmly return an unvarying reply, in these philosophic words:



“Hush, La Carconte. It is God’s pleasure that things should be so.”



The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle

from the fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situated

between Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the

inhabitants of that part of France where Caderousse lived of styling

every person by some particular and distinctive appellation, her

husband had bestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of her

sweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in all probability, his

rude guttural language would not have enabled him to pronounce.



Still, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to

the will of Providence, the unfortunate innkeeper did not writhe under

the double misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers

and his profits, and the daily infliction of his peevish partner’s

murmurs and lamentations.



0323m







Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and

moderate desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted to

display. During the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took place

without himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the

picturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the

south of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by

the Catalans and Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming

fashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed

equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains,

necklaces, parti-colored scarves, embroidered bodices, velvet vests,

elegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for the

shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad

in his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in the

pomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter

feeling of envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and

merry music from the joyous revellers reached even the miserable

hostelry to which he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit

it afforded.



Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before the

door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shaven

grass—on which some fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly,

endeavoring to turn up some grain or insect suited to their palate—to

the deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when he was

aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and grumbling to himself as he

went, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set the

entrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who

might be passing.



At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch before the door,

the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and lonely

as a desert at midday. There it lay stretching out into one

interminable line of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall,

meagre trees, altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that

no one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty

to regulate his hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in

such a formidable Sahara.



Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes

longer, he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching

from the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew nearer,

he would easily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse,

between whom the kindest and most amiable understanding appeared

to exist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an

easy pace. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a

three-cornered hat; and, despite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun,

the pair came on with a fair degree of rapidity.



Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whether

for his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to

say. However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led his

steed by the bridle in search of some place to which he could secure

him. Availing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen

door, he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cotton

handkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that

streamed from his brow, then, advancing to the door, struck thrice with

the end of his iron-shod stick.



At this unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the daring

assailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling and displaying his

sharp white teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly proved

how little he was accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy

footstep was heard descending the wooden staircase that led from the

upper floor, and, with many bows and courteous smiles, the host of the

Pont du Gard besought his guest to enter.



0319m







“You are welcome, sir, most welcome!” repeated the astonished

Caderousse. “Now, then, Margotin,” cried he, speaking to the dog, “will

you be quiet? Pray don’t heed him, sir!—he only barks, he never bites.

I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this

dreadfully hot day.” Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the

traveller he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: “A

thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had the honor to

receive under my poor roof. What would the abbé please to have? What

refreshment can I offer? All I have is at his service.”



The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching

gaze—there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar

scrutiny on the part of the innkeeper; then, observing in the

countenance of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at

his own want of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he

deemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said,

speaking with a strong Italian accent, “You are, I presume, M.

Caderousse?”



“Yes, sir,” answered the host, even more surprised at the question than

he had been by the silence which had preceded it; “I am Gaspard

Caderousse, at your service.”



“Gaspard Caderousse,” rejoined the priest. “Yes,—Christian and surname

are the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allées de Meilhan,

on the fourth floor?”



0325m







“I did.”



“And you followed the business of a tailor?”



“True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot at

Marseilles, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will

in time go without any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is there

nothing I can offer you by way of refreshment?”



“Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your

permission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off.”



“As you please, sir,” said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose the

present opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of

Cahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door in

the floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor

and kitchen.



Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the expiration of

five minutes, he found the abbé seated upon a wooden stool, leaning his

elbow on a table, while Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by

the unusual command of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up to

him, and had established himself very comfortably between his knees,

his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his dim eye was fixed

earnestly on the traveller’s face.



“Are you quite alone?” inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed before

him the bottle of wine and a glass.



“Quite, quite alone,” replied the man—“or, at least, practically so,

for my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself,

is laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance,

poor thing!”



“You are married, then?” said the priest, with a show of interest,

glancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment.



“Ah, sir,” said Caderousse with a sigh, “it is easy to perceive I am

not a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for

being honest.” The abbé fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance.



“Yes, honest—I can certainly say that much for myself,” continued the

innkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbé’s gaze; “I can

boast with truth of being an honest man; and,” continued he

significantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head, “that is

more than everyone can say nowadays.”



0327m







“So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,” said the

abbé; “for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will

be rewarded, and the wicked punished.”



“Such words as those belong to your profession,” answered Caderousse,

“and you do well to repeat them; but,” added he, with a bitter

expression of countenance, “one is free to believe them or not, as one

pleases.”



“You are wrong to speak thus,” said the abbé; “and perhaps I may, in my

own person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error.”



“What mean you?” inquired Caderousse with a look of surprise.



“In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am

in search of.”



“What proofs do you require?”



“Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor

named Dantès?”



“Dantès? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantès and myself

were intimate friends!” exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance flushed

darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbé fixed on him,

while the clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with

feverish scrutiny.



“You remind me,” said the priest, “that the young man concerning whom I

asked you was said to bear the name of Edmond.”



“Said to bear the name!” repeated Caderousse, becoming excited and

eager. “Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellation

of Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poor

Edmond? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous

and happy?”



“He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the

felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.”



A deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance of Caderousse,

who turned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes

with the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head.



“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” murmured Caderousse. “Well, there, sir, is

another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and

that none but the wicked prosper. Ah,” continued Caderousse, speaking

in the highly colored language of the South, “the world grows worse and

worse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said

to do, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether?”



“You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès,” observed the

abbé, without taking any notice of his companion’s vehemence.



“And so I did,” replied Caderousse; “though once, I confess, I envied

him his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by

everything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerely

lamented his unhappy fate.”



There was a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eye of the

abbé was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of the

innkeeper.



“You knew the poor lad, then?” continued Caderousse.



“I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to

him the consolations of religion.”



“And of what did he die?” asked Caderousse in a choking voice.



“Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison, when they

have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of

imprisonment?” Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspiration

that gathered on his brow.



0329m







“But the strangest part of the story is,” resumed the abbé, “that

Dantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer,

that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention.”



“And so he was,” murmured Caderousse. “How should he have been

otherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth.”



“And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he

had never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any

foul spot or stain have fallen on it.”



And here the look of the abbé, becoming more and more fixed, seemed to

rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which was

rapidly spreading over the countenance of Caderousse.



“A rich Englishman,” continued the abbé, “who had been his companion in

misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second

restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he

bestowed on Dantès upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his

gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dantès had

nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.

Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers,

who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor,

Dantès carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of

prison he might have wherewithal to live, for the sale of such a

diamond would have quite sufficed to make his fortune.”



“Then, I suppose,” asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, “that

it was a stone of immense value?”



“Why, everything is relative,” answered the abbé. “To one in Edmond’s

position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at

fifty thousand francs.”



“Bless me!” exclaimed Caderousse, “fifty thousand francs! Surely the

diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that.”



“No,” replied the abbé, “it was not of such a size as that; but you

shall judge for yourself. I have it with me.”



The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the

priest’s garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the

treasure. Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with

black shagreen, the abbé opened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes

of Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of

admirable workmanship.



“And that diamond,” cried Caderousse, almost breathless with eager

admiration, “you say, is worth fifty thousand francs?”



“It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,” replied the abbé,

as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its

brilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated

innkeeper.



“But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you

his heir?”



“No, merely his testamentary executor. ‘I once possessed four dear and

faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed’ he said;

‘and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss.

The name of one of the four friends is Caderousse.’” The innkeeper

shivered.



“‘Another of the number,’” continued the abbé, without seeming to

notice the emotion of Caderousse, “‘is called Danglars; and the third,

in spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for

me.’”



A fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about

to break in upon the abbé’s speech, when the latter, waving his hand,

said, “Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations

to make, you can do so afterwards. ‘The third of my friends, although

my rival, was much attached to me,—his name was Fernand; that of my

betrothed was’—Stay, stay,” continued the abbé, “I have forgotten what

he called her.”



“Mercédès,” said Caderousse eagerly.



“True,” said the abbé, with a stifled sigh, “Mercédès it was.”



“Go on,” urged Caderousse.



“Bring me a _carafe_ of water,” said the abbé.



Caderousse quickly performed the stranger’s bidding; and after pouring

some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé,

resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his empty

glass on the table:



“Where did we leave off?”



“The name of Edmond’s betrothed was Mercédès.”



“To be sure. ‘You will go to Marseilles,’ said Dantès,—for you

understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you

understand?”



“Perfectly.”



“‘You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal

parts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only

persons who have loved me upon earth.’”



“But why into five parts?” asked Caderousse; “you only mentioned four

persons.”



“Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’s

bequest, was his own father.”



“Too true, too true!” ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the

contending passions which assailed him, “the poor old man did die.”



“I learned so much at Marseilles,” replied the abbé, making a strong

effort to appear indifferent; “but from the length of time that has

elapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, I was unable to obtain any

particulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point?”



“I do not know who could if I could not,” said Caderousse. “Why, I

lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a

year after the disappearance of his son the poor old man died.”



“Of what did he die?”



“Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I believe; his

acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying

moments, I say he died of——”



Caderousse paused.



“Of what?” asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.



“Why, of downright starvation.”



“Starvation!” exclaimed the abbé, springing from his seat. “Why, the

vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The

very dogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some

pitying hand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a

Christian, should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other

men who call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it

is impossible!—utterly impossible!”



“What I have said, I have said,” answered Caderousse.



“And you are a fool for having said anything about it,” said a voice

from the top of the stairs. “Why should you meddle with what does not

concern you?”



The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of La

Carconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound of

voices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on

the lower step, head on knees, she had listened to the foregoing

conversation.



“Mind your own business, wife,” replied Caderousse sharply. “This

gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not

permit me to refuse.”



“Politeness, you simpleton!” retorted La Carconte. “What have you to do

with politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common

prudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying

to extract all he can from you?”



“I pledge you my word, madam,” said the abbé, “that my intentions are

good; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me

candidly.”



“Ah, that’s all very fine,” retorted the woman. “Nothing is easier than

to begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but when

poor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell

all they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly

forgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold

trouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the

unfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions

come.”



“Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you.

Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my

instrumentality, that I solemnly promise you.”



La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head again

drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the two

speakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to

hear every word they uttered. Again the abbé had been obliged to

swallow a draught of water to calm the emotions that threatened to

overpower him.



When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, “It appears, then,

that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by

everyone. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have

perished by so dreadful a death.”



“Why, he was not altogether forsaken,” continued Caderousse, “for

Mercédès the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; but

somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for

Fernand—the very person,” added Caderousse with a bitter smile, “that

you named just now as being one of Dantès’ faithful and attached

friends.”



“And was he not so?” asked the abbé.



“Gaspard, Gaspard!” murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs,

“mind what you are saying!”



Caderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and

annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbé, said, “Can a man

be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself?

But Dantès was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he

believed everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was

cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might

have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his

enemies. And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his

native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I

cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the

dead than the hatred of the living.”



“Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte.



“Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?” inquired

the abbé of Caderousse.



“Do I? No one better.”



“Speak out then, say what it was!”



“Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master—but if

you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.”



“Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t know but what you’re right!”



“So you will say nothing?” asked the abbé.



“Why, what good would it do?” asked Caderousse. “If the poor lad were

living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were

his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not

hesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing

to do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with

him.”



“You prefer, then,” said the abbé, “that I should bestow on men you say

are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful

friendship?”



“That is true enough,” returned Caderousse. “You say truly, the gift of

poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars;

besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the

ocean.”



“Remember,” chimed in La Carconte, “those two could crush you at a

single blow!”



“How so?” inquired the abbé. “Are these persons, then, so rich and

powerful?”



“Do you not know their history?”



“I do not. Pray relate it to me!”



Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, “No, truly,

it would take up too much time.”



“Well, my good friend,” returned the abbé, in a tone that indicated

utter indifference on his part, “you are at liberty, either to speak or

be silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples

and admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty

as conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My

first business will be to dispose of this diamond.”



So saying, the abbé again drew the small box from his pocket, opened

it, and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of

brilliant hues passed before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.



“Wife, wife!” cried he in a hoarse voice, “come here!”



“Diamond!” exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamber

with a tolerably firm step; “what diamond are you talking about?”



“Why, did you not hear all we said?” inquired Caderousse. “It is a

beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantès, to be sold, and the money

divided between his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand,

Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand

francs.”



“Oh, what a magnificent jewel!” cried the astonished woman.



“The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does

it not?” asked Caderousse.



“It does,” replied the abbé; “with the addition of an equal division of

that part intended for the elder Dantès, which I believe myself at

liberty to divide equally with the four survivors.”



“And why among us four?” inquired Caderousse.



“As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to

him.”



“I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,” murmured the wife

in her turn, in a low, muttering voice.



“Of course not!” rejoined Caderousse quickly; “no more do I, and that

was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked

upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps

crime.”



“Remember,” answered the abbé calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its

case in the pocket of his cassock, “it is your fault, not mine, that I

do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of

both Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last

wishes.”



The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of

perspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbé rise from

his seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse

were sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his

wife exchanged looks of deep meaning.



0335m







“There, you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond might

all be ours, if we chose!”



“Do you believe it?”



“Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!”



“Well,” replied La Carconte, “do as you like. For my part, I wash my

hands of the affair.”



So saying, she once more climbed the staircase leading to her chamber,

her body convulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, in

spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, she

turned round, and called out, in a warning tone, to her husband,

“Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do!”



“I have both reflected and decided,” answered he.



La Carconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creaked

beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her

armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.



“Well,” asked the abbé, as he returned to the apartment below, “what

have you made up your mind to do?”



“To tell you all I know,” was the reply.



“I certainly think you act wisely in so doing,” said the priest. “Not

because I have the least desire to learn anything you may please to

conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could

distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so

much the better, that is all.”



“I hope it may be so,” replied Caderousse, his face flushed with

cupidity.



“I am all attention,” said the abbé.



“Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse; “we might be interrupted in the

most interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as

well that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves.”



With these words he went stealthily to the door, which he closed, and,

by way of still greater precaution, bolted and barred it, as he was

accustomed to do at night.



During this time the abbé had chosen his place for listening at his

ease. He removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himself

would be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on the

narrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, or rather

clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to

Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to

him.



“Remember, this is no affair of mine,” said the trembling voice of La

Carconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the

scene that was enacting below.



“Enough, enough!” replied Caderousse; “say no more about it; I will

take all the consequences upon myself.”



And he began his story.







 Chapter 27. The Story



First, sir,” said Caderousse, “you must make me a promise.”



“What is that?” inquired the abbé.



“Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that

you will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the

persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they

only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces

like glass.”



“Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé. “I am a priest, and

confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry

out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then,

without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I

do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to

speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to

God, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I

have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.”



This positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage.



“Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will, I

even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor

Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.”



“Begin with his father, if you please.” said the abbé; “Edmond talked

to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.”



“The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head;

“perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?”



“Yes.” answered the abbé; “Edmond related to me everything until the

moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.”



“At La Réserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.”



“Was it not his betrothal feast?”



“It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending;

a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantès was

arrested.”



“Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantès

himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never

beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of

anyone of them.”



“Well, when Dantès was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the

particulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his

home, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up

and down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for

I was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for

myself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the

poor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my

heart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast.



“The next day Mercédès came to implore the protection of M. de

Villefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old

man; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed a

sleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she

wished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old

man would not consent. ‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave

this house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the

world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first

thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’ I heard

all this from the window, for I was anxious that Mercédès should

persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head

night and day did not leave me a moment’s repose.”



“But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?”

asked the abbé.



“Ah, sir,” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not be

consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he

seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and

I could not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I reached his

door he was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now repeat to you,

sir, all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it

was more than piety, it was more than grief, and I, who am no canter,

and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am

very glad that I have not any children; for if I were a father and felt

such excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory

or heart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at

once, for I could not bear it.’”



“Poor father!” murmured the priest.



“From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M.

Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was closed; and,

although I was certain he was at home, he would not make any answer.

One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and

the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to

console him, he said to her,—‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead;

and instead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite

happy, for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first.’



“However well disposed a person may be, why, you see we leave off after

a time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; and

so at last old Dantès was left all to himself, and I only saw from time

to time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle

they tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and that he

sold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the

poor old fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters’

rent, and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week,

which was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into

my apartment when he left his.



“For the first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, on

the fourth I heard nothing. I then resolved to go up to him at all

risks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw

him so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill, I went and told

M. Morrel and then ran on to Mercédès. They both came immediately, M.

Morrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of

the bowels, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I

never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription.



“From that time he received all who came; he had an excuse for not

eating any more; the doctor had put him on a diet.”



The abbé uttered a kind of groan.



“The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse.



“Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.”



“Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was even

more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M.

Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against

his consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were

actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and

M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his

purse on the chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor’s

order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine

days of despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had

caused his misery, and saying to Mercédès, ‘If you ever see my Edmond

again, tell him I die blessing him.’”



The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and

pressed his trembling hand against his parched throat.



“And you believe he died——”



“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as

that we two are Christians.”



The abbé, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was

standing by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed

his seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks.



“This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he in a hoarse voice.



“The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.”



“Tell me of those men,” said the abbé, “and remember too,” he added in

an almost menacing tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tell

me, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair, and

the father with famine?”



“Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other from

ambition,—Fernand and Danglars.”



“How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on.”



“They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.”



“Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real delinquent?”



“Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post.”



“And where was this letter written?”



“At La Réserve, the day before the betrothal feast.”



“’Twas so, then—’twas so, then,” murmured the abbé. “Oh, Faria, Faria,

how well did you judge men and things!”



“What did you please to say, sir?” asked Caderousse.



“Nothing, nothing,” replied the priest; “go on.”



“It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that

his writing might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in the

post.”



“But,” exclaimed the abbé suddenly, “you were there yourself.”



“I!” said Caderousse, astonished; “who told you I was there?”



The abbé saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly,—“No one;

but in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an

eye-witness.”



“True, true!” said Caderousse in a choking voice, “I was there.”



“And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “if

not, you were an accomplice.”



“Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excess

that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct

understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in

such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest

they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless.”



“Next day—next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had

been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantès

was arrested.”



“Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars

restrained me. ‘If he should really be guilty,’ said he, ‘and did

really put in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a

letter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this

letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his

accomplices.’ I confess I had my fears, in the state in which politics

then were, and I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was

not criminal.”



0341m







“I understand—you allowed matters to take their course, that was all.”



“Yes, sir,” answered Caderousse; “and remorse preys on me night and

day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action,

the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my

life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a

moment of selfishness, and so I always say to La Carconte, when she

complains, ‘Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.’” And

Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance.



“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken unreservedly; and thus to

accuse yourself is to deserve pardon.”



“Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me.”



“He did not know,” said the abbé.



“But he knows it all now,” interrupted Caderousse; “they say the dead

know everything.”



There was a brief silence; the abbé rose and paced up and down

pensively, and then resumed his seat.



“You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel,” he said; “who was

he?”



“The owner of the _Pharaon_ and patron of Dantès.”



“And what part did he play in this sad drama?” inquired the abbé.



“The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twenty

times he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote,

implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the second

restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told

you, he came to see Dantès’ father, and offered to receive him in his

own house; and the night or two before his death, as I have already

said, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the

old man’s debts, and buried him decently; and so Edmond’s father died,

as he had lived, without doing harm to anyone. I have the purse still

by me—a large one, made of red silk.”



“And,” asked the abbé, “is M. Morrel still alive?”



“Yes,” replied Caderousse.



“In that case,” replied the abbé, “he should be a man blessed of God,

rich, happy.”



Caderousse smiled bitterly. “Yes, happy as myself,” said he.



“What! M. Morrel unhappy?” exclaimed the abbé.



“He is reduced almost to the last extremity—nay, he is almost at the

point of dishonor.”



“How?”



“Yes,” continued Caderousse, “so it is; after five-and-twenty years of

labor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the trade of

Marseilles, M. Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost five ships in two

years, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large houses, and his

only hope now is in that very _Pharaon_ which poor Dantès commanded,

and which is expected from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and

indigo. If this ship founders, like the others, he is a ruined man.”



“And has the unfortunate man wife or children?” inquired the abbé.



“Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an angel;

he has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved, but whose

family now will not allow him to wed the daughter of a ruined man; he

has, besides, a son, a lieutenant in the army; and, as you may suppose,

all this, instead of lessening, only augments his sorrows. If he were

alone in the world he would blow out his brains, and there would be an

end.”



“Horrible!” ejaculated the priest.



“And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir,” added Caderousse. “You

see, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of—am in

destitution, with my poor wife dying of fever before my very eyes, and

I unable to do anything in the world for her; I shall die of hunger, as

old Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth.”



“How is that?”



“Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest men

have been reduced to misery.”



“What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the most

guilty?”



“What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken, on the

recommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as cashier

into a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was employed in the

commissariat of the French army, and made a fortune; then with that

money he speculated in the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his

capital; and, having first married his banker’s daughter, who left him

a widower, he has married a second time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne,

daughter of M. de Servieux, the king’s chamberlain, who is in high

favor at court. He is a millionaire, and they have made him a baron,

and now he is the Baron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue du

Mont-Blanc, with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his

antechamber, and I know not how many millions in his strongbox.”



“Ah!” said the abbé, in a peculiar tone, “he is happy.”



“Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secret

known but to one’s self and the walls—walls have ears but no tongue;

but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy.”



“And Fernand?”



“Fernand? Why, much the same story.”



“But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education or

resources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me.”



“And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life some

strange secret that no one knows.”



“But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune or

high position?”



“Both, sir—he has both fortune and position—both.”



“This must be impossible!”



“It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some days

before the return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The Bourbons

left him quietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, a

special levy was made, and Fernand was compelled to join. I went too;

but as I was older than Fernand, and had just married my poor wife, I

was only sent to the coast. Fernand was enrolled in the active army,

went to the frontier with his regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny.

The night after that battle he was sentry at the door of a general who

carried on a secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the

general was to go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to

accompany him; Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed

the general.



“Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had remained on

the throne, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to

France with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of the

general, who is in the highest favor, was accorded to him, he was a

captain in 1823, during the Spanish war—that is to say, at the time

when Danglars made his early speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and

being sent to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen,

found Danglars there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over the

support of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received

promises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by paths

known to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held by

the royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this brief

campaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made colonel, and

received the title of count and the cross of an officer of the Legion

of Honor.”



“Destiny! destiny!” murmured the abbé.



“Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being ended,

Fernand’s career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely to

endure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and had

begun her war of independence; all eyes were turned towards Athens—it

was the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government,

without protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance to

volunteer assistance. Fernand sought and obtained leave to go and serve

in Greece, still having his name kept on the army roll.



0345m







Some time after, it was stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this was the

name he bore) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank of

instructor-general. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before he

died he recompensed the services of Fernand by leaving him a

considerable sum, with which he returned to France, when he was

gazetted lieutenant-general.”



“So that now——?” inquired the abbé.



“So that now,” continued Caderousse, “he owns a magnificent house—No.

27, Rue du Helder, Paris.”



The abbé opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making an

effort at self-control, he said, “And Mercédès—they tell me that she

has disappeared?”



“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears, to rise

the next day with still more splendor.”



“Has she made a fortune also?” inquired the abbé, with an ironical

smile.



“Mercédès is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,”

replied Caderousse.



“Go on,” said the abbé; “it seems as if I were listening to the story

of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell

me seems less astonishing than it otherwise might.”



“Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which

deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate

M. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dantès. In the midst of her

despair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure of

Fernand—of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded

as her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone.



“Three months passed and still she wept—no news of Edmond, no news of

Fernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with

despair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of

two roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her

home more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew,

turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the

uniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her.



“It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part of

her past life had returned to her.



“Mercédès seized Fernand’s hands with a transport which he took for

love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and

seeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then,

it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated—he was only not

precisely loved. Another possessed all Mercédès’ heart; that other was

absent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought

Mercédès burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but

the thought, which she had always repelled before when it was suggested

to her by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too,

old Dantès incessantly said to her, ‘Our Edmond is dead; if he were

not, he would return to us.’



“The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Mercédès,

perchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have been

there to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learned

of the old man’s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At his

first coming he had not said a word of love to Mercédès; at the second

he reminded her that he loved her.



“Mercédès begged for six months more in which to await and mourn for

Edmond.”



“So that,” said the abbé, with a bitter smile, “that makes eighteen

months in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire?” Then he

murmured the words of the English poet, “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”



“Six months afterwards,” continued Caderousse, “the marriage took place

in the church of Accoules.”



“The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,” murmured the

priest; “there was only a change of bridegrooms.”



“Well, Mercédès was married,” proceeded Caderousse; “but although in

the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she

passed La Réserve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had

been celebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had

she looked to the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not

more at his ease—for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of

Edmond’s return—Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away, and to

depart himself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated

with the Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left

Marseilles.”



“Did you ever see Mercédès again?” inquired the priest.



“Yes, during the Spanish war, at Perpignan, where Fernand had left her;

she was attending to the education of her son.”



The abbé started. “Her son?” said he.



“Yes,” replied Caderousse, “little Albert.”



“But, then, to be able to instruct her child,” continued the abbé, “she

must have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond that

she was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated.”



“Oh,” replied Caderousse, “did he know so little of his lovely

betrothed? Mercédès might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were to

be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand’s

fortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growing

fortune. She learned drawing, music—everything. Besides, I believe,

between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she

might forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the

weight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured,”

continued Caderousse; “no doubt fortune and honors have comforted her;

she is rich, a countess, and yet——”



Caderousse paused.



“And yet what?” asked the abbé.



“Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,” said Caderousse.



“What makes you believe this?”



“Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friends

would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not even

receive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by his

valet-de-chambre.”



“Then you did not see either of them?”



“No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me.”



“How was that?”



“As I went away a purse fell at my feet—it contained five-and-twenty

louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercédès, who at once shut the

blind.”



“And M. de Villefort?” asked the abbé.



“Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I had

nothing to ask of him.”



“Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond’s

misfortunes?”



“No; I only know that some time after Edmond’s arrest, he married

Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt

he has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars,

as high in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor,

wretched, and forgotten.”



“You are mistaken, my friend,” replied the abbé; “God may seem

sometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there

always comes a moment when he remembers—and behold—a proof!”



As he spoke, the abbé took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it

to Caderousse, said, “Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours.”



“What, for me only?” cried Caderousse, “ah, sir, do not jest with me!”



“This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond had one

friend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond, then, and

sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and I repeat my wish that

this sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness.”



0351m







“Oh, sir,” said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and with the

other wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow,—“Oh, sir, do

not make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man.”



“I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of

such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange——”



Caderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand.



The abbé smiled.



“In exchange,” he continued, “give me the red silk purse that M. Morrel

left on old Dantès’ chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still in

your hands.”



Caderousse, more and more astonished, went toward a large oaken

cupboard, opened it, and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk,

round which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The abbé

took it, and in return gave Caderousse the diamond.



“Oh, you are a man of God, sir,” cried Caderousse; “for no one knew

that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it.”



“Which,” said the abbé to himself, “you would have done.” The abbé

rose, took his hat and gloves. “Well,” he said, “all you have told me

is perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular.”



“See, sir,” replied Caderousse, “in this corner is a crucifix in holy

wood—here on this shelf is my wife’s testament; open this book, and I

will swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will swear to you by

my soul’s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything to

you as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the ear

of God at the day of the last judgment!”



“’Tis well,” said the abbé, convinced by his manner and tone that

Caderousse spoke the truth. “’Tis well, and may this money profit you!

Adieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure each other.”



The abbé with difficulty got away from the enthusiastic thanks of

Caderousse, opened the door himself, got out and mounted his horse,

once more saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering his loud farewells,

and then returned by the road he had travelled in coming.



When Caderousse turned around, he saw behind him La Carconte, paler and

trembling more than ever.



“Is, then, all that I have heard really true?” she inquired.



“What? That he has given the diamond to us only?” inquired Caderousse,

half bewildered with joy; “yes, nothing more true! See, here it is.”



The woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, in a gloomy voice,

“Suppose it’s false?”



Caderousse started and turned pale.



“False!” he muttered. “False! Why should that man give me a false

diamond?”



0349m







“To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead!”



Caderousse remained for a moment aghast under the weight of such an

idea.



“Oh!” he said, taking up his hat, which he placed on the red

handkerchief tied round his head, “we will soon find out.”



“In what way?”



“Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers from

Paris there, and I will show it to them. Look after the house, wife,

and I shall be back in two hours,” and Caderousse left the house in

haste, and ran rapidly in the direction opposite to that which the

priest had taken.



“Fifty thousand francs!” muttered La Carconte when left alone; “it is a

large sum of money, but it is not a fortune.”





VOLUME TWO



20009m







20011m







20019m









 Chapter 28. The Prison Register



The day after that in which the scene we have just described had taken

place on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of about

thirty or two-and-thirty, dressed in a bright blue frock coat, nankeen

trousers, and a white waistcoat, having the appearance and accent of an

Englishman, presented himself before the mayor of Marseilles.



“Sir,” said he, “I am chief clerk of the house of Thomson & French, of

Rome. We are, and have been these ten years, connected with the house

of Morrel & Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred thousand francs or

thereabouts loaned on their securities, and we are a little uneasy at

reports that have reached us that the firm is on the brink of ruin. I

have come, therefore, express from Rome, to ask you for information.”



“Sir,” replied the mayor. “I know very well that during the last four

or five years misfortune has seemed to pursue M. Morrel. He has lost

four or five vessels, and suffered by three or four bankruptcies; but

it is not for me, although I am a creditor myself to the amount of ten

thousand francs, to give any information as to the state of his

finances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is my opinion of M. Morrel, and I

shall say that he is a man honorable to the last degree, and who has up

to this time fulfilled every engagement with scrupulous punctuality.

This is all I can say, sir; if you wish to learn more, address yourself

to M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de Nouailles;

he has, I believe, two hundred thousand francs in Morrel’s hands, and

if there be any grounds for apprehension, as this is a greater amount

than mine, you will most probably find him better informed than

myself.”



The Englishman seemed to appreciate this extreme delicacy, made his bow

and went away, proceeding with a characteristic British stride towards

the street mentioned.



M. de Boville was in his private room, and the Englishman, on

perceiving him, made a gesture of surprise, which seemed to indicate

that it was not the first time he had been in his presence. As to M. de

Boville, he was in such a state of despair, that it was evident all the

faculties of his mind, absorbed in the thought which occupied him at

the moment, did not allow either his memory or his imagination to stray

to the past.



The Englishman, with the coolness of his nation, addressed him in terms

nearly similar to those with which he had accosted the mayor of

Marseilles.



“Oh, sir,” exclaimed M. de Boville, “your fears are unfortunately but

too well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had two

hundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these two

hundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to be

married in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs were

payable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15th

of next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have these

payments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour to

tell me that if his ship, the _Pharaon_, did not come into port on the

15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment.”



“But,” said the Englishman, “this looks very much like a suspension of

payment.”



“It looks more like bankruptcy!” exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly.



The Englishman appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, “From which

it would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerable

apprehension?”



“To tell you the truth, I consider it lost.”



“Well, then, I will buy it of you!”



“You?”



“Yes, I!”



“But at a tremendous discount, of course?”



“No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our house,” added the Englishman

with a laugh, “does not do things in that way.”



“And you will pay——”



“Ready money.”



20023m







And the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, which

might have been twice the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A ray of

joy passed across M. de Boville’s countenance, yet he made an effort at

self-control, and said:



“Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not

realize six per cent of this sum.”



“That’s no affair of mine,” replied the Englishman, “that is the affair

of the house of Thomson & French, in whose name I act. They have,

perhaps, some motive to serve in hastening the ruin of a rival firm.

But all I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum in

exchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage.”



“Of course, that is perfectly just,” cried M. de Boville. “The

commission is usually one and a half; will you have two—three—five per

cent, or even more? Whatever you say.”



“Sir,” replied the Englishman, laughing, “I am like my house, and do

not do such things—no, the commission I ask is quite different.”



“Name it, sir, I beg.”



“You are the inspector of prisons?”



“I have been so these fourteen years.”



“You keep the registers of entries and departures?”



“I do.”



“To these registers there are added notes relative to the prisoners?”



“There are special reports on every prisoner.”



“Well, sir, I was educated at Rome by a poor devil of an abbé, who

disappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in the

Château d’If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his

death.”



“What was his name?”



“The Abbé Faria.”



“Oh, I recollect him perfectly,” cried M. de Boville; “he was crazy.”



“So they said.”



“Oh, he was, decidedly.”



“Very possibly; but what sort of madness was it?”



“He pretended to know of an immense treasure, and offered vast sums to

the government if they would liberate him.”



“Poor devil!—and he is dead?”



“Yes, sir, five or six months ago, last February.”



“You have a good memory, sir, to recollect dates so well.”



“I recollect this, because the poor devil’s death was accompanied by a

singular incident.”



“May I ask what that was?” said the Englishman with an expression of

curiosity, which a close observer would have been astonished at

discovering in his phlegmatic countenance.



“Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbé’s dungeon was forty or fifty feet distant

from that of one of Bonaparte’s emissaries,—one of those who had

contributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815, a very

resolute and very dangerous man.”



“Indeed!” said the Englishman.



“Yes,” replied M. de Boville; “I myself had occasion to see this man in

1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file of

soldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forget

his countenance!”



20025m







The Englishman smiled imperceptibly.



“And you say, sir,” he interposed, “that the two dungeons——”



“Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that this

Edmond Dantès——”



“This dangerous man’s name was——”



“Edmond Dantès. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantès had procured

tools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the

prisoners held communication with one another.”



“This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an intention of escape?”



“No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbé Faria had an

attack of catalepsy, and died.”



“That must have cut short the projects of escape.”



“For the dead man, yes,” replied M. de Boville, “but not for the

survivor; on the contrary, this Dantès saw a means of accelerating his

escape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Château

d’If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed the

dead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they

had sewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment.”



“It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage,” remarked the

Englishman.



“As I have already told you, sir, he was a very dangerous man; and,

fortunately, by his own act disembarrassed the government of the fears

it had on his account.”



“How was that?”



“How? Do you not comprehend?”



“No.”



“The Château d’If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead into

the sea, after fastening a thirty-six-pound cannon-ball to their feet.”



“Well?” observed the Englishman as if he were slow of comprehension.



“Well, they fastened a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet, and threw him

into the sea.”



“Really!” exclaimed the Englishman.



“Yes, sir,” continued the inspector of prisons. “You may imagine the

amazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the

rocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment.”



“That would have been difficult.”



“No matter,” replied De Boville, in supreme good-humor at the certainty

of recovering his two hundred thousand francs,—“no matter, I can fancy

it.” And he shouted with laughter.



“So can I,” said the Englishman, and he laughed too; but he laughed as

the English do, “at the end of his teeth.”



“And so,” continued the Englishman who first gained his composure, “he

was drowned?”



“Unquestionably.”



“So that the governor got rid of the dangerous and the crazy prisoner

at the same time?”



“Precisely.”



20027m







“But some official document was drawn up as to this affair, I suppose?”

inquired the Englishman.



“Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dantès’ relations,

if he had any, might have some interest in knowing if he were dead or

alive.”



“So that now, if there were anything to inherit from him, they may do

so with easy conscience. He is dead, and no mistake about it.”



“Oh, yes; and they may have the fact attested whenever they please.”



“So be it,” said the Englishman. “But to return to these registers.”



“True, this story has diverted our attention from them. Excuse me.”



“Excuse you for what? For the story? By no means; it really seems to me

very curious.”



“Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see all relating to the poor abbé,

who really was gentleness itself.”



“Yes, you will much oblige me.”



“Go into my study here, and I will show it to you.”



And they both entered M. de Boville’s study. Everything was here

arranged in perfect order; each register had its number, each file of

papers its place. The inspector begged the Englishman to seat himself

in an armchair, and placed before him the register and documents

relative to the Château d’If, giving him all the time he desired for

the examination, while De Boville seated himself in a corner, and began

to read his newspaper. The Englishman easily found the entries relative

to the Abbé Faria; but it seemed that the history which the inspector

had related interested him greatly, for after having perused the first

documents he turned over the leaves until he reached the deposition

respecting Edmond Dantès. There he found everything arranged in due

order,—the accusation, examination, Morrel’s petition, M. de

Villefort’s marginal notes. He folded up the accusation quietly, and

put it as quietly in his pocket; read the examination, and saw that the

name of Noirtier was not mentioned in it; perused, too, the application

dated 10th April, 1815, in which Morrel, by the deputy procureur’s

advice, exaggerated with the best intentions (for Napoleon was then on

the throne) the services Dantès had rendered to the imperial

cause—services which Villefort’s certificates rendered indisputable.

Then he saw through the whole thing. This petition to Napoleon, kept

back by Villefort, had become, under the second restoration, a terrible

weapon against him in the hands of the king’s attorney. He was no

longer astonished when he searched on to find in the register this

note, placed in a bracket against his name:



Edmond Dantès.



An inveterate Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from the

Island of Elba.



To be kept in strict solitary confinement, and to be closely watched

and guarded.



Beneath these lines was written in another hand: “See note

above—nothing can be done.”



He compared the writing in the bracket with the writing of the

certificate placed beneath Morrel’s petition, and discovered that the

note in the bracket was the same writing as the certificate—that is to

say, was in Villefort’s handwriting.



20029m







As to the note which accompanied this, the Englishman understood that

it might have been added by some inspector who had taken a momentary

interest in Dantès’ situation, but who had, from the remarks we have

quoted, found it impossible to give any effect to the interest he had

felt.



As we have said, the inspector, from discretion, and that he might not

disturb the Abbé Faria’s pupil in his researches, had seated himself in

a corner, and was reading _Le Drapeau Blanc_. He did not see the

Englishman fold up and place in his pocket the accusation written by

Danglars under the arbor of La Réserve, and which had the postmark,

“Marseilles, 27th February, delivery 6 o’clock, P.M.”



But it must be said that if he had seen it, he attached so little

importance to this scrap of paper, and so much importance to his two

hundred thousand francs, that he would not have opposed whatever the

Englishman might do, however irregular it might be.



“Thanks,” said the latter, closing the register with a slam, “I have

all I want; now it is for me to perform my promise. Give me a simple

assignment of your debt; acknowledge therein the receipt of the cash,

and I will hand you over the money.”



He rose, gave his seat to M. de Boville, who took it without ceremony,

and quickly drew up the required assignment, while the Englishman

counted out the bank-notes on the other side of the desk.







 Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son



Anyone who had quitted Marseilles a few years previously, well

acquainted with the interior of Morrel’s warehouse, and had returned at

this date, would have found a great change. Instead of that air of

life, of comfort, and of happiness that permeates a flourishing and

prosperous business establishment—instead of merry faces at the

windows, busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the long corridors—instead

of the court filled with bales of goods, re-echoing with the cries and

the jokes of porters, one would have immediately perceived all aspect

of sadness and gloom. Out of all the numerous clerks that used to fill

the deserted corridor and the empty office, but two remained. One was a

young man of three or four-and-twenty, who was in love with M. Morrel’s

daughter, and had remained with him in spite of the efforts of his

friends to induce him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed

cashier, called “Cocles,” or “Cock-eye,” a nickname given him by the

young men who used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive,

and which had so completely replaced his real name that he would not,

in all probability, have replied to anyone who addressed him by it.



Cocles remained in M. Morrel’s service, and a most singular change had

taken place in his position; he had at the same time risen to the rank

of cashier, and sunk to the rank of a servant. He was, however, the

same Cocles, good, patient, devoted, but inflexible on the subject of

arithmetic, the only point on which he would have stood firm against

the world, even against M. Morrel; and strong in the

multiplication-table, which he had at his fingers’ ends, no matter what

scheme or what trap was laid to catch him.



In the midst of the disasters that befell the house, Cocles was the

only one unmoved. But this did not arise from a want of affection; on

the contrary, from a firm conviction. Like the rats that one by one

forsake the doomed ship even before the vessel weighs anchor, so all

the numerous clerks had by degrees deserted the office and the

warehouse. Cocles had seen them go without thinking of inquiring the

cause of their departure. Everything was as we have said, a question of

arithmetic to Cocles, and during twenty years he had always seen all

payments made with such exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him

that the house should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the

river that had so long turned his mill should cease to flow.



Nothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles’ belief; the last month’s

payment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had

detected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash, and the same

evening he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a melancholy smile,

threw them into an almost empty drawer, saying:



“Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers.”



Cocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M. Morrel,

himself the pearl of the honest men of Marseilles, flattered him more

than a present of fifty crowns. But since the end of the month M.

Morrel had passed many an anxious hour.



In order to meet the payments then due; he had collected all his

resources, and, fearing lest the report of his distress should get

bruited abroad at Marseilles when he was known to be reduced to such an

extremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair to sell his wife’s and

daughter’s jewels and a portion of his plate. By this means the end of

the month was passed, but his resources were now exhausted. Credit,

owing to the reports afloat, was no longer to be had; and to meet the

one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the present month, and

the one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the next month to M.

de Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no hope but the return of the

_Pharaon_, of whose departure he had learnt from a vessel which had

weighed anchor at the same time, and which had already arrived in

harbor.



But this vessel which, like the _Pharaon_, came from Calcutta, had been

in for a fortnight, while no intelligence had been received of the

_Pharaon_.



20033m







Such was the state of affairs when, the day after his interview with M.

de Boville, the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French of

Rome, presented himself at M. Morrel’s.



Emmanuel received him; this young man was alarmed by the appearance of

every new face, for every new face might be that of a new creditor,

come in anxiety to question the head of the house. The young man,

wishing to spare his employer the pain of this interview, questioned

the new-comer; but the stranger declared that he had nothing to say to

M. Emmanuel, and that his business was with M. Morrel in person.



Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared, and the young

man bade him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel’s apartment. Cocles went

first, and the stranger followed him. On the staircase they met a

beautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, who looked with anxiety at the

stranger.



“M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?” said the

cashier.



“Yes; I think so, at least,” said the young girl hesitatingly. “Go and

see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman.”



“It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle,” returned the

Englishman. “M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman has

only to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson &

French of Rome, with whom your father does business.”



The young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the stranger

and Cocles continued to mount the staircase. She entered the office

where Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key he possessed,

opened a door in the corner of a landing-place on the second staircase,

conducted the stranger into an antechamber, opened a second door, which

he closed behind him, and after having left the clerk of the house of

Thomson & French alone, returned and signed to him that he could enter.



The Englishman entered, and found Morrel seated at a table, turning

over the formidable columns of his ledger, which contained the list of

his liabilities. At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the

ledger, arose, and offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen

him seated, resumed his own chair. Fourteen years had changed the

worthy merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year at the opening of this

history, was now in his fiftieth; his hair had turned white, time and

sorrow had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and his look, once so

firm and penetrating, was now irresolute and wandering, as if he feared

being forced to fix his attention on some particular thought or person.



The Englishman looked at him with an air of curiosity, evidently

mingled with interest. “Monsieur,” said Morrel, whose uneasiness was

increased by this examination, “you wish to speak to me?”



“Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come?”



“The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier tells me.”



“He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had 300,000 or

400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing your strict

punctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your signature, and

charged me as they became due to present them, and to employ the money

otherwise.”



Morrel sighed deeply, and passed his hand over his forehead, which was

covered with perspiration.



“So then, sir,” said Morrel, “you hold bills of mine?”



“Yes, and for a considerable sum.”



“What is the amount?” asked Morrel with a voice he strove to render

firm.



20035m







“Here is,” said the Englishman, taking a quantity of papers from his

pocket, “an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de Boville,

the inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You acknowledge, of

course, that you owe this sum to him?”



“Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per cent

nearly five years ago.”



“When are you to pay?”



“Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next.”



“Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they are all

signed by you, and assigned to our house by the holders.”



“I recognize them,” said Morrel, whose face was suffused, as he thought

that, for the first time in his life, he would be unable to honor his

own signature. “Is this all?”



“No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been

assigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild & Turner

of Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all, 287,500

francs.”



It is impossible to describe what Morrel suffered during this

enumeration. “Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred

francs,” repeated he.



“Yes, sir,” replied the Englishman. “I will not,” continued he, after a

moment’s silence, “conceal from you, that while your probity and

exactitude up to this moment are universally acknowledged, yet the

report is current in Marseilles that you are not able to meet your

liabilities.”



At this almost brutal speech Morrel turned deathly pale.



“Sir,” said he, “up to this time—and it is now more than

four-and-twenty years since I received the direction of this house from

my father, who had himself conducted it for five-and-thirty years—never

has anything bearing the signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored.”



“I know that,” replied the Englishman. “But as a man of honor should

answer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the same

punctuality?”



Morrel shuddered, and looked at the man, who spoke with more assurance

than he had hitherto shown.



“To questions frankly put,” said he, “a straightforward answer should

be given. Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely;

for its arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous

accidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but if

the _Pharaon_ should be lost, and this last resource be gone——”



The poor man’s eyes filled with tears.



“Well,” said the other, “if this last resource fail you?”



“Well,” returned Morrel, “it is a cruel thing to be forced to say, but,

already used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to shame. I fear I

shall be forced to suspend payment.”



“Have you no friends who could assist you?”



Morrel smiled mournfully.



“In business, sir,” said he, “one has no friends, only correspondents.”



“It is true,” murmured the Englishman; “then you have but one hope.”



“But one.”



“The last?”



“The last.”



“So that if this fail——”



“I am ruined,—completely ruined!”



“As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port.”



“I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes,

passes a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in

hopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed

me of the arrival of this ship.”



“And it is not yours?”



“No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, _La Gironde_; she comes from India also;

but she is not mine.”



“Perhaps she has spoken to the _Pharaon_, and brings you some tidings

of her?”



“Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to

receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is

still hope.” Then in a low voice Morrel added,—“This delay is not

natural. The _Pharaon_ left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to

have been here a month ago.”



“What is that?” said the Englishman. “What is the meaning of that

noise?”



“Oh, my God!” cried Morrel, turning pale, “what is it?”



A loud noise was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and

half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his

strength failed him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained

opposite one another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger

gazing at him with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but

it seemed that Morrel expected something—something had occasioned the

noise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard

footsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those of

several persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the lock of

the first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible.



“There are only two persons who have the key to that door,” murmured

Morrel, “Cocles and Julie.”



At this instant the second door opened, and the young girl, her eyes

bathed with tears, appeared. Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting

himself by the arm of the chair. He would have spoken, but his voice

failed him.



“Oh, father!” said she, clasping her hands, “forgive your child for

being the bearer of evil tidings.”



Morrel again changed color. Julie threw herself into his arms.



“Oh, father, father!” murmured she, “courage!”



“The _Pharaon_ has gone down, then?” said Morrel in a hoarse voice. The

young girl did not speak; but she made an affirmative sign with her

head as she lay on her father’s breast.



“And the crew?” asked Morrel.



“Saved,” said the girl; “saved by the crew of the vessel that has just

entered the harbor.”



Morrel raised his two hands to heaven with an expression of resignation

and sublime gratitude.



“Thanks, my God,” said he, “at least thou strikest but me alone.”



A tear moistened the eye of the phlegmatic Englishman.



“Come in, come in,” said Morrel, “for I presume you are all at the

door.”



Scarcely had he uttered those words when Madame Morrel entered weeping

bitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in the antechamber were visible

the rough faces of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At the sight of

these men the Englishman started and advanced a step; then restrained

himself, and retired into the farthest and most obscure corner of the

apartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her husband and took one of his

hands in hers, Julie still lay with her head on his shoulder, Emmanuel

stood in the centre of the chamber and seemed to form the link between

Morrel’s family and the sailors at the door.



“How did this happen?” said Morrel.



“Draw nearer, Penelon,” said the young man, “and tell us all about it.”



An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the

remains of a hat between his hands.



“Good-day, M. Morrel,” said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles

the previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon.



“Good-day, Penelon,” returned Morrel, who could not refrain from

smiling through his tears, “where is the captain?”



“The captain, M. Morrel,—he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please

God, it won’t be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and

hearty.”



“Well, now tell your story, Penelon.”



20039m







Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his mouth,

turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the

antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began.



“You see, M. Morrel,” said he, “we were somewhere between Cape Blanc

and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a

week’s calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me—I was at the helm I

should tell you—and says, ‘Penelon, what do you think of those clouds

coming up over there?’ I was just then looking at them myself. ‘What do

I think, captain? Why I think that they are rising faster than they

have any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they

didn’t mean mischief.’—‘That’s my opinion too,’ said the captain, ‘and

I’ll take precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas.

Avast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sails and stow the flying

jib.’ It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel.

‘Ah,’ said the captain, ‘we have still too much canvas set; all hands

lower the mainsail!’ Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed

under mizzen-topsails and top-gallant sails. ‘Well, Penelon,’ said the

captain, ‘what makes you shake your head?’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘I still

think you’ve got too much on.’ ‘I think you’re right,’ answered he, ‘we

shall have a gale.’ ‘A gale? More than that, we shall have a tempest,

or I don’t know what’s what.’ You could see the wind coming like the

dust at Montredon; luckily the captain understood his business. ‘Take

in two reefs in the top-sails,’ cried the captain; ‘let go the

bowlin’s, haul the brace, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the

reef-tackles on the yards.’”



20041m







“That was not enough for those latitudes,” said the Englishman; “I

should have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the spanker.”



His firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice made everyone start. Penelon

put his hand over his eyes, and then stared at the man who thus

criticized the manœuvres of his captain.



“We did better than that, sir,” said the old sailor respectfully; “we

put the helm up to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck

our top-sails and scudded under bare poles.”



“The vessel was very old to risk that,” said the Englishman.



“Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for

twelve hours we sprung a leak. ‘Penelon,’ said the captain, ‘I think we

are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.’ I gave him

the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water. ‘All

hands to the pumps!’ I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the

more we pumped the more came in. ‘Ah,’ said I, after four hours’ work,

‘since we are sinking, let us sink; we can die but once.’ ‘Is that the

example you set, Penelon?’ cries the captain; ‘very well, wait a

minute.’ He went into his cabin and came back with a brace of pistols.

‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,’ said

he.”



“Well done!” said the Englishman.



20043m







“There’s nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons,” continued

the sailor; “and during that time the wind had abated, and the sea gone

down, but the water kept rising; not much, only two inches an hour, but

still it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve

hours that makes two feet, and three we had before, that makes five.

‘Come,’ said the captain, ‘we have done all in our power, and M. Morrel

will have nothing to reproach us with, we have tried to save the ship,

let us now save ourselves. To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can.’

Now,” continued Penelon, “you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to

his ship, but still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told

twice; the more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to

say, ‘Get along—save yourselves.’ We soon launched the boat, and all

eight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he did

not descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round the

waist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after him. It was

time, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise like the

broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched forward, then

the other way, spun round and round, and then good-bye to the

_Pharaon_. As for us, we were three days without anything to eat or

drink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should feed the

rest, when we saw _La Gironde_; we made signals of distress, she

perceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now, M.

Morrel, that’s the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not it

true, you fellows there?” A general murmur of approbation showed that

the narrator had faithfully detailed their misfortunes and sufferings.



“Well, well,” said M. Morrel, “I know there was no one in fault but

destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his

name. What wages are due to you?”



“Oh, don’t let us talk of that, M. Morrel.”



“Yes, but we will talk of it.”



“Well, then, three months,” said Penelon.



“Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,” said

Morrel. “At another time,” added he, “I should have said, Give them,

besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed,

and the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think

me mean on this account.”



Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them.



“As for that, M. Morrel,” said he, again turning his quid, “as for

that——”



“As for what?”



“The money.”



“Well——”



“Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present,

and that we will wait for the rest.”



“Thanks, my friends, thanks!” cried Morrel gratefully; “take it—take

it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are

free to do so.”



These last words produced a prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon

nearly swallowed his quid; fortunately he recovered.



“What, M. Morrel!” said he in a low voice, “you send us away; you are

then angry with us!”



“No, no,” said M. Morrel, “I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do

not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not

want any sailors.”



“No more ships!” returned Penelon; “well, then, you’ll build some;

we’ll wait for you.”



“I have no money to build ships with, Penelon,” said the poor owner

mournfully, “so I cannot accept your kind offer.”



“No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the

_Pharaon_, under bare poles.”



“Enough, enough!” cried Morrel, almost overpowered; “leave me, I pray

you; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with them, and

see that my orders are executed.”



“At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?” asked Penelon.



“Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go.” He made a sign to Cocles, who went

first; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the rear. “Now,”

said the owner to his wife and daughter, “leave me; I wish to speak

with this gentleman.”



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And he glanced towards the clerk of Thomson & French, who had remained

motionless in the corner during this scene, in which he had taken no

part, except the few words we have mentioned. The two women looked at

this person whose presence they had entirely forgotten, and retired;

but, as she left the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a supplicating

glance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent spectator

would have been surprised to see on his stern features. The two men

were left alone. “Well, sir,” said Morrel, sinking into a chair, “you

have heard all, and I have nothing further to tell you.”



“I see,” returned the Englishman, “that a fresh and unmerited

misfortune has overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire to

serve you.”



“Oh, sir!” cried Morrel.



“Let me see,” continued the stranger, “I am one of your largest

creditors.”



“Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due.”



“Do you wish for time to pay?”



“A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life.”



“How long a delay do you wish for?”



Morrel reflected. “Two months,” said he.



“I will give you three,” replied the stranger.



“But,” asked Morrel, “will the house of Thomson & French consent?”



“Oh, I take everything on myself. Today is the 5th of June.”



“Yes.”



“Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the 5th of

September at eleven o’clock (the hand of the clock pointed to eleven),

I shall come to receive the money.”



“I shall expect you,” returned Morrel; “and I will pay you—or I shall

be dead.” These last words were uttered in so low a tone that the

stranger could not hear them. The bills were renewed, the old ones

destroyed, and the poor ship-owner found himself with three months

before him to collect his resources. The Englishman received his thanks

with the phlegm peculiar to his nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him

with grateful blessings, conducted him to the staircase. The stranger

met Julie on the stairs; she pretended to be descending, but in reality

she was waiting for him. “Oh, sir”—said she, clasping her hands.



“Mademoiselle,” said the stranger, “one day you will receive a letter

signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ Do exactly what the letter bids you,

however strange it may appear.”



“Yes, sir,” returned Julie.



“Do you promise?”



“I swear to you I will.”



“It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet girl

you are at present, and I have great hopes that Heaven will reward you

by giving you Emmanuel for a husband.”



Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned against the

baluster. The stranger waved his hand, and continued to descend. In the

court he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a hundred francs in

either hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to retain them. “Come

with me, my friend,” said the Englishman; “I wish to speak to you.”







 Chapter 30. The Fifth of September



The extension provided for by the agent of Thomson & French, at the

moment when Morrel expected it least, was to the poor shipowner so

decided a stroke of good fortune that he almost dared to believe that

fate was at length grown weary of wasting her spite upon him. The same

day he told his wife, Emmanuel, and his daughter all that had occurred;

and a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity, returned to the family.

Unfortunately, however, Morrel had not only engagements with the house

of Thomson & French, who had shown themselves so considerate towards

him; and, as he had said, in business he had correspondents, and not

friends. When he thought the matter over, he could by no means account

for this generous conduct on the part of Thomson & French towards him;

and could only attribute it to some such selfish argument as this: “We

had better help a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have those

300,000 francs at the end of three months than hasten his ruin, and get

only six or eight per cent of our money back again.”



Unfortunately, whether through envy or stupidity, all Morrel’s

correspondents did not take this view; and some even came to a contrary

decision. The bills signed by Morrel were presented at his office with

scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the delay granted by the

Englishman, were paid by Cocles with equal punctuality. Cocles thus

remained in his accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel alone who

remembered with alarm, that if he had to repay on the 15th the 50,000

francs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th the 32,500 francs of bills,

for which, as well as the debt due to the inspector of prisons, he had

time granted, he must be a ruined man.



The opinion of all the commercial men was that, under the reverses

which had successively weighed down Morrel, it was impossible for him

to remain solvent. Great, therefore, was the astonishment when at the

end of the month, he cancelled all his obligations with his usual

punctuality. Still confidence was not restored to all minds, and the

general opinion was that the complete ruin of the unfortunate shipowner

had been postponed only until the end of the month.



The month passed, and Morrel made extraordinary efforts to get in all

his resources. Formerly his paper, at any date, was taken with

confidence, and was even in request. Morrel now tried to negotiate

bills at ninety days only, and none of the banks would give him credit.

Fortunately, Morrel had some funds coming in on which he could rely;

and, as they reached him, he found himself in a condition to meet his

engagements when the end of July came.



The agent of Thomson & French had not been again seen at Marseilles;

the day after, or two days after his visit to Morrel, he had

disappeared; and as in that city he had had no intercourse but with the

mayor, the inspector of prisons, and M. Morrel, his departure left no

trace except in the memories of these three persons. As to the sailors

of the _Pharaon_, they must have found snug berths elsewhere, for they

also had disappeared.



Captain Gaumard, recovered from his illness, had returned from Palma.

He delayed presenting himself at Morrel’s, but the owner, hearing of

his arrival, went to see him. The worthy shipowner knew, from Penelon’s

recital, of the captain’s brave conduct during the storm, and tried to

console him. He brought him also the amount of his wages, which Captain

Gaumard had not dared to apply for.



As he descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up.

Penelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was

newly clad. When he saw his employer, the worthy tar seemed much

embarrassed, drew on one side into the corner of the landing-place,

passed his quid from one cheek to the other, stared stupidly with his

great eyes, and only acknowledged the squeeze of the hand which Morrel

as usual gave him by a slight pressure in return. Morrel attributed

Penelon’s embarrassment to the elegance of his attire; it was evident

the good fellow had not gone to such an expense on his own account; he

was, no doubt, engaged on board some other vessel, and thus his

bashfulness arose from the fact of his not having, if we may so express

ourselves, worn mourning for the _Pharaon_ longer. Perhaps he had come

to tell Captain Gaumard of his good luck, and to offer him employment

from his new master.



“Worthy fellows!” said Morrel,  as he went away, “may your new master

love you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been!”



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August rolled by in unceasing efforts on the part of Morrel to renew

his credit or revive the old. On the 20th of August it was known at

Marseilles that he had left town in the mailcoach, and then it was said

that the bills would go to protest at the end of the month, and that

Morrel had gone away and left his chief clerk Emmanuel, and his cashier

Cocles, to meet the creditors. But, contrary to all expectation, when

the 31st of August came, the house opened as usual, and Cocles appeared

behind the grating of the counter, examined all bills presented with

the usual scrutiny, and, from first to last, paid all with the usual

precision. There came in, moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had

fully anticipated, and which Cocles paid as punctually as the bills

which the shipowner had accepted. All this was incomprehensible, and

then, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the failure

was put off until the end of September.



On the 1st, Morrel returned; he was awaited by his family with extreme

anxiety, for from this journey to Paris they hoped great things. Morrel

had thought of Danglars, who was now immensely rich, and had lain under

great obligations to Morrel in former days, since to him it was owing

that Danglars entered the service of the Spanish banker, with whom he

had laid the foundations of his vast wealth. It was said at this moment

that Danglars was worth from six to eight millions of francs, and had

unlimited credit. Danglars, then, without taking a crown from his

pocket, could save Morrel; he had but to pass his word for a loan, and

Morrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of Danglars, but had kept

away from some instinctive motive, and had delayed as long as possible

availing himself of this last resource. And Morrel was right, for he

returned home crushed by the humiliation of a refusal.



Yet, on his arrival, Morrel did not utter a complaint, or say one harsh

word. He embraced his weeping wife and daughter, pressed Emmanuel’s

hand with friendly warmth, and then going to his private room on the

second floor had sent for Cocles.



“Then,” said the two women to Emmanuel, “we are indeed ruined.”



It was agreed in a brief council held among them, that Julie should

write to her brother, who was in garrison at Nîmes, to come to them as

speedily as possible. The poor women felt instinctively that they

required all their strength to support the blow that impended. Besides,

Maximilian Morrel, though hardly two-and-twenty, had great influence

over his father.



He was a strong-minded, upright young man. At the time when he decided

on his profession his father had no desire to choose for him, but had

consulted young Maximilian’s taste. He had at once declared for a

military life, and had in consequence studied hard, passed brilliantly

through the Polytechnic School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of the

53rd of the line. For a year he had held this rank, and expected

promotion on the first vacancy. In his regiment Maximilian Morrel was

noted for his rigid observance, not only of the obligations imposed on

a soldier, but also of the duties of a man; and he thus gained the name

of “the stoic.” We need hardly say that many of those who gave him this

epithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not even know

what it meant.



This was the young man whom his mother and sister called to their aid

to sustain them under the serious trial which they felt they would soon

have to endure. They had not mistaken the gravity of this event, for

the moment after Morrel had entered his private office with Cocles,

Julie saw the latter leave it pale, trembling, and his features

betraying the utmost consternation. She would have questioned him as he

passed by her, but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with

unusual precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and

exclaimed:



“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who could

ever have believed it!”



A moment afterwards Julie saw him go upstairs carrying two or three

heavy ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of money.



Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the portfolio, and counted the

money. All his funds amounted to 6,000 or 8,000 francs, his bills

receivable up to the 5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the best of

everything, gave him 14,000 francs to meet debts amounting to 287,500

francs. He had not even the means for making a possible settlement on

account.



However, when Morrel went down to his dinner, he appeared very calm.

This calmness was more alarming to the two women than the deepest

dejection would have been. After dinner Morrel usually went out and

used to take his coffee at the club of the Phocéens, and read the

_Semaphore_; this day he did not leave the house, but returned to his

office.



As to Cocles, he seemed completely bewildered. For part of the day he

went into the courtyard, seated himself on a stone with his head bare

and exposed to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to comfort the women,

but his eloquence faltered. The young man was too well acquainted with

the business of the house, not to feel that a great catastrophe hung

over the Morrel family. Night came, the two women had watched, hoping

that when he left his room Morrel would come to them, but they heard

him pass before their door, and trying to conceal the noise of his

footsteps. They listened; he went into his sleeping-room, and fastened

the door inside. Madame Morrel sent her daughter to bed, and half an

hour after Julie had retired, she rose, took off her shoes, and went

stealthily along the passage, to see through the keyhole what her

husband was doing.



In the passage she saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie, who, uneasy

herself, had anticipated her mother. The young lady went towards Madame

Morrel.



“He is writing,” she said.



They had understood each other without speaking. Madame Morrel looked

again through the keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame Morrel

remarked, what her daughter had not observed, that her husband was

writing on stamped paper. The terrible idea that he was writing his

will flashed across her; she shuddered, and yet had not strength to

utter a word.



Next day M. Morrel seemed as calm as ever, went into his office as

usual, came to his breakfast punctually, and then, after dinner, he

placed his daughter beside him, took her head in his arms, and held her

for a long time against his bosom. In the evening, Julie told her

mother, that although he was apparently so calm, she had noticed that

her father’s heart beat violently.



The next two days passed in much the same way. On the evening of the

4th of September, M. Morrel asked his daughter for the key of his

study. Julie trembled at this request, which seemed to her of bad omen.

Why did her father ask for this key which she always kept, and which

was only taken from her in childhood as a punishment? The young girl

looked at Morrel.



“What have I done wrong, father,” she said, “that you should take this

key from me?”



“Nothing, my dear,” replied the unhappy man, the tears starting to his

eyes at this simple question,—“nothing, only I want it.”



Julie made a pretence to feel for the key. “I must have left it in my

room,” she said.



And she went out, but instead of going to her apartment she hastened to

consult Emmanuel.



“Do not give this key to your father,” said he, “and tomorrow morning,

if possible, do not quit him for a moment.”



She questioned Emmanuel, but he knew nothing, or would not say what he

knew.



During the night, between the 4th and 5th of September, Madame Morrel

remained listening for every sound, and, until three o’clock in the

morning, she heard her husband pacing the room in great agitation. It

was three o’clock when he threw himself on the bed. The mother and

daughter passed the night together. They had expected Maximilian since

the previous evening. At eight o’clock in the morning Morrel entered

their chamber. He was calm; but the agitation of the night was legible

in his pale and careworn visage. They did not dare to ask him how he

had slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, more affectionate to his

daughter, than he had ever been. He could not cease gazing at and

kissing the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of Emmanuel’s request, was

following her father when he quitted the room, but he said to her

quickly:



“Remain with your mother, dearest.” Julie wished to accompany him. “I

wish you to do so,” said he.



This was the first time Morrel had ever so spoken, but he said it in a

tone of paternal kindness, and Julie did not dare to disobey. She

remained at the same spot standing mute and motionless. An instant

afterwards the door opened, she felt two arms encircle her, and a mouth

pressed her forehead. She looked up and uttered an exclamation of joy.



20053m







“Maximilian, my dearest brother!” she cried.



At these words Madame Morrel rose, and threw herself into her son’s

arms.



“Mother,” said the young man, looking alternately at Madame Morrel and

her daughter, “what has occurred—what has happened? Your letter has

frightened me, and I have come hither with all speed.”



“Julie,” said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man, “go and

tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived.”



The young lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of

the staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand.



“Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?” inquired the man, with a

strong Italian accent.



“Yes, sir,” replied Julie with hesitation; “what is your pleasure? I do

not know you.”



“Read this letter,” he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated. “It

concerns the best interests of your father,” said the messenger.



The young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it quickly

and read:



“Go this moment to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask

the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the

apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in

red silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should

receive it before eleven o’clock. You promised to obey me implicitly.

Remember your oath.



“Sinbad the Sailor.”



The young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked round to

question the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast her eyes again

over the note to peruse it a second time, and saw there was a

postscript. She read:



“It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and

alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else

go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything

about it.”



This postscript decreased greatly the young girl’s happiness. Was there

nothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her? Her innocence

had kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might assail a young girl

of her age. But there is no need to know danger in order to fear it;

indeed, it may be observed, that it is usually unknown perils that

inspire the greatest terror.



Julie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a singular

impulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that she applied,

but to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what had occurred on

the day when the agent of Thomson & French had come to her father’s,

related the scene on the staircase, repeated the promise she had made,

and showed him the letter.



“You must go, then, mademoiselle,” said Emmanuel.



“Go there?” murmured Julie.



“Yes; I will accompany you.”



“But did you not read that I must be alone?” said Julie.



“And you shall be alone,” replied the young man. “I will await you at

the corner of the Rue du Musée, and if you are so long absent as to

make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you

shall have cause to complain to me!”



“Then, Emmanuel?” said the young girl with hesitation, “it is your

opinion that I should obey this invitation?”



“Yes. Did not the messenger say your father’s safety depended upon it?”



“But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?” she asked.



Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide

immediately made him reply.



“Listen,” he said; “today is the 5th of September, is it not?”



“Yes.”



“Today, then, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred

thousand francs to pay?”



“Yes, we know that.”



“Well, then,” continued Emmanuel, “we have not fifteen thousand francs

in the house.”



“What will happen then?”



“Why, if today before eleven o’clock your father has not found someone

who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o’clock to

declare himself a bankrupt.”



“Oh, come, then, come!” cried she, hastening away with the young man.



During this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything. The young

man knew quite well that, after the succession of misfortunes which had

befallen his father, great changes had taken place in the style of

living and housekeeping; but he did not know that matters had reached

such a point. He was thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out of the

apartment, he ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in his study,

but he rapped there in vain.



While he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom door

open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to his study,

M. Morrel had returned to his bedchamber, which he was only this moment

quitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of his son, of

whose arrival he was ignorant. He remained motionless on the spot,

pressing with his left hand something he had concealed under his coat.

Maximilian sprang down the staircase, and threw his arms round his

father’s neck; but suddenly he recoiled, and placed his right hand on

Morrel’s breast.



“Father,” he exclaimed, turning pale as death, “what are you going to

do with that brace of pistols under your coat?”



“Oh, this is what I feared!” said Morrel.



“Father, father, in Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young man, “what are

these weapons for?”



“Maximilian,” replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, “you are a

man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you.”



And with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while Maximilian

followed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the door, and closed

it behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom, went to his desk on

which he placed the pistols, and pointed with his finger to an open

ledger. In this ledger was made out an exact balance-sheet of his

affairs. Morrel had to pay, within half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he

possessed was 15,257 francs.



“Read!” said Morrel.



The young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a word. What

could he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof in figures?



“And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this

disastrous result?” asked the young man, after a moment’s pause.



“I have,” replied Morrel.



“You have no money coming in on which you can rely?”



“None.”



“You have exhausted every resource?”



“All.”



“And in half an hour,” said Maximilian in a gloomy voice, “our name is

dishonored!”



“Blood washes out dishonor,” said Morrel.



“You are right, father; I understand you.” Then extending his hand

towards one of the pistols, he said, “There is one for you and one for

me—thanks!”



Morrel caught his hand. “Your mother—your sister! Who will support

them?”



A shudder ran through the young man’s frame. “Father,” he said, “do you

reflect that you are bidding me to live?”



“Yes, I do so bid you,” answered Morrel, “it is your duty. You have a

calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I

make no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as

if it were your own, and then judge for yourself.”



The young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of sublime

resignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad gesture he

took off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank.



“Be it so, then, my father,” he said, extending his hand to Morrel,

“die in peace, my father; I will live.”



Morrel was about to cast himself on his knees before his son, but

Maximilian caught him in his arms, and those two noble hearts were

pressed against each other for a moment.



“You know it is not my fault,” said Morrel.



20057m







Maximilian smiled. “I know, father, you are the most honorable man I

have ever known.”



“Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your

mother and sister.”



“My father,” said the young man, bending his knee, “bless me!” Morrel

took the head of his son between his two hands, drew him forward, and

kissing his forehead several times said:



“Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three

generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, ‘The edifice

which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.’ On

seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you.

To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me.

Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work,

labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself,

your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day

to day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and

fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn,

that day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very

office, ‘My father died because he could not do what I have this day

done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I

should do.’”



“My father, my father!” cried the young man, “why should you not live?”



“If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be

converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man

who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a

bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse

is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would

avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last

home. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your

head and say, ‘I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first

time, he has been compelled to break his word.’”



The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.



“And now,” said Morrel, “leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your

mother and sister away.”



“Will you not see my sister once more?” asked Maximilian. A last but

final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this

interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his head. “I

saw her this morning, and bade her adieu.”



“Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?” inquired

Maximilian in a faltering voice.



“Yes; my son, and a sacred command.”



“Say it, my father.”



“The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or,

it may be, selfishness—it is not for me to read men’s hearts—has had

any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to

receive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted,

but offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my

son, and respect this man.”



“Father, I will,” said Maximilian.



“And now, once more, adieu,” said Morrel. “Go, leave me; I would be

alone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom.”



The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of

will and not the power of execution.



“Hear me, Maximilian,” said his father. “Suppose I were a soldier like

you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be

killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now,

‘Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable

to shame!’”



“Yes, yes,” said the young man, “yes;” and once again embracing his

father with convulsive pressure, he said, “Be it so, my father.”



And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him, Morrel

remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then

putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment’s interval,

Cocles appeared.



It was no longer the same man—the fearful revelations of the three last

days had crushed him. This thought—the house of Morrel is about to stop

payment—bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise

have done.



“My worthy Cocles,” said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe, “do

you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months

ago—the agent of Thomson & French—arrives, announce his arrival to me.”



Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the

anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes

fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The

hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.



What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony

cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was

surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced

himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly

plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the

world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings,

one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation

and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on.

The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and

murmured his daughter’s name. Then he laid it down, seized his pen, and

wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient

farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock,

counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds.



He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed

on the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he

cocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came

forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his

heart-strings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its

hinges—the clock gave its warning to strike eleven—the door of his

study opened. Morrel did not turn round—he expected these words of

Cocles, “The agent of Thomson & French.”



He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard

a cry—it was his daughter’s voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol

fell from his hands.



“My father!” cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with

joy—“saved, you are saved!” And she threw herself into his arms,

holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse.



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“Saved, my child!” said Morrel; “what do you mean?”



“Yes, saved—saved! See, see!” said the young girl.



Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague

remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end

was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a

diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small slip of

parchment: _Julie’s Dowry_.



Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream. At this

moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke of the hammer

fell upon his heart.



“Explain, my child,” he said, “Explain, my child,” he said,

“explain—where did you find this purse?”



“In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a

mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor.”



“But,” cried Morrel, “this purse is not yours!” Julie handed to her

father the letter she had received in the morning.



“And did you go alone?” asked Morrel, after he had read it.



“Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the

corner of the Rue du Musée, but, strange to say, he was not there when

I returned.”



“Monsieur Morrel!” exclaimed a voice on the stairs; “Monsieur Morrel!”



“It is his voice!” said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his

countenance full of animation and joy.



“The _Pharaon_!” he cried; “the _Pharaon_!”



“What!—what!—the _Pharaon_! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel

is lost.”



“The _Pharaon_, sir—they signal the _Pharaon_! The _Pharaon_ is

entering the harbor!”



Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his

understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such

incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in.



“Father,” cried Maximilian, “how could you say the _Pharaon_ was lost?

The lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into

port.”



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“My dear friends,” said Morrel, “if this be so, it must be a miracle of

heaven! Impossible, impossible!”



But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his

hand, the acceptance receipted—the splendid diamond.



“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Cocles, “what can it mean?—the _Pharaon_?”



“Come, dear ones,” said Morrel, rising from his seat, “let us go and

see, and Heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!”



They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been

afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Canebière.

There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel.

“The _Pharaon_! the _Pharaon_!” said every voice.



And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship

bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters, “The

_Pharaon_, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles.” She was the exact duplicate of

the other _Pharaon_, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and

indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain

Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M.

Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of

the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the

testimony.



As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and

amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with

his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the

sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a

low tone:



“Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and

wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your

good deeds.”



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And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his

hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights

of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted

“Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!”



Then a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a

yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity

of a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping

with joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around

him, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to

be seeking in the skies.



“And now,” said the unknown, “farewell kindness, humanity, and

gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have

been Heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of

vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!”



At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal,

the yacht instantly put out to sea.







 Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor



Towards the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging to the

first society of Paris, the Viscount Albert de Morcerf and the Baron

Franz d’Épinay, were at Florence. They had agreed to see the Carnival

at Rome that year, and that Franz, who for the last three or four years

had inhabited Italy, should act as _cicerone_ to Albert.



As it is no inconsiderable affair to spend the Carnival at Rome,

especially when you have no great desire to sleep on the Piazza del

Popolo, or the Campo Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, the

proprietor of the Hôtel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna, to reserve

comfortable apartments for them. Signor Pastrini replied that he had

only two rooms and a parlor on the third floor, which he offered at the

low charge of a louis per diem. They accepted his offer; but wishing to

make the best use of the time that was left, Albert started for Naples.

As for Franz, he remained at Florence, and after having passed a few

days in exploring the paradise of the Cascine, and spending two or

three evenings at the houses of the Florentine nobility, he took a

fancy into his head (having already visited Corsica, the cradle of

Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the waiting-place of Napoleon.



One evening he cast off the painter of a sailboat from the iron ring

that secured it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped himself in his coat and

lay down, and said to the crew,—“To the Island of Elba!”



The boat shot out of the harbor like a bird and the next morning Franz

disembarked at Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, after having

followed the traces which the footsteps of the giant have left, and

re-embarked for Marciana.



Two hours after he again landed at Pianosa, where he was assured that

red partridges abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only succeeded in

killing a few partridges, and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, he

returned to the boat very much out of temper.



“Ah, if your excellency chose,” said the captain, “you might have

capital sport.”



“Where?”



“Do you see that island?” continued the captain, pointing to a conical

pile rising from the indigo sea.



“Well, what is this island?”



“The Island of The Trial.”



“But I have no permission to shoot over this island.”



“Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is

uninhabited.”



“Ah, indeed!” said the young man. “A desert island in the midst of the

Mediterranean must be a curiosity.”



“It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not

contain an acre of land capable of cultivation.”



“To whom does this island belong?”



“To Tuscany.”



“What game shall I find there!”



“Thousands of wild goats.”



“Who live upon the stones, I suppose,” said Franz with an incredulous

smile.



“No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the crevices

of the rocks.”



“Where can I sleep?”



“On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if your

excellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like—we can sail as

well by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use our oars.”



As Franz had sufficient time, and his apartments at Rome were not yet

available, he accepted the proposition. Upon his answer in the

affirmative, the sailors exchanged a few words together in a low tone.

“Well,” asked he, “what now? Is there any difficulty in the way?”



“No.” replied the captain, “but we must warn your excellency that the

island is an infected port.”



“What do you mean?”



“The Trial although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a refuge

for the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica, Sardinia, and

Africa, and if it becomes known that we have been there, we shall have

to perform quarantine for six days on our return to Leghorn.”



“The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days! Why,

that’s as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too long a

wait—too long.”



“But who will say your excellency has been to The Trial?”



“Oh, I shall not,” cried Franz.



“Nor I, nor I,” chorused the sailors.



“Then steer for The Trial.”



The captain gave his orders, the helm was put up, and the boat was soon

sailing in the direction of the island. Franz waited until all was in

order, and when the sail was filled, and the four sailors had taken

their places—three forward, and one at the helm—he resumed the

conversation. “Gaetano,” said he to the captain, “you tell me Monte

Cristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very

different kind of game from the goats.”



“Yes, your excellency, and it is true.”



“I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of

Algiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates existed only in

the romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat.”



“Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the bandits who

were believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII., and who yet,

every day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has not your excellency

heard that the French _chargé d’affaires_ was robbed six months ago

within five hundred paces of Velletri?”



“Oh, yes, I heard that.”



“Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you would

hear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an English

yacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita

Vecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of it, but,

doubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this rock it has

met has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or eight men, who

have surprised and plundered it, some dark and stormy night, near some

desert and gloomy island, as bandits plunder a carriage in the recesses

of a forest.”



“But,” asked Franz, who lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom of the

boat, “why do not those who have been plundered complain to the French,

Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?”



“Why?” said Gaetano with a smile.



“Yes, why?”



“Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to their

own boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the crew hand

and foot, they attach to everyone’s neck a four-and-twenty-pound ball,

a large hole is chopped in the vessel’s bottom, and then they leave

her. At the end of ten minutes the vessel begins to roll heavily and

settle down. First one gun’l goes under, then the other. Then they lift

and sink again, and both go under at once. All at once there’s a noise

like a cannon—that’s the air blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes

out of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last

groan, spins round and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool

in the ocean, and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but

the eye of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the

sea. Do you understand now,” said the captain, “why no complaints are

made to the government, and why the vessel never reaches port?”



It is probable that if Gaetano had related this previous to proposing

the expedition, Franz would have hesitated, but now that they had

started, he thought it would be cowardly to draw back. He was one of

those men who do not rashly court danger, but if danger presents

itself, combat it with the most unalterable coolness. Calm and

resolute, he treated any peril as he would an adversary in a

duel,—calculated its probable method of approach; retreated, if at all,

as a point of strategy and not from cowardice; was quick to see an

opening for attack, and won victory at a single thrust.



“Bah!” said he, “I have travelled through Sicily and Calabria—I have

sailed two months in the Archipelago, and yet I never saw even the

shadow of a bandit or a pirate.”



“I did not tell your excellency this to deter you from your project,”

replied Gaetano, “but you questioned me, and I have answered; that’s

all.”



“Yes, and your conversation is most interesting; and as I wish to enjoy

it as long as possible, steer for The Trial.”



The wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an hour, and

they were rapidly reaching the end of their voyage. As they drew near

the island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air was so clear that

they could already distinguish the rocks heaped on one another, like

cannon balls in an arsenal, with green bushes and trees growing in the

crevices. As for the sailors, although they appeared perfectly tranquil

yet it was evident that they were on the alert, and that they carefully

watched the glassy surface over which they were sailing, and on which a

few fishing-boats, with their white sails, were alone visible.



They were within fifteen miles of The Trial when the sun began to

set behind Corsica, whose mountains appeared against the sky, showing

their rugged peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock, like the giant

Adamastor, rose dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and intercepting the

light that gilded its massive peaks so that the voyagers were in

shadow. Little by little the shadow rose higher and seemed to drive

before it the last rays of the expiring day; at last the reflection

rested on the summit of the mountain, where it paused an instant, like

the fiery crest of a volcano, then gloom gradually covered the summit

as it had covered the base, and the island now only appeared to be a

gray mountain that grew continually darker; half an hour after, the

night was quite dark.



Fortunately, the mariners were used to these latitudes, and knew every

rock in the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the midst of this obscurity

Franz was not without uneasiness—Corsica had long since disappeared,

and The Trial itself was invisible; but the sailors seemed, like the

lynx, to see in the dark, and the pilot who steered did not evince the

slightest hesitation.



An hour had passed since the sun had set, when Franz fancied he saw, at

a quarter of a mile to the left, a dark mass, but he could not

precisely make out what it was, and fearing to excite the mirth of the

sailors by mistaking a floating cloud for land, he remained silent;

suddenly a great light appeared on the strand; land might resemble a

cloud, but the fire was not a meteor.



“What is this light?” asked he.



“Hush!” said the captain; “it is a fire.”



“But you told me the island was uninhabited?”



“I said there were no fixed habitations on it, but I said also that it

served sometimes as a harbor for smugglers.”



“And for pirates?”



“And for pirates,” returned Gaetano, repeating Franz’s words. “It is

for that reason I have given orders to pass the island, for, as you

see, the fire is behind us.”



“But this fire?” continued Franz. “It seems to me rather reassuring

than otherwise; men who did not wish to be seen would not light a

fire.”



“Oh, that goes for nothing,” said Gaetano. “If you can guess the

position of the island in the darkness, you will see that the fire

cannot be seen from the side or from Pianosa, but only from the sea.”



“You think, then, this fire indicates the presence of unpleasant

neighbors?”



“That is what we must find out,” returned Gaetano, fixing his eyes on

this terrestrial star.



“How can you find out?”



“You shall see.”



Gaetano consulted with his companions, and after five minutes’

discussion a manœuvre was executed which caused the vessel to tack

about, they returned the way they had come, and in a few minutes the

fire disappeared, hidden by an elevation of the land. The pilot again

changed the course of the boat, which rapidly approached the island,

and was soon within fifty paces of it. Gaetano lowered the sail, and

the boat came to rest. All this was done in silence, and from the

moment that their course was changed not a word was spoken.



Gaetano, who had proposed the expedition, had taken all the

responsibility on himself; the four sailors fixed their eyes on him,

while they got out their oars and held themselves in readiness to row

away, which, thanks to the darkness, would not be difficult. As for

Franz, he examined his arms with the utmost coolness; he had two

double-barrelled guns and a rifle; he loaded them, looked at the

priming, and waited quietly.



During this time the captain had thrown off his vest and shirt, and

secured his trousers round his waist; his feet were naked, so he had no

shoes and stockings to take off; after these preparations he placed his

finger on his lips, and lowering himself noiselessly into the sea, swam

towards the shore with such precaution that it was impossible to hear

the slightest sound; he could only be traced by the phosphorescent line

in his wake. This track soon disappeared; it was evident that he had

touched the shore.



Everyone on board remained motionless for half an hour, when the same

luminous track was again observed, and the swimmer was soon on board.



“Well?” exclaimed Franz and the sailors in unison.



“They are Spanish smugglers,” said he; “they have with them two

Corsican bandits.”



“And what are these Corsican bandits doing here with Spanish

smugglers?”



“Alas,” returned the captain with an accent of the most profound pity,

“we ought always to help one another. Very often the bandits are hard

pressed by gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see a vessel, and good

fellows like us on board, they come and demand hospitality of us; you

can’t refuse help to a poor hunted devil; we receive them, and for

greater security we stand out to sea. This costs us nothing, and saves

the life, or at least the liberty, of a fellow-creature, who on the

first occasion returns the service by pointing out some safe spot where

we can land our goods without interruption.”



“Ah!” said Franz, “then you are a smuggler occasionally, Gaetano?”



“Your excellency, we must live somehow,” returned the other, smiling

impenetrably.



“Then you know the men who are now on The Trial?”



“Oh, yes, we sailors are like freemasons, and recognize each other by

signs.”



“And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land?”



“Nothing at all; smugglers are not thieves.”



“But these two Corsican bandits?” said Franz, calculating the chances

of peril.



“It is not their fault that they are bandits, but that of the

authorities.”



“How so?”



“Because they are pursued for having made a stiff, as if it was not in

a Corsican’s nature to revenge himself.”



“What do you mean by having made a stiff?—having assassinated a man?”

said Franz, continuing his investigation.



“I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very different

thing,” returned the captain.



“Well,” said the young man, “let us demand hospitality of these

smugglers and bandits. Do you think they will grant it?”



“Without doubt.”



“How many are they?”



“Four, and the two bandits make six.”



“Just our number, so that if they prove troublesome, we shall be able

to hold them in check; so, for the last time, steer to The Trial.”



“Yes, but your excellency will permit us to take all due precautions.”



“By all means, be as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses; I do

more than permit, I exhort you.”



“Silence, then!” said Gaetano.



Everyone obeyed. For a man who, like Franz, viewed his position in its

true light, it was a grave one. He was alone in the darkness with

sailors whom he did not know, and who had no reason to be devoted to

him; who knew that he had several thousand francs in his belt, and who

had often examined his weapons,—which were very beautiful,—if not with

envy, at least with curiosity. On the other hand, he was about to land,

without any other escort than these men, on an island which had,

indeed, a very religious name, but which did not seem to Franz likely

to afford him much hospitality, thanks to the smugglers and bandits.

The history of the scuttled vessels, which had appeared improbable

during the day, seemed very probable at night; placed as he was between

two possible sources of danger, he kept his eye on the crew, and his

gun in his hand.



The sailors had again hoisted sail, and the vessel was once more

cleaving the waves. Through the darkness Franz, whose eyes were now

more accustomed to it, could see the looming shore along which the boat

was sailing, and then, as they rounded a rocky point, he saw the fire

more brilliant than ever, and about it five or six persons seated. The

blaze illumined the sea for a hundred paces around. Gaetano skirted the

light, carefully keeping the boat in the shadow; then, when they were

opposite the fire, he steered to the centre of the circle, singing a

fishing song, of which his companions sung the chorus.



At the first words of the song the men seated round the fire arose and

approached the landing-place, their eyes fixed on the boat, evidently

seeking to know who the new-comers were and what were their intentions.

They soon appeared satisfied and returned (with the exception of one,

who remained at the shore) to their fire, at which the carcass of a

goat was roasting. When the boat was within twenty paces of the shore,

the man on the beach, who carried a carbine, presented arms after the

manner of a sentinel, and cried, “Who comes there?” in Sardinian.



Franz coolly cocked both barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few words

with this man which the traveller did not understand, but which

evidently concerned him.



“Will your excellency give your name, or remain _incognito_?” asked the

captain.



“My name must rest unknown,” replied Franz; “merely say I am a

Frenchman travelling for pleasure.”



As soon as Gaetano had transmitted this answer, the sentinel gave an

order to one of the men seated round the fire, who rose and disappeared

among the rocks. Not a word was spoken, everyone seemed occupied, Franz

with his disembarkment, the sailors with their sails, the smugglers

with their goat; but in the midst of all this carelessness it was

evident that they mutually observed each other.



The man who had disappeared returned suddenly on the opposite side to

that by which he had left; he made a sign with his head to the

sentinel, who, turning to the boat, said, “_S’accommodi_.” The Italian

_s’accommodi_ is untranslatable; it means at once, “Come, enter, you

are welcome; make yourself at home; you are the master.” It is like

that Turkish phrase of Molière’s that so astonished the bourgeois

gentleman by the number of things implied in its utterance.



The sailors did not wait for a second invitation; four strokes of the

oar brought them to land; Gaetano sprang to shore, exchanged a few

words with the sentinel, then his comrades disembarked, and lastly came

Franz. One of his guns was swung over his shoulder, Gaetano had the

other, and a sailor held his rifle; his dress, half artist, half dandy,

did not excite any suspicion, and, consequently, no disquietude. The

boat was moored to the shore, and they advanced a few paces to find a

comfortable bivouac; but, doubtless, the spot they chose did not suit

the smuggler who filled the post of sentinel, for he cried out:



“Not that way, if you please.”



Gaetano faltered an excuse, and advanced to the opposite side, while

two sailors kindled torches at the fire to light them on their way.



They advanced about thirty paces, and then stopped at a small esplanade

surrounded with rocks, in which seats had been cut, not unlike

sentry-boxes. Around in the crevices of the rocks grew a few dwarf oaks

and thick bushes of myrtles. Franz lowered a torch, and saw by the mass

of cinders that had accumulated that he was not the first to discover

this retreat, which was, doubtless, one of the halting-places of the

wandering visitors of The Trial.



As for his suspicions, once on _terra firma_, once that he had seen the

indifferent, if not friendly, appearance of his hosts, his anxiety had

quite disappeared, or rather, at sight of the goat, had turned to

appetite. He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied that nothing could

be more easy than to prepare a supper when they had in their boat,

bread, wine, half a dozen partridges, and a good fire to roast them by.



“Besides,” added he, “if the smell of their roast meat tempts you, I

will go and offer them two of our birds for a slice.”



“You are a born diplomat,” returned Franz; “go and try.”



Meanwhile the sailors had collected dried sticks and branches with

which they made a fire. Franz waited impatiently, inhaling the aroma of

the roasted meat, when the captain returned with a mysterious air.



“Well,” said Franz, “anything new?—do they refuse?”



“On the contrary,” returned Gaetano, “the chief, who was told you were

a young Frenchman, invites you to sup with him.”



“Well,” observed Franz, “this chief is very polite, and I see no

objection—the more so as I bring my share of the supper.”



“Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and to spare, for supper; but he

makes one condition, and rather a peculiar one, before he will receive

you at his house.”



“His house? Has he built one here, then?”



“No, but he has a very comfortable one all the same, so they say.”



“You know this chief, then?”



“I have heard talk of him.”



“Favorably or otherwise?”



“Both.”



“The deuce!—and what is this condition?”



“That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until he

himself bids you.”



Franz looked at Gaetano, to see, if possible, what he thought of this

proposal. “Ah,” replied he, guessing Franz’s thought, “I know this is a

serious matter.”



“What should you do in my place?”



“I, who have nothing to lose,—I should go.”



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“You would accept?”



“Yes, were it only out of curiosity.”



“There is something very peculiar about this chief, then?”



“Listen,” said Gaetano, lowering his voice, “I do not know if what they

say is true”—he stopped to see if anyone was near.



“What do they say?”



“That this chief inhabits a cavern to which the Pitti Palace is

nothing.”



“What nonsense!” said Franz, reseating himself.



“It is no nonsense; it is quite true. Cama, the pilot of the _Saint

Ferdinand_, went in once, and he came back amazed, vowing that such

treasures were only to be heard of in fairy tales.”



“Do you know,” observed Franz, “that with such stories you make me

think of Ali Baba’s enchanted cavern?”



“I tell you what I have been told.”



“Then you advise me to accept?”



“Oh, I don’t say that; your excellency will do as you please; I should

be sorry to advise you in the matter.”



Franz pondered the matter for a few moments, concluded that a man so

rich could not have any intention of plundering him of what little he

had, and seeing only the prospect of a good supper, accepted. Gaetano

departed with the reply. Franz was prudent, and wished to learn all he

possibly could concerning his host. He turned towards the sailor, who,

during this dialogue, had sat gravely plucking the partridges with the

air of a man proud of his office, and asked him how these men had

landed, as no vessel of any kind was visible.



“Never mind that,” returned the sailor, “I know their vessel.”



“Is it a very beautiful vessel?”



“I would not wish for a better to sail round the world.”



“Of what burden is she?”



“About a hundred tons; but she is built to stand any weather. She is

what the English call a yacht.”



“Where was she built?”



“I know not; but my own opinion is she is a Genoese.”



“And how did a leader of smugglers,” continued Franz, “venture to build

a vessel designed for such a purpose at Genoa?”



“I did not say that the owner was a smuggler,” replied the sailor.



“No; but Gaetano did, I thought.”



“Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a distance, he had not then

spoken to anyone.”



“And if this person be not a smuggler, who is he?”



“A wealthy signor, who travels for his pleasure.”



“Come,” thought Franz, “he is still more mysterious, since the two

accounts do not agree.”



“What is his name?”



“If you ask him, he says Sinbad the Sailor; but I doubt if it be his

real name.”



“Sinbad the Sailor?”



“Yes.”



“And where does he reside?”



“On the sea.”



“What country does he come from?”



“I do not know.”



“Have you ever seen him?”



“Sometimes.”



“What sort of a man is he?”



“Your excellency will judge for yourself.”



“Where will he receive me?”



“No doubt in the subterranean palace Gaetano told you of.”



“Have you never had the curiosity, when you have landed and found this

island deserted, to seek for this enchanted palace?”



“Oh, yes, more than once, but always in vain; we examined the grotto

all over, but we never could find the slightest trace of any opening;

they say that the door is not opened by a key, but a magic word.”



“Decidedly,” muttered Franz, “this is an Arabian Nights’ adventure.”



“His excellency waits for you,” said a voice, which he recognized as

that of the sentinel. He was accompanied by two of the yacht’s crew.



Franz drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and presented it to the

man who had spoken to him. Without uttering a word, they bandaged his

eyes with a care that showed their apprehensions of his committing some

indiscretion. Afterwards he was made to promise that he would not make

the least attempt to raise the bandage. He promised.



Then his two guides took his arms, and he went on, guided by them, and

preceded by the sentinel. After going about thirty paces, he smelt the

appetizing odor of the kid that was roasting, and knew thus that he was

passing the bivouac; they then led him on about fifty paces farther,

evidently advancing towards that part of the shore where they would not

allow Gaetano to go—a refusal he could now comprehend.



Presently, by a change in the atmosphere, he knew that they were

entering a cave; after going on for a few seconds more he heard a

crackling, and it seemed to him as though the atmosphere again changed,

and became balmy and perfumed. At length his feet touched on a thick

and soft carpet, and his guides let go their hold of him. There was a

moment’s silence, and then a voice, in excellent French, although, with

a foreign accent, said:



“Welcome, sir. I beg you will remove your bandage.”



It may be supposed, then, Franz did not wait for a repetition of this

permission, but took off the handkerchief, and found himself in the

presence of a man from thirty-eight to forty years of age, dressed in a

Tunisian costume, that is to say, a red cap with a long blue silk

tassel, a vest of black cloth embroidered with gold, pantaloons of deep

red, large and full gaiters of the same color, embroidered with gold

like the vest, and yellow slippers; he had a splendid cashmere round

his waist, and a small sharp and crooked cangiar was passed through his

girdle.



Although of a paleness that was almost livid, this man had a remarkably

handsome face; his eyes were penetrating and sparkling; his nose, quite

straight, and projecting direct from the brow, was of the pure Greek

type, while his teeth, as white as pearls, were set off to admiration

by the black moustache that encircled them.



His pallor was so peculiar, that it seemed to pertain to one who had

been long entombed, and who was incapable of resuming the healthy glow

and hue of life. He was not particularly tall, but extremely well made,

and, like the men of the South, had small hands and feet. But what

astonished Franz, who had treated Gaetano’s description as a fable, was

the splendor of the apartment in which he found himself.



The entire chamber was lined with crimson brocade, worked with flowers

of gold. In a recess was a kind of divan, surmounted with a stand of

Arabian swords in silver scabbards, and the handles resplendent with

gems; from the ceiling hung a lamp of Venetian glass, of beautiful

shape and color, while the feet rested on a Turkey carpet, in which

they sunk to the instep; tapestry hung before the door by which Franz

had entered, and also in front of another door, leading into a second

apartment which seemed to be brilliantly illuminated.



The host gave Franz time to recover from his surprise, and, moreover,

returned look for look, not even taking his eyes off him.



“Sir,” he said, after a pause, “a thousand excuses for the precaution

taken in your introduction hither; but as, during the greater portion

of the year, this island is deserted, if the secret of this abode were

discovered, I should doubtless, find on my return my temporary

retirement in a state of great disorder, which would be exceedingly

annoying, not for the loss it occasioned me, but because I should not

have the certainty I now possess of separating myself from all the rest

of mankind at pleasure. Let me now endeavor to make you forget this

temporary unpleasantness, and offer you what no doubt you did not

expect to find here—that is to say, a tolerable supper and pretty

comfortable beds.”



“_Ma foi_, my dear sir,” replied Franz, “make no apologies. I have

always observed that they bandage people’s eyes who penetrate enchanted

palaces, for instance, those of Raoul in the _Huguenots_, and really I

have nothing to complain of, for what I see makes me think of the

wonders of the _Arabian Nights_.”



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“Alas! I may say with Lucullus, if I could have anticipated the honor

of your visit, I would have prepared for it. But such as is my

hermitage, it is at your disposal; such as is my supper, it is yours to

share, if you will. Ali, is the supper ready?”



At this moment the tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian, black as ebony,

and dressed in a plain white tunic, made a sign to his master that all

was prepared in the dining-room.



“Now,” said the unknown to Franz, “I do not know if you are of my

opinion, but I think nothing is more annoying than to remain two or

three hours together without knowing by name or appellation how to

address one another. Pray observe, that I too much respect the laws of

hospitality to ask your name or title. I only request you to give me

one by which I may have the pleasure of addressing you. As for myself,

that I may put you at your ease, I tell you that I am generally called

‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”



“And I,” replied Franz, “will tell you, as I only require his wonderful

lamp to make me precisely like Aladdin, that I see no reason why at

this moment I should not be called Aladdin. That will keep us from

going away from the East whither I am tempted to think I have been

conveyed by some good genius.”



“Well, then, Signor Aladdin,” replied the singular Amphitryon, “you

heard our repast announced, will you now take the trouble to enter the

dining-room, your humble servant going first to show the way?”



At these words, moving aside the tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest.

Franz now looked upon another scene of enchantment; the table was

splendidly covered, and once convinced of this important point he cast

his eyes around him. The dining-room was scarcely less striking than

the room he had just left; it was entirely of marble, with antique

bas-reliefs of priceless value; and at the four corners of this

apartment, which was oblong, were four magnificent statues, having

baskets in their hands. These baskets contained four pyramids of most

splendid fruit; there were Sicily pine-apples, pomegranates from

Malaga, oranges from the Balearic Isles, peaches from France, and dates

from Tunis.



The supper consisted of a roast pheasant garnished with Corsican

blackbirds; a boar’s ham with jelly, a quarter of a kid with tartar

sauce, a glorious turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between these large

dishes were smaller ones containing various dainties. The dishes were

of silver, and the plates of Japanese china.



Franz rubbed his eyes in order to assure himself that this was not a

dream. Ali alone was present to wait at table, and acquitted himself so

admirably, that the guest complimented his host thereupon.



“Yes,” replied he, while he did the honors of the supper with much ease

and grace—“yes, he is a poor devil who is much devoted to me, and does

all he can to prove it. He remembers that I saved his life, and as he

has a regard for his head, he feels some gratitude towards me for

having kept it on his shoulders.”



Ali approached his master, took his hand, and kissed it.



“Would it be impertinent, Signor Sinbad,” said Franz, “to ask you the

particulars of this kindness?”



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“Oh, they are simple enough,” replied the host. “It seems the fellow

had been caught wandering nearer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than

etiquette permits to one of his color, and he was condemned by the Bey

to have his tongue cut out, and his hand and head cut off; the tongue

the first day, the hand the second, and the head the third. I always

had a desire to have a mute in my service, so learning the day his

tongue was cut out, I went to the Bey, and proposed to give him for Ali

a splendid double-barreled gun, which I knew he was very desirous of

having. He hesitated a moment, he was so very desirous to complete the

poor devil’s punishment. But when I added to the gun an English cutlass

with which I had shivered his highness’s yataghan to pieces, the Bey

yielded, and agreed to forgive the hand and head, but on condition that

the poor fellow never again set foot in Tunis. This was a useless

clause in the bargain, for whenever the coward sees the first glimpse

of the shores of Africa, he runs down below, and can only be induced to

appear again when we are out of sight of that quarter of the globe.”



Franz remained a moment silent and pensive, hardly knowing what to

think of the half-kindness, half-cruelty, with which his host related

the brief narrative.



“And like the celebrated sailor whose name you have assumed,” he said,

by way of changing the conversation, “you pass your life in

travelling?”



“Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be

able to accomplish it,” said the unknown with a singular smile; “and I

made some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season.”



Although Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes

gave forth gleams of extraordinary ferocity.



“You have suffered a great deal, sir?” said Franz inquiringly.



Sinbad started and looked fixedly at him, as he replied, “What makes

you suppose so?”



“Everything,” answered Franz,—“your voice, your look, your pallid

complexion, and even the life you lead.”



“I?—I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am

king of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I

get tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like

one; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by

delivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I

have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or

appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you

had tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never

return to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish

there.”



“Revenge, for instance!” observed Franz.



The unknown fixed on the young man one of those looks which penetrate

into the depth of the heart and thoughts. “And why revenge?” he asked.



“Because,” replied Franz, “you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by

society, has a fearful account to settle with it.”



“Ah!” responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh, which

displayed his white and sharp teeth. “You have not guessed rightly.

Such as you see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I

shall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the man in the little

blue cloak.”



“And will that be the first time you ever took that journey?”



“Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you

that it is not my fault I have delayed it so long—it will happen one

day or the other.”



20083m







“And do you propose to make this journey very shortly?”



“I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain

arrangements.”



“I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor to

repay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality

displayed to me at The Trial.”



“I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure,” replied the host,

“but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability,

_incognito_.”



The supper appeared to have been supplied solely for Franz, for the

unknown scarcely touched one or two dishes of the splendid banquet to

which his guest did ample justice. Then Ali brought on the dessert, or

rather took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them

on the table. Between the two baskets he placed a small silver cup with

a silver cover. The care with which Ali placed this cup on the table

roused Franz’s curiosity. He raised the cover and saw a kind of

greenish paste, something like preserved angelica, but which was

perfectly unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of what the

cup contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting

his eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment.



“You cannot guess,” said he, “what there is in that small vase, can

you?”



“No, I really cannot.”



“Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia

which Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.”



“But,” replied Franz, “this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through

mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human

name; in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which,

to tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?”



“Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,” cried Sinbad;

“we frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without

regarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing

it. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste

this, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you.

Are you a man of imagination—a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of

possibility disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you

advance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of

unfettered reverie. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the

greatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a

king, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe

like France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the

universe, king of creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you

will be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not

tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is

only to do thus? look!”



At these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the substance

so lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his

lips, and swallowed it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent

backwards. Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favorite

sweetmeat, but when he had finished, he inquired:



“What, then, is this precious stuff?”



“Did you ever hear,” he replied, “of the Old Man of the Mountain, who

attempted to assassinate Philippe Auguste?”



“Of course I have.”



“Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the

mountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this valley were

magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens

isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and

there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which

transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs,

ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took

for reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous,

so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave

it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck

down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing

that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life

of delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a

slight foretaste.”



“Then,” cried Franz, “it is hashish! I know that—by name at least.”



“That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish—the purest and

most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria,—the hashish of Abou-Gor, the

celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a

palace, inscribed with these words, _A grateful world to the dealer in

happiness_.”



“Do you know,” said Franz, “I have a very great inclination to judge

for myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies.”



“Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin—judge, but do not confine yourself

to one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a

fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. There is a struggle

in nature against this divine substance,—in nature which is not made

for joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued must yield in the combat,

the dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme,

then the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream. But what

changes occur! It is only by comparing the pains of actual being with

the joys of the assumed existence, that you would desire to live no

longer, but to dream thus forever. When you return to this mundane

sphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan

spring for a Lapland winter—to quit paradise for earth—heaven for hell!

Taste the hashish, guest of mine—taste the hashish.”



Franz’s only reply was to take a teaspoonful of the marvellous

preparation, about as much in quantity as his host had eaten, and lift

it to his mouth.



“_Diable!_” he said, after having swallowed the divine preserve. “I do

not know if the result will be as agreeable as you describe, but the

thing does not appear to me as palatable as you say.”



“Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity of the

substances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted oysters, tea,

porter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you now adore, did

you like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans stuffed their

pheasants with assafœtida, and the Chinese eat swallows’ nests? Eh? no!

Well, it is the same with hashish; only eat for a week, and nothing in

the world will seem to you to equal the delicacy of its flavor, which

now appears to you flat and distasteful. Let us now go into the

adjoining chamber, which is your apartment, and Ali will bring us

coffee and pipes.”



They both arose, and while he who called himself Sinbad—and whom we

have occasionally named so, that we might, like his guest, have some

title by which to distinguish him—gave some orders to the servant,

Franz entered still another apartment.



It was simply yet richly furnished. It was round, and a large divan

completely encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling, floor, were all covered

with magnificent skins as soft and downy as the richest carpets; there

were heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas, striped tiger-skins from

Bengal; panther-skins from the Cape, spotted beautifully, like those

that appeared to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia, fox-skins from Norway,

and so on; and all these skins were strewn in profusion one on the

other, so that it seemed like walking over the most mossy turf, or

reclining on the most luxurious bed.



Both laid themselves down on the divan; chibouques with jasmine tubes

and amber mouthpieces were within reach, and all prepared so that there

was no need to smoke the same pipe twice. Each of them took one, which

Ali lighted and then retired to prepare the coffee.



There was a moment’s silence, during which Sinbad gave himself up to

thoughts that seemed to occupy him incessantly, even in the midst of

his conversation; and Franz abandoned himself to that mute reverie,

into which we always sink when smoking excellent tobacco, which seems

to remove with its fume all the troubles of the mind, and to give the

smoker in exchange all the visions of the soul. Ali brought in the

coffee.



“How do you take it?” inquired the unknown; “in the French or Turkish

style, strong or weak, sugar or none, cool or boiling? As you please;

it is ready in all ways.”



“I will take it in the Turkish style,” replied Franz.



“And you are right,” said his host; “it shows you have a tendency for

an Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they are the only men who know

how to live. As for me,” he added, with one of those singular smiles

which did not escape the young man, “when I have completed my affairs

in Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and should you wish to see me

again, you must seek me at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan.”



20087m







“_Ma foi_,” said Franz, “it would be the easiest thing in the world;

for I feel eagle’s wings springing out at my shoulders, and with those

wings I could make a tour of the world in four-and-twenty hours.”



“Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its work. Well, unfurl your wings,

and fly into superhuman regions; fear nothing, there is a watch over

you; and if your wings, like those of Icarus, melt before the sun, we

are here to ease your fall.”



He then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience

and withdrew, but not to any distance.



As to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the

bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the

events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the

first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be

aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy

lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses

seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it

was not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen

before he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all

the blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of

the summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his

sailors,—songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a

divine harmony had their notes been taken down,—he saw the Island of

The Trial, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the

waves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer,

the songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose

to heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or

Amphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city.



At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without

shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued

strains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to

descend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that

which may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from

such perfumes as set the mind a-dreaming, and such fires as burn the

very senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from

Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed

to fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows

of the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the

chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps

which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure.



They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy,

with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair.

They were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated

courtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian

angel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm

shadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow

before these marble wantons.



Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and

approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in

their long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves,

and assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which

saints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which

the serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that

held him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a

voluptuous kiss.



It seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about

him saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a

dream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips

of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so

that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug,

love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were

pressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like

embraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more

his senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle

that taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and

exhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the

enchantment of his marvellous dream.







 Chapter 32. The Waking



When Franz returned to himself, he seemed still to be in a dream. He

thought himself in a sepulchre, into which a ray of sunlight in pity

scarcely penetrated. He stretched forth his hand, and touched stone; he

rose to his seat, and found himself lying on his bournous in a bed of

dry heather, very soft and odoriferous. The vision had fled; and as if

the statues had been but shadows from the tomb, they had vanished at

his waking.



He advanced several paces towards the point whence the light came, and

to all the excitement of his dream succeeded the calmness of reality.

He found that he was in a grotto, went towards the opening, and through

a kind of fanlight saw a blue sea and an azure sky. The air and water

were shining in the beams of the morning sun; on the shore the sailors

were sitting, chatting and laughing; and at ten yards from them the

boat was at anchor, undulating gracefully on the water.



There for some time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which played on his

brow, and listened to the dash of the waves on the beach, that left

against the rocks a lace of foam as white as silver. He was for some

time without reflection or thought for the divine charm which is in the

things of nature, specially after a fantastic dream; then gradually

this view of the outer world, so calm, so pure, so grand, reminded him

of the illusiveness of his vision, and once more awakened memory. He

recalled his arrival on the island, his presentation to a smuggler

chief, a subterranean palace full of splendor, an excellent supper, and

a spoonful of hashish.



It seemed, however, even in the very face of open day, that at least a

year had elapsed since all these things had passed, so deep was the

impression made in his mind by the dream, and so strong a hold had it

taken of his imagination. Thus every now and then he saw in fancy amid

the sailors, seated on a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one of the

shadows which had shared his dream with looks and kisses. Otherwise,

his head was perfectly clear, and his body refreshed; he was free from

the slightest headache; on the contrary, he felt a certain degree of

lightness, a faculty for absorbing the pure air, and enjoying the

bright sunshine more vividly than ever.



He went gayly up to the sailors, who rose as soon as they perceived

him; and the patron, accosting him, said:



“The Signor Sinbad has left his compliments for your excellency, and

desires us to express the regret he feels at not being able to take his

leave in person; but he trusts you will excuse him, as very important

business calls him to Malaga.”



“So, then, Gaetano,” said Franz, “this is, then, all reality; there

exists a man who has received me in this island, entertained me right

royally, and has departed while I was asleep?”



“He exists as certainly as that you may see his small yacht with all

her sails spread; and if you will use your glass, you will, in all

probability, recognize your host in the midst of his crew.”



So saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction in which a small vessel was

making sail towards the southern point of Corsica. Franz adjusted his

telescope, and directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano was not mistaken.

At the stern the mysterious stranger was standing up looking towards

the shore, and holding a spy-glass in his hand. He was attired as he

had been on the previous evening, and waved his pocket-handkerchief to

his guest in token of adieu. Franz returned the salute by shaking his

handkerchief as an exchange of signals. After a second, a slight cloud

of smoke was seen at the stern of the vessel, which rose gracefully as

it expanded in the air, and then Franz heard a slight report.



“There, do you hear?” observed Gaetano; “he is bidding you adieu.”



The young man took his carbine and fired it in the air, but without any

idea that the noise could be heard at the distance which separated the

yacht from the shore.



“What are your excellency’s orders?” inquired Gaetano.



“In the first place, light me a torch.”



“Ah, yes, I understand,” replied the patron, “to find the entrance to

the enchanted apartment. With much pleasure, your excellency, if it

would amuse you; and I will get you the torch you ask for. But I too

have had the idea you have, and two or three times the same fancy has

come over me; but I have always given it up. Giovanni, light a torch,”

he added, “and give it to his excellency.”



Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp, and entered the subterranean

grotto, followed by Gaetano. He recognized the place where he had

awaked by the bed of heather that was there; but it was in vain that he

carried his torch all round the exterior surface of the grotto. He saw

nothing, unless that, by traces of smoke, others had before him

attempted the same thing, and, like him, in vain. Yet he did not leave

a foot of this granite wall, as impenetrable as futurity, without

strict scrutiny; he did not see a fissure without introducing the blade

of his hunting sword into it, or a projecting point on which he did not

lean and press in the hopes it would give way. All was vain; and he

lost two hours in his attempts, which were at last utterly useless. At

the end of this time he gave up his search, and Gaetano smiled.



When Franz appeared again on the shore, the yacht only seemed like a

small white speck on the horizon. He looked again through his glass,

but even then he could not distinguish anything.



Gaetano reminded him that he had come for the purpose of shooting

goats, which he had utterly forgotten. He took his fowling-piece, and

began to hunt over the island with the air of a man who is fulfilling a

duty, rather than enjoying a pleasure; and at the end of a quarter of

an hour he had killed a goat and two kids. These animals, though wild

and agile as chamois, were too much like domestic goats, and Franz

could not consider them as game. Moreover, other ideas, much more

enthralling, occupied his mind. Since, the evening before, he had

really been the hero of one of the tales of the _Thousand and One

Nights_, and he was irresistibly attracted towards the grotto.



Then, in spite of the failure of his first search, he began a second,

after having told Gaetano to roast one of the two kids. The second

visit was a long one, and when he returned the kid was roasted and the

repast ready. Franz was sitting on the spot where he was on the

previous evening when his mysterious host had invited him to supper;

and he saw the little yacht, now like a sea-gull on the wave,

continuing her flight towards Corsica.



“Why,” he remarked to Gaetano, “you told me that Signor Sinbad was

going to Malaga, while it seems he is in the direction of

Porto-Vecchio.”



“Don’t you remember,” said the patron, “I told you that among the crew

there were two Corsican brigands?”



“True; and he is going to land them,” added Franz.



“Precisely so,” replied Gaetano. “Ah, he is one who fears neither God

nor Satan, they say, and would at any time run fifty leagues out of his

course to do a poor devil a service.”



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“But such services as these might involve him with the authorities of

the country in which he practices this kind of philanthropy,” said

Franz.



“And what cares he for that,” replied Gaetano with a laugh, “or any

authorities? He smiles at them. Let them try to pursue him! Why, in the

first place, his yacht is not a ship, but a bird, and he would beat any

frigate three knots in every nine; and if he were to throw himself on

the coast, why, is he not certain of finding friends everywhere?”



It was perfectly clear that the Signor Sinbad, Franz’s host, had the

honor of being on excellent terms with the smugglers and bandits along

the whole coast of the Mediterranean, and so enjoyed exceptional

privileges. As to Franz, he had no longer any inducement to remain at

The Trial. He had lost all hope of detecting the secret of the

grotto; he consequently despatched his breakfast, and, his boat being

ready, he hastened on board, and they were soon under way. At the

moment the boat began her course they lost sight of the yacht, as it

disappeared in the gulf of Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the last

trace of the preceding night; and then supper, Sinbad, hashish,

statues,—all became a dream for Franz.



The boat sailed on all day and all night, and next morning, when the

sun rose, they had lost sight of The Trial.



When Franz had once again set foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment

at least, the events which had just passed, while he finished his

affairs of pleasure at Florence, and then thought of nothing but how he

should rejoin his companion, who was awaiting him at Rome.



He set out, and on the Saturday evening reached the Place de la Douane

by the mail-coach. An apartment, as we have said, had been retained

beforehand, and thus he had but to go to Signor Pastrini’s hotel. But

this was not so easy a matter, for the streets were thronged with

people, and Rome was already a prey to that low and feverish murmur

which precedes all great events; and at Rome there are four great

events in every year,—the Carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, and the

Feast of St. Peter.



All the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy,

between life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station

between this world and the next—a sublime spot, a resting-place full of

poetry and character, and at which Franz had already halted five or six

times, and at each time found it more marvellous and striking.



At last he made his way through the mob, which was continually

increasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel.

On his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to

hired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that

there was no room for him at the Hôtel de Londres. Then he sent his

card to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan

succeeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing himself for

having made his excellency wait, scolding the waiters, taking the

candlestick from the porter, who was ready to pounce on the traveller

and was about to lead him to Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared.



The apartment consisted of two small rooms and a parlor. The two rooms

looked on to the street—a fact which Signor Pastrini commented upon as

an inappreciable advantage. The rest of the floor was hired by a very

rich gentleman who was supposed to be a Sicilian or Maltese; but the

host was unable to decide to which of the two nations the traveller

belonged.



“Very good, signor Pastrini,” said Franz; “but we must have some supper

instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days.”



“As to supper,” replied the landlord, “you shall be served immediately;

but as for the carriage——”



“What as to the carriage?” exclaimed Albert. “Come, come, Signor

Pastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage.”



“Sir,” replied the host, “we will do all in our power to procure you

one—this is all I can say.”



“And when shall we know?” inquired Franz.



“Tomorrow morning,” answered the innkeeper.



“Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that’s all, I see plainly

enough. At Drake’s or Aaron’s one pays twenty-five lire for common

days, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast

days; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and

there’s an end of it.”



“I am afraid if we offer them double that we shall not procure a

carriage.”



“Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the

journey, but that’s no matter.”



“There are no horses.”



Albert looked at Franz like a man who hears a reply he does not

understand.



“Do you understand that, my dear Franz—no horses?” he said, “but can’t

we have post-horses?”



“They have been all hired this fortnight, and there are none left but

those absolutely requisite for posting.”



“What are we to say to this?” asked Franz.



“I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am

accustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is

supper ready, Signor Pastrini?”



“Yes, your excellency.”



“Well, then, let us sup.”



“But the carriage and horses?” said Franz.



“Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a

question of how much shall be charged for them.” Morcerf then, with

that delighted philosophy which believes that nothing is impossible to

a full purse or well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept

soundly, and dreamed he was racing all over Rome at Carnival time in a

coach with six horses.







 Chapter 33. Roman Bandits



The next morning Franz woke first, and instantly rang the bell. The

sound had not yet died away when Signor Pastrini himself entered.



“Well, excellency,” said the landlord triumphantly, and without waiting

for Franz to question him, “I feared yesterday, when I would not

promise you anything, that you were too late—there is not a single

carriage to be had—that is, for the three last days”



“Yes,” returned Franz, “for the very three days it is most needed.”



“What is the matter?” said Albert, entering; “no carriage to be had?”



“Just so,” returned Franz, “you have guessed it.”



“Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort of place.”



“That is to say, excellency,” replied Pastrini, who was desirous of

keeping up the dignity of the capital of the Christian world in the

eyes of his guest, “that there are no carriages to be had from Sunday

to Tuesday evening, but from now till Sunday you can have fifty if you

please.”



“Ah, that is something,” said Albert; “today is Thursday, and who knows

what may arrive between this and Sunday?”



“Ten or twelve thousand travellers will arrive,” replied Franz, “which

will make it still more difficult.”



“My friend,” said Morcerf, “let us enjoy the present without gloomy

forebodings for the future.”



“At least we can have a window?”



“Where?”



“In the Corso.”



“Ah, a window!” exclaimed Signor Pastrini,—“utterly impossible; there

was only one left on the fifth floor of the Doria Palace, and that has

been let to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day.”



The two young men looked at each other with an air of stupefaction.



“Well,” said Franz to Albert, “do you know what is the best thing we

can do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of

obtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages.”



“Ah, the devil, no,” cried Albert; “I came to Rome to see the Carnival,

and I will, though I see it on stilts.”



“Bravo! an excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster

pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete

success.”



“Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday

morning?”



“_Parbleu!_” said Albert, “do you think we are going to run about on

foot in the streets of Rome, like lawyers’ clerks?”



“I hasten to comply with your excellencies’ wishes; only, I tell you

beforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day.”



“And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next

apartments,” said Franz, “I warn you, that as I have been four times

before at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give

you twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then

you will make a good profit.”



“But, excellency”—said Pastrini, still striving to gain his point.



“Now go,” returned Franz, “or I shall go myself and bargain with your

_affettatore_, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has

plundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out

of me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will

lose the preference, and that will be your fault.”



“Do not give yourselves the trouble, excellency,” returned Signor

Pastrini, with the smile peculiar to the Italian speculator when he

confesses defeat; “I will do all I can, and I hope you will be

satisfied.”



“And now we understand each other.”



“When do you wish the carriage to be here?”



“In an hour.”



“In an hour it will be at the door.”



An hour after the vehicle was at the door; it was a hack conveyance

which was elevated to the rank of a private carriage in honor of the

occasion, but, in spite of its humble exterior, the young men would

have thought themselves happy to have secured it for the last three

days of the Carnival.



“Excellency,” cried the _cicerone_, seeing Franz approach the window,

“shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace?”



Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian phraseology, his first impulse

was to look round him, but these words were addressed to him. Franz was

the “excellency,” the vehicle was the “carriage,” and the Hôtel de

Londres was the “palace.” The genius for laudation characteristic of

the race was in that phrase.



Franz and Albert descended, the carriage approached the palace; their

excellencies stretched their legs along the seats; the _cicerone_

sprang into the seat behind.



“Where do your excellencies wish to go?” asked he.



“To Saint Peter’s first, and then to the Colosseum,” returned Albert.

But Albert did not know that it takes a day to see Saint Peter’s, and a

month to study it. The day was passed at Saint Peter’s alone.



Suddenly the daylight began to fade away; Franz took out his watch—it

was half-past four. They returned to the hotel; at the door Franz

ordered the coachman to be ready at eight. He wished to show Albert the

Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him Saint Peter’s by daylight.

When we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same

pride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been.



He was to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer wall,

and re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus they would behold the

Colosseum without finding their impressions dulled by first looking on

the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of

Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via Sacra.



They sat down to dinner. Signor Pastrini had promised them a banquet;

he gave them a tolerable repast. At the end of the dinner he entered in

person. Franz thought that he came to hear his dinner praised, and

began accordingly, but at the first words he was interrupted.



“Excellency,” said Pastrini, “I am delighted to have your approbation,

but it was not for that I came.”



“Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?” asked Albert,

lighting his cigar.



“No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any

longer; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told

anything cannot be done, there is an end of it.”



“It is much more convenient at Paris,—when anything cannot be done, you

pay double, and it is done directly.”



“That is what all the French say,” returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat

piqued; “for that reason, I do not understand why they travel.”



“But,” said Albert, emitting a volume of smoke and balancing his chair

on its hind legs, “only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel.

Men in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their

walk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Café de Paris.”



It is of course understood that Albert resided in the aforesaid street,

appeared every day on the fashionable walk, and dined frequently at the

only restaurant where you can really dine, that is, if you are on good

terms with its waiters.



Signor Pastrini remained silent a short time; it was evident that he

was musing over this answer, which did not seem very clear.



“But,” said Franz, in his turn interrupting his host’s meditations,

“you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was?”



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“Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o’clock precisely?”



“I have.”



“You intend visiting _Il Colosseo_.”



“You mean the Colosseum?”



“It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by

the Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and re-enter by the

Porta San Giovanni?”



“These are my words exactly.”



“Well, this route is impossible.”



“Impossible!”



“Very dangerous, to say the least.”



“Dangerous!—and why?”



“On account of the famous Luigi Vampa.”



“Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be?” inquired Albert; “he may be

very famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at

Paris.”



“What! do you not know him?”



“I have not that honor.”



“You have never heard his name?”



“Never.”



“Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the

Gasparones were mere children.”



“Now then, Albert,” cried Franz, “here is a bandit for you at last.”



“I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of

what you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin. ‘Once upon

a time——’ Well, go on.”



Signor Pastrini turned toward Franz, who seemed to him the more

reasonable of the two; we must do him justice,—he had had a great many

Frenchmen in his house, but had never been able to comprehend them.



“Excellency,” said he gravely, addressing Franz, “if you look upon me

as a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your

interest I——”



“Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “but

that he will not believe what you are going to tell us,—but I will

believe all you say; so proceed.”



“But if your excellency doubt my veracity——”



“Signor Pastrini,” returned Franz, “you are more susceptible than

Cassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while

you, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come,

sit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa.”



“I had told your excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had

since the days of Mastrilla.”



“Well, what has this bandit to do with the order I have given the

coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, and to re-enter by

the Porta San Giovanni?”



20101m







“This,” replied Signor Pastrini, “that you will go out by one, but I

very much doubt your returning by the other.”



“Why?” asked Franz.



“Because, after nightfall, you are not safe fifty yards from the

gates.”



“On your honor, is that true?” cried Albert.



“Count,” returned Signor Pastrini, hurt at Albert’s repeated doubts of

the truth of his assertions, “I do not say this to you, but to your

companion, who knows Rome, and knows, too, that these things are not to

be laughed at.”



“My dear fellow,” said Albert, turning to Franz, “here is an admirable

adventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and

double-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him—we

bring him back to Rome, and present him to his holiness the Pope, who

asks how he can repay so great a service; then we merely ask for a

carriage and a pair of horses, and we see the Carnival in the carriage,

and doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the Capitol, and

proclaim us, like Curtius and Horatius Cocles, the preservers of their

country.”



Whilst Albert proposed this scheme, Signor Pastrini’s face assumed an

expression impossible to describe.



“And pray,” asked Franz, “where are these pistols, blunderbusses, and

other deadly weapons with which you intend filling the carriage?”



“Not out of my armory, for at Terracina I was plundered even of my

hunting-knife. And you?”



“I shared the same fate at Aquapendente.”



“Do you know, Signor Pastrini,” said Albert, lighting a second cigar at

the first, “that this practice is very convenient for bandits, and that

it seems to be due to an arrangement of their own.”



Doubtless Signor Pastrini found this pleasantry compromising, for he

only answered half the question, and then he spoke to Franz, as the

only one likely to listen with attention. “Your excellency knows that

it is not customary to defend yourself when attacked by bandits.”



“What!” cried Albert, whose courage revolted at the idea of being

plundered tamely, “not make any resistance!”



“No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits

who spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces

at you?”



“Eh, _parbleu!_—they should kill me.”



The innkeeper turned to Franz with an air that seemed to say, “Your

friend is decidedly mad.”



“My dear Albert,” returned Franz, “your answer is sublime, and worthy

the ‘_Let him die_,’ of Corneille, only, when Horace made that answer,

the safety of Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it is only to gratify

a whim, and it would be ridiculous to risk our lives for so foolish a

motive.”



Albert poured himself out a glass of _lacryma Christi_, which he sipped

at intervals, muttering some unintelligible words.



“Well, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “now that my companion is quieted,

and you have seen how peaceful my intentions are, tell me who is this

Luigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a nobleman?—young or old?—tall or

short? Describe him, in order that, if we meet him by chance, like Jean

Sbogar or Lara, we may recognize him.”



“You could not apply to anyone better able to inform you on all these

points, for I knew him when he was a child, and one day that I fell

into his hands, going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, fortunately for me,

recollected me, and set me free, not only without ransom, but made me a

present of a very splendid watch, and related his history to me.”



“Let us see the watch,” said Albert.



Signor Pastrini drew from his fob a magnificent Bréguet, bearing the

name of its maker, of Parisian manufacture, and a count’s coronet.



“Here it is,” said he.



“_Peste!_” returned Albert, “I compliment you on it; I have its

fellow”—he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket—“and it cost me

3,000 francs.”



“Let us hear the history,” said Franz, motioning Signor Pastrini to

seat himself.



“Your excellencies permit it?” asked the host.



“_Pardieu!_” cried Albert, “you are not a preacher, to remain

standing!”



The host sat down, after having made each of them a respectful bow,

which meant that he was ready to tell them all they wished to know

concerning Luigi Vampa.



“You tell me,” said Franz, at the moment Signor Pastrini was about to

open his mouth, “that you knew Luigi Vampa when he was a child—he is

still a young man, then?”



“A young man? he is only two-and-twenty;—he will gain himself a

reputation.”



“What do you think of that, Albert?—at two-and-twenty to be thus

famous?”



“Yes, and at his age, Alexander, Cæsar, and Napoleon, who have all made

some noise in the world, were quite behind him.”



“So,” continued Franz, “the hero of this history is only

two-and-twenty?”



“Scarcely so much.”



“Is he tall or short?”



“Of the middle height—about the same stature as his excellency,”

returned the host, pointing to Albert.



“Thanks for the comparison,” said Albert, with a bow.



“Go on, Signor Pastrini,” continued Franz, smiling at his friend’s

susceptibility. “To what class of society does he belong?”



“He was a shepherd-boy attached to the farm of the Count of San-Felice,

situated between Palestrina and the Lake of Gabri; he was born at

Pampinara, and entered the count’s service when he was five years old;

his father was also a shepherd, who owned a small flock, and lived by

the wool and the milk, which he sold at Rome. When quite a child, the

little Vampa displayed a most extraordinary precocity. One day, when he

was seven years old, he came to the curate of Palestrina, and asked to

be taught to read; it was somewhat difficult, for he could not quit his

flock; but the good curate went every day to say mass at a little

hamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was

called Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and

that then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be

short, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child

accepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road

that leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o’clock in the

morning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and

the little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest’s breviary. At

the end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough—he

must now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make

three alphabets—one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out

to him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the

letters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the

flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at

Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a

sort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of

slate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write.

The curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a

present of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but

nothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well

with this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to

the Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him

read and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with

the domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi

purchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to

everything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep,

houses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of

objects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had

commenced.



20105m







“A girl of six or seven—that is, a little younger than Vampa—tended

sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone

and was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other,

let their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed

together; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice’s flock

from those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their

respective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they

kept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and

Teresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself.

Beside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as

he could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness

and enthusiasm, was often angry and capricious, and always sarcastic.

None of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able

to gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His

disposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make

them) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a

look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded

beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might

have broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and

gay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received

every month from the Count of San-Felice’s steward, and the price of

all the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in

ear-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her

friend’s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired

peasant near Rome.



“The two children grew up together, passing all their time with each

other, and giving themselves up to the wild ideas of their different

characters. Thus, in all their dreams, their wishes, and their

conversations, Vampa saw himself the captain of a vessel, general of an

army, or governor of a province. Teresa saw herself rich, superbly

attired, and attended by a train of liveried domestics. Then, when they

had thus passed the day in building castles in the air, they separated

their flocks, and descended from the elevation of their dreams to the

reality of their humble position.



“One day the young shepherd told the count’s steward that he had seen a

wolf come out of the Sabine mountains, and prowl around his flock. The

steward gave him a gun; this was what Vampa longed for. This gun had an

excellent barrel, made at Brescia, and carrying a ball with the

precision of an English rifle; but one day the count broke the stock,

and had then cast the gun aside. This, however, was nothing to a

sculptor like Vampa; he examined the broken stock, calculated what

change it would require to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and made a

fresh stock, so beautifully carved that it would have fetched fifteen

or twenty piastres, had he chosen to sell it. But nothing could be

farther from his thoughts.



“For a long time a gun had been the young man’s greatest ambition. In

every country where independence has taken the place of liberty, the

first desire of a manly heart is to possess a weapon, which at once

renders him capable of defence or attack, and, by rendering its owner

terrible, often makes him feared. From this moment Vampa devoted all

his leisure time to perfecting himself in the use of his precious

weapon; he purchased powder and ball, and everything served him for a

mark—the trunk of some old and moss-grown olive-tree, that grew on the

Sabine mountains; the fox, as he quitted his earth on some marauding

excursion; the eagle that soared above their heads: and thus he soon

became so expert, that Teresa overcame the terror she at first felt at

the report, and amused herself by watching him direct the ball wherever

he pleased, with as much accuracy as if he placed it by hand.



20107m







“One evening a wolf emerged from a pine-wood near which they were

usually stationed, but the wolf had scarcely advanced ten yards ere he

was dead. Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the dead animal on his

shoulders, and carried him to the farm. These exploits had gained Luigi

considerable reputation. The man of superior abilities always finds

admirers, go where he will. He was spoken of as the most adroit, the

strongest, and the most courageous _contadino_ for ten leagues around;

and although Teresa was universally allowed to be the most beautiful

girl of the Sabines, no one had ever spoken to her of love, because it

was known that she was beloved by Vampa. And yet the two young people

had never declared their affection; they had grown together like two

trees whose roots are mingled, whose branches intertwined, and whose

intermingled perfume rises to the heavens. Only their wish to see each

other had become a necessity, and they would have preferred death to a

day’s separation.



“Teresa was sixteen, and Vampa seventeen. About this time, a band of

brigands that had established itself in the Lepini mountains began to

be much spoken of. The brigands have never been really extirpated from

the neighborhood of Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, but when a chief

presents himself he rarely has to wait long for a band of followers.



“The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in the Abruzzo, driven out of the

kingdom of Naples, where he had carried on a regular war, had crossed

the Garigliano, like Manfred, and had taken refuge on the banks of the

Amasine between Sonnino and Juperno. He strove to collect a band of

followers, and followed the footsteps of Decesaris and Gasparone, whom

he hoped to surpass. Many young men of Palestrina, Frascati, and

Pampinara had disappeared. Their disappearance at first caused much

disquietude; but it was soon known that they had joined Cucumetto.

After some time Cucumetto became the object of universal attention; the

most extraordinary traits of ferocious daring and brutality were

related of him.



“One day he carried off a young girl, the daughter of a surveyor of

Frosinone. The bandit’s laws are positive; a young girl belongs first

to him who carries her off, then the rest draw lots for her, and she is

abandoned to their brutality until death relieves her sufferings. When

their parents are sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a messenger is

sent to negotiate; the prisoner is hostage for the security of the

messenger; should the ransom be refused, the prisoner is irrevocably

lost. The young girl’s lover was in Cucumetto’s troop; his name was

Carlini. When she recognized her lover, the poor girl extended her arms

to him, and believed herself safe; but Carlini felt his heart sink, for

he but too well knew the fate that awaited her. However, as he was a

favorite with Cucumetto, as he had for three years faithfully served

him, and as he had saved his life by shooting a dragoon who was about

to cut him down, he hoped the chief would have pity on him. He took

Cucumetto one side, while the young girl, seated at the foot of a huge

pine that stood in the centre of the forest, made a veil of her

picturesque head-dress to hide her face from the lascivious gaze of the

bandits. There he told the chief all—his affection for the prisoner,

their promises of mutual fidelity, and how every night, since he had

been near, they had met in some neighboring ruins.



20109m







“It so happened that night that Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a

village, so that he had been unable to go to the place of meeting.

Cucumetto had been there, however, by accident, as he said, and had

carried the maiden off. Carlini besought his chief to make an exception

in Rita’s favor, as her father was rich, and could pay a large ransom.

Cucumetto seemed to yield to his friend’s entreaties, and bade him find

a shepherd to send to Rita’s father at Frosinone.



“Carlini flew joyfully to Rita, telling her she was saved, and bidding

her write to her father, to inform him what had occurred, and that her

ransom was fixed at three hundred piastres. Twelve hours’ delay was all

that was granted—that is, until nine the next morning. The instant the

letter was written, Carlini seized it, and hastened to the plain to

find a messenger. He found a young shepherd watching his flock. The

natural messengers of the bandits are the shepherds who live between

the city and the mountains, between civilized and savage life. The boy

undertook the commission, promising to be in Frosinone in less than an

hour. Carlini returned, anxious to see his mistress, and announce the

joyful intelligence. He found the troop in the glade, supping off the

provisions exacted as contributions from the peasants; but his eye

vainly sought Rita and Cucumetto among them.



“He inquired where they were, and was answered by a burst of laughter.

A cold perspiration burst from every pore, and his hair stood on end.

He repeated his question. One of the bandits rose, and offered him a

glass filled with Orvietto, saying, ‘To the health of the brave

Cucumetto and the fair Rita.’ At this moment Carlini heard a woman’s

cry; he divined the truth, seized the glass, broke it across the face

of him who presented it, and rushed towards the spot whence the cry

came. After a hundred yards he turned the corner of the thicket; he

found Rita senseless in the arms of Cucumetto. At the sight of Carlini,

Cucumetto rose, a pistol in each hand. The two brigands looked at each

other for a moment—the one with a smile of lasciviousness on his lips,

the other with the pallor of death on his brow. A terrible battle

between the two men seemed imminent; but by degrees Carlini’s features

relaxed, his hand, which had grasped one of the pistols in his belt,

fell to his side. Rita lay between them. The moon lighted the group.



“‘Well,’ said Cucumetto, ‘have you executed your commission?’



“‘Yes, captain,’ returned Carlini. ‘At nine o’clock tomorrow Rita’s

father will be here with the money.’



“‘It is well; in the meantime, we will have a merry night; this young

girl is charming, and does credit to your taste. Now, as I am not

egotistical, we will return to our comrades and draw lots for her.’



“‘You have determined, then, to abandon her to the common law?’ said

Carlini.



“‘Why should an exception be made in her favor?’



“‘I thought that my entreaties——’



“‘What right have you, any more than the rest, to ask for an

exception?’



“‘It is true.’



“‘But never mind,’ continued Cucumetto, laughing, ‘sooner or later your

turn will come.’ Carlini’s teeth clenched convulsively.



“‘Now, then,’ said Cucumetto, advancing towards the other bandits, ‘are

you coming?’



“‘I follow you.’



20111m







“Cucumetto departed, without losing sight of Carlini, for, doubtless,

he feared lest he should strike him unawares; but nothing betrayed a

hostile design on Carlini’s part. He was standing, his arms folded,

near Rita, who was still insensible. Cucumetto fancied for a moment the

young man was about to take her in his arms and fly; but this mattered

little to him now Rita had been his; and as for the money, three

hundred piastres distributed among the band was so small a sum that he

cared little about it. He continued to follow the path to the glade;

but, to his great surprise, Carlini arrived almost as soon as himself.



“‘Let us draw lots! let us draw lots!’ cried all the brigands, when

they saw the chief.



“Their demand was fair, and the chief inclined his head in sign of

acquiescence. The eyes of all shone fiercely as they made their demand,

and the red light of the fire made them look like demons. The names of

all, including Carlini, were placed in a hat, and the youngest of the

band drew forth a ticket; the ticket bore the name of Diavolaccio. He

was the man who had proposed to Carlini the health of their chief, and

to whom Carlini replied by breaking the glass across his face. A large

wound, extending from the temple to the mouth, was bleeding profusely.

Diavolaccio, seeing himself thus favored by fortune, burst into a loud

laugh.



“‘Captain,’ said he, ‘just now Carlini would not drink your health when

I proposed it to him; propose mine to him, and let us see if he will be

more condescending to you than to me.’



“Everyone expected an explosion on Carlini’s part; but to their great

surprise, he took a glass in one hand and a flask in the other, and

filling it,—



“‘Your health, Diavolaccio,’ said he calmly, and he drank it off,

without his hand trembling in the least. Then sitting down by the fire,

‘My supper,’ said he; ‘my expedition has given me an appetite.’



“‘Well done, Carlini!’ cried the brigands; ‘that is acting like a good

fellow;’ and they all formed a circle round the fire, while Diavolaccio

disappeared.



“Carlini ate and drank as if nothing had happened. The bandits looked

on with astonishment at this singular conduct until they heard

footsteps. They turned round, and saw Diavolaccio bearing the young

girl in his arms. Her head hung back, and her long hair swept the

ground. As they entered the circle, the bandits could perceive, by the

firelight, the unearthly pallor of the young girl and of Diavolaccio.

This apparition was so strange and so solemn, that everyone rose, with

the exception of Carlini, who remained seated, and ate and drank

calmly. Diavolaccio advanced amidst the most profound silence, and laid

Rita at the captain’s feet. Then everyone could understand the cause of

the unearthly pallor in the young girl and the bandit. A knife was

plunged up to the hilt in Rita’s left breast. Everyone looked at

Carlini; the sheath at his belt was empty.



“‘Ah, ah,’ said the chief, ‘I now understand why Carlini stayed

behind.’



“All savage natures appreciate a desperate deed. No other of the

bandits would, perhaps, have done the same; but they all understood

what Carlini had done.



“‘Now, then,’ cried Carlini, rising in his turn, and approaching the

corpse, his hand on the butt of one of his pistols, ‘does anyone

dispute the possession of this woman with me?’



“‘No,’ returned the chief, ‘she is thine.’



“Carlini raised her in his arms, and carried her out of the circle of

firelight. Cucumetto placed his sentinels for the night, and the

bandits wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay down before the

fire. At midnight the sentinel gave the alarm, and in an instant all

were on the alert. It was Rita’s father, who brought his daughter’s

ransom in person.



“‘Here,’ said he, to Cucumetto, ‘here are three hundred piastres; give

me back my child.



“But the chief, without taking the money, made a sign to him to follow.

The old man obeyed. They both advanced beneath the trees, through whose

branches streamed the moonlight. Cucumetto stopped at last, and pointed

to two persons grouped at the foot of a tree.



“‘There,’ said he, ‘demand thy child of Carlini; he will tell thee what

has become of her;’ and he returned to his companions.



“The old man remained motionless; he felt that some great and

unforeseen misfortune hung over his head. At length he advanced toward

the group, the meaning of which he could not comprehend. As he

approached, Carlini raised his head, and the forms of two persons

became visible to the old man’s eyes. A woman lay on the ground, her

head resting on the knees of a man, who was seated by her; as he raised

his head, the woman’s face became visible. The old man recognized his

child, and Carlini recognized the old man.



“‘I expected thee,’ said the bandit to Rita’s father.



“‘Wretch!’ returned the old man, ‘what hast thou done?’ and he gazed

with terror on Rita, pale and bloody, a knife buried in her bosom. A

ray of moonlight poured through the trees, and lighted up the face of

the dead.



“‘Cucumetto had violated thy daughter,’ said the bandit; ‘I loved her,

therefore I slew her; for she would have served as the sport of the

whole band.’ The old man spoke not, and grew pale as death. ‘Now,’

continued Carlini, ‘if I have done wrongly, avenge her;’ and

withdrawing the knife from the wound in Rita’s bosom, he held it out to

the old man with one hand, while with the other he tore open his vest.



“‘Thou hast done well!’ returned the old man in a hoarse voice;

‘embrace me, my son.’



20115m







Carlini threw himself, sobbing like a child, into the arms of his

mistress’s father. These were the first tears the man of blood had ever

wept.



“‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘aid me to bury my child.’ Carlini fetched

two pickaxes; and the father and the lover began to dig at the foot of

a huge oak, beneath which the young girl was to repose. When the grave

was formed, the father embraced her first, and then the lover;

afterwards, one taking the head, the other the feet, they placed her in

the grave. Then they knelt on each side of the grave, and said the

prayers of the dead. Then, when they had finished, they cast the earth

over the corpse, until the grave was filled. Then, extending his hand,

the old man said; ‘I thank you, my son; and now leave me alone.’



“‘Yet——’ replied Carlini.



“‘Leave me, I command you.’



“Carlini obeyed, rejoined his comrades, folded himself in his cloak,

and soon appeared to sleep as soundly as the rest. It had been resolved

the night before to change their encampment. An hour before daybreak,

Cucumetto aroused his men, and gave the word to march. But Carlini

would not quit the forest, without knowing what had become of Rita’s

father. He went toward the place where he had left him. He found the

old man suspended from one of the branches of the oak which shaded his

daughter’s grave. He then took an oath of bitter vengeance over the

dead body of the one and the tomb of the other. But he was unable to

complete this oath, for two days afterwards, in an encounter with the

Roman carbineers, Carlini was killed. There was some surprise, however,

that, as he was with his face to the enemy, he should have received a

ball between his shoulders. That astonishment ceased when one of the

brigands remarked to his comrades that Cucumetto was stationed ten

paces in Carlini’s rear when he fell. On the morning of the departure

from the forest of Frosinone he had followed Carlini in the darkness,

and heard this oath of vengeance, and, like a wise man, anticipated it.



“They told ten other stories of this bandit chief, each more singular

than the other. Thus, from Fondi to Perusia, everyone trembles at the

name of Cucumetto.



“These narratives were frequently the theme of conversation between

Luigi and Teresa. The young girl trembled very much at hearing the

stories; but Vampa reassured her with a smile, tapping the butt of his

good fowling-piece, which threw its ball so well; and if that did not

restore her courage, he pointed to a crow, perched on some dead branch,

took aim, touched the trigger, and the bird fell dead at the foot of

the tree. Time passed on, and the two young people had agreed to be

married when Vampa should be twenty and Teresa nineteen years of age.

They were both orphans, and had only their employers’ leave to ask,

which had been already sought and obtained. One day when they were

talking over their plans for the future, they heard two or three

reports of firearms, and then suddenly a man came out of the wood, near

which the two young persons used to graze their flocks, and hurried

towards them. When he came within hearing, he exclaimed:



‘I am pursued; can you conceal me?’



“They knew full well that this fugitive must be a bandit; but there is

an innate sympathy between the Roman brigand and the Roman peasant and

the latter is always ready to aid the former. Vampa, without saying a

word, hastened to the stone that closed up the entrance to their

grotto, drew it away, made a sign to the fugitive to take refuge there,

in a retreat unknown to everyone, closed the stone upon him, and then

went and resumed his seat by Teresa. Instantly afterwards four

carbineers, on horseback, appeared on the edge of the wood; three of

them appeared to be looking for the fugitive, while the fourth dragged

a brigand prisoner by the neck. The three carbineers looked about

carefully on every side, saw the young peasants, and galloping up,

began to question them. They had seen no one.



“‘That is very annoying,’ said the brigadier; for the man we are

looking for is the chief.’



“‘Cucumetto?’ cried Luigi and Teresa at the same moment.



“‘Yes,’ replied the brigadier; ‘and as his head is valued at a thousand

Roman crowns, there would have been five hundred for you, if you had

helped us to catch him.’ The two young persons exchanged looks. The

brigadier had a moment’s hope. Five hundred Roman crowns are three

thousand lire, and three thousand lire are a fortune for two poor

orphans who are going to be married.



“‘Yes, it is very annoying,’ said Vampa; ‘but we have not seen him.’



“Then the carbineers scoured the country in different directions, but

in vain; then, after a time, they disappeared. Vampa then removed the

stone, and Cucumetto came out. Through the crevices in the granite he

had seen the two young peasants talking with the carbineers, and

guessed the subject of their parley. He had read in the countenances of

Luigi and Teresa their steadfast resolution not to surrender him, and

he drew from his pocket a purse full of gold, which he offered to them.

But Vampa raised his head proudly; as to Teresa, her eyes sparkled when

she thought of all the fine gowns and gay jewellery she could buy with

this purse of gold.



“Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had assumed the form of a brigand

instead of a serpent, and this look from Teresa showed to him that she

was a worthy daughter of Eve, and he returned to the forest, pausing

several times on his way, under the pretext of saluting his protectors.



“Several days elapsed, and they neither saw nor heard of Cucumetto. The

time of the Carnival was at hand. The Count of San-Felice announced a

grand masked ball, to which all that were distinguished in Rome were

invited. Teresa had a great desire to see this ball. Luigi asked

permission of his protector, the steward, that she and he might be

present amongst the servants of the house. This was granted. The ball

was given by the Count for the particular pleasure of his daughter

Carmela, whom he adored. Carmela was precisely the age and figure of

Teresa, and Teresa was as handsome as Carmela. On the evening of the

ball Teresa was attired in her best, her most brilliant ornaments in

her hair, and gayest glass beads,—she was in the costume of the women

of Frascati. Luigi wore the very picturesque garb of the Roman peasant

at holiday time. They both mingled, as they had leave to do, with the

servants and peasants.



“The _festa_ was magnificent; not only was the villa brilliantly

illuminated, but thousands of colored lanterns were suspended from the

trees in the garden; and very soon the palace overflowed to the

terraces, and the terraces to the garden-walks. At each cross-path was

an orchestra, and tables spread with refreshments; the guests stopped,

formed quadrilles, and danced in any part of the grounds they pleased.

Carmela was attired like a woman of Sonnino. Her cap was embroidered

with pearls, the pins in her hair were of gold and diamonds, her girdle

was of Turkey silk, with large embroidered flowers, her bodice and

skirt were of cashmere, her apron of Indian muslin, and the buttons of

her corset were of jewels. Two of her companions were dressed, the one

as a woman of Nettuno, and the other as a woman of La Riccia. Four

young men of the richest and noblest families of Rome accompanied them

with that Italian freedom which has not its parallel in any other

country in the world. They were attired as peasants of Albano,

Velletri, Civita-Castellana, and Sora. We need hardly add that these

peasant costumes, like those of the young women, were brilliant with

gold and jewels.



“Carmela wished to form a quadrille, but there was one lady wanting.

Carmela looked all around her, but not one of the guests had a costume

similar to her own, or those of her companions. The Count of San-Felice

pointed out Teresa, who was hanging on Luigi’s arm in a group of

peasants.



“‘Will you allow me, father?’ said Carmela.



“‘Certainly,’ replied the count, ‘are we not in Carnival time?’



“Carmela turned towards the young man who was talking with her, and

saying a few words to him, pointed with her finger to Teresa. The young

man looked, bowed in obedience, and then went to Teresa, and invited

her to dance in a quadrille directed by the count’s daughter. Teresa

felt a flush pass over her face; she looked at Luigi, who could not

refuse his assent. Luigi slowly relinquished Teresa’s arm, which he had

held beneath his own, and Teresa, accompanied by her elegant cavalier,

took her appointed place with much agitation in the aristocratic

quadrille. Certainly, in the eyes of an artist, the exact and strict

costume of Teresa had a very different character from that of Carmela

and her companions; and Teresa was frivolous and coquettish, and thus

the embroidery and muslins, the cashmere waist-girdles, all dazzled

her, and the reflection of sapphires and diamonds almost turned her

giddy brain.



“Luigi felt a sensation hitherto unknown arising in his mind. It was

like an acute pain which gnawed at his heart, and then thrilled through

his whole body. He followed with his eye each movement of Teresa and

her cavalier; when their hands touched, he felt as though he should

swoon; every pulse beat with violence, and it seemed as though a bell

were ringing in his ears. When they spoke, although Teresa listened

timidly and with downcast eyes to the conversation of her cavalier, as

Luigi could read in the ardent looks of the good-looking young man that

his language was that of praise, it seemed as if the whole world was

turning round with him, and all the voices of hell were whispering in

his ears ideas of murder and assassination. Then fearing that his

paroxysm might get the better of him, he clutched with one hand the

branch of a tree against which he was leaning, and with the other

convulsively grasped the dagger with a carved handle which was in his

belt, and which, unwittingly, he drew from the scabbard from time to

time.



“Luigi was jealous!



“He felt that, influenced by her ambitions and coquettish disposition,

Teresa might escape him.



“The young peasant girl, at first timid and scared, soon recovered

herself. We have said that Teresa was handsome, but this is not all;

Teresa was endowed with all those wild graces which are so much more

potent than our affected and studied elegancies. She had almost all the

honors of the quadrille, and if she were envious of the Count of

San-Felice’s daughter, we will not undertake to say that Carmela was

not jealous of her. And with overpowering compliments her handsome

cavalier led her back to the place whence he had taken her, and where

Luigi awaited her. Twice or thrice during the dance the young girl had

glanced at Luigi, and each time she saw that he was pale and that his

features were agitated, once even the blade of his knife, half drawn

from its sheath, had dazzled her eyes with its sinister glare. Thus, it

was almost tremblingly that she resumed her lover’s arm. The quadrille

had been most perfect, and it was evident there was a great demand for

a repetition, Carmela alone objecting to it, but the Count of

San-Felice besought his daughter so earnestly, that she acceded.



“One of the cavaliers then hastened to invite Teresa, without whom it

was impossible for the quadrille to be formed, but the young girl had

disappeared.



“The truth was, that Luigi had not felt the strength to support another

such trial, and, half by persuasion and half by force, he had removed

Teresa toward another part of the garden. Teresa had yielded in spite

of herself, but when she looked at the agitated countenance of the

young man, she understood by his silence and trembling voice that

something strange was passing within him. She herself was not exempt

from internal emotion, and without having done anything wrong, yet

fully comprehended that Luigi was right in reproaching her. Why, she

did not know, but yet she did not the less feel that these reproaches

were merited.



“However, to Teresa’s great astonishment, Luigi remained mute, and not

a word escaped his lips the rest of the evening. When the chill of the

night had driven away the guests from the gardens, and the gates of the

villa were closed on them for the _festa_ in-doors, he took Teresa

quite away, and as he left her at her home, he said:



“‘Teresa, what were you thinking of as you danced opposite the young

Countess of San-Felice?’



“‘I thought,’ replied the young girl, with all the frankness of her

nature, ‘that I would give half my life for a costume such as she

wore.’



“‘And what said your cavalier to you?’



“‘He said it only depended on myself to have it, and I had only one

word to say.’



“‘He was right,’ said Luigi. ‘Do you desire it as ardently as you say?’



“‘Yes.’



“‘Well, then, you shall have it!’



“The young girl, much astonished, raised her head to look at him, but

his face was so gloomy and terrible that her words froze to her lips.

As Luigi spoke thus, he left her. Teresa followed him with her eyes

into the darkness as long as she could, and when he had quite

disappeared, she went into the house with a sigh.



20121m







“That night a memorable event occurred, due, no doubt, to the

imprudence of some servant who had neglected to extinguish the lights.

The Villa of San-Felice took fire in the rooms adjoining the very

apartment of the lovely Carmela. Awakened in the night by the light of

the flames, she sprang out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown,

and attempted to escape by the door, but the corridor by which she

hoped to fly was already a prey to the flames. She then returned to her

room, calling for help as loudly as she could, when suddenly her

window, which was twenty feet from the ground, was opened, a young

peasant jumped into the chamber, seized her in his arms, and with

superhuman skill and strength conveyed her to the turf of the

grass-plot, where she fainted. When she recovered, her father was by

her side. All the servants surrounded her, offering her assistance. An

entire wing of the villa was burnt down; but what of that, as long as

Carmela was safe and uninjured?



“Her preserver was everywhere sought for, but he did not appear; he was

inquired after, but no one had seen him. Carmela was greatly troubled

that she had not recognized him.



“As the count was immensely rich, excepting the danger Carmela had

run,—and the marvellous manner in which she had escaped, made that

appear to him rather a favor of Providence than a real misfortune,—the

loss occasioned by the conflagration was to him but a trifle.



“The next day, at the usual hour, the two young peasants were on the

borders of the forest. Luigi arrived first. He came toward Teresa in

high spirits, and seemed to have completely forgotten the events of the

previous evening. The young girl was very pensive, but seeing Luigi so

cheerful, she on her part assumed a smiling air, which was natural to

her when she was not excited or in a passion.



“Luigi took her arm beneath his own, and led her to the door of the

grotto. Then he paused. The young girl, perceiving that there was

something extraordinary, looked at him steadfastly.



“‘Teresa,’ said Luigi, ‘yesterday evening you told me you would give

all the world to have a costume similar to that of the count’s

daughter.’



“‘Yes,’ replied Teresa with astonishment; ‘but I was mad to utter such

a wish.’



“‘And I replied, “Very well, you shall have it.”’



“‘Yes,’ replied the young girl, whose astonishment increased at every

word uttered by Luigi, ‘but of course your reply was only to please

me.’



“‘I have promised no more than I have given you, Teresa,’ said Luigi

proudly. ‘Go into the grotto and dress yourself.’



“At these words he drew away the stone, and showed Teresa the grotto,

lighted up by two wax lights, which burnt on each side of a splendid

mirror; on a rustic table, made by Luigi, were spread out the pearl

necklace and the diamond pins, and on a chair at the side was laid the

rest of the costume.



“Teresa uttered a cry of joy, and, without inquiring whence this attire

came, or even thanking Luigi, darted into the grotto, transformed into

a dressing-room.



“Luigi pushed the stone behind her, for on the crest of a small

adjacent hill which cut off the view toward Palestrina, he saw a

traveller on horseback, stopping a moment, as if uncertain of his road,

and thus presenting against the blue sky that perfect outline which is

peculiar to distant objects in southern climes. When he saw Luigi, he

put his horse into a gallop and advanced toward him.



“Luigi was not mistaken. The traveller, who was going from Palestrina

to Tivoli, had mistaken his way; the young man directed him; but as at

a distance of a quarter of a mile the road again divided into three

ways, and on reaching these the traveller might again stray from his

route, he begged Luigi to be his guide.



“Luigi threw his cloak on the ground, placed his carbine on his

shoulder, and freed from his heavy covering, preceded the traveller

with the rapid step of a mountaineer, which a horse can scarcely keep

up with. In ten minutes Luigi and the traveller reached the

cross-roads. On arriving there, with an air as majestic as that of an

emperor, he stretched his hand towards that one of the roads which the

traveller was to follow.



“‘That is your road, excellency, and now you cannot again mistake.’



“‘And here is your recompense,’ said the traveller, offering the young

herdsman some small pieces of money.



“‘Thank you,’ said Luigi, drawing back his hand; ‘I render a service, I

do not sell it.’



“‘Well,’ replied the traveller, who seemed used to this difference

between the servility of a man of the cities and the pride of the

mountaineer, ‘if you refuse wages, you will, perhaps, accept a gift.’



“‘Ah, yes, that is another thing.’



“‘Then,’ said the traveller, ‘take these two Venetian sequins and give

them to your bride, to make herself a pair of earrings.’



“‘And then do you take this poniard,’ said the young herdsman; ‘you

will not find one better carved between Albano and Civita-Castellana.’



“‘I accept it,’ answered the traveller, ‘but then the obligation will

be on my side, for this poniard is worth more than two sequins.’



“‘For a dealer perhaps; but for me, who engraved it myself, it is

hardly worth a piastre.’



“‘What is your name?’ inquired the traveller.



“‘Luigi Vampa,’ replied the shepherd, with the same air as he would

have replied, Alexander, King of Macedon. ‘And yours?’



“‘I,’ said the traveller, ‘am called Sinbad the Sailor.’”



Franz d’Épinay started with surprise.



“Sinbad the Sailor?” he said.



“Yes,” replied the narrator; “that was the name which the traveller

gave to Vampa as his own.”



“Well, and what may you have to say against this name?” inquired

Albert; “it is a very pretty name, and the adventures of the gentleman

of that name amused me very much in my youth, I must confess.”



Franz said no more. The name of Sinbad the Sailor, as may well be

supposed, awakened in him a world of recollections, as had the name of

The Trial on the previous evening.



“Proceed!” said he to the host.



“Vampa put the two sequins haughtily into his pocket, and slowly

returned by the way he had gone. As he came within two or three hundred

paces of the grotto, he thought he heard a cry. He listened to know

whence this sound could proceed. A moment afterwards he thought he

heard his own name pronounced distinctly.



“The cry proceeded from the grotto. He bounded like a chamois, cocking

his carbine as he went, and in a moment reached the summit of a hill

opposite to that on which he had perceived the traveller. Three cries

for help came more distinctly to his ear. He cast his eyes around him

and saw a man carrying off Teresa, as Nessus, the centaur, carried

Deianira.



“This man, who was hastening towards the wood, was already

three-quarters of the way on the road from the grotto to the forest.

Vampa measured the distance; the man was at least two hundred paces in

advance of him, and there was not a chance of overtaking him. The young

shepherd stopped, as if his feet had been rooted to the ground; then he

put the butt of his carbine to his shoulder, took aim at the ravisher,

followed him for a second in his track, and then fired.



“The ravisher stopped suddenly, his knees bent under him, and he fell

with Teresa in his arms. The young girl rose instantly, but the man lay

on the earth struggling in the agonies of death. Vampa then rushed

towards Teresa; for at ten paces from the dying man her legs had failed

her, and she had dropped on her knees, so that the young man feared

that the ball that had brought down his enemy, had also wounded his

betrothed.



“Fortunately, she was unscathed, and it was fright alone that had

overcome Teresa. When Luigi had assured himself that she was safe and

unharmed, he turned towards the wounded man. He had just expired, with

clenched hands, his mouth in a spasm of agony, and his hair on end in

the sweat of death. His eyes remained open and menacing. Vampa

approached the corpse, and recognized Cucumetto.



“From the day on which the bandit had been saved by the two young

peasants, he had been enamoured of Teresa, and had sworn she should be

his. From that time he had watched them, and profiting by the moment

when her lover had left her alone, had carried her off, and believed he

at length had her in his power, when the ball, directed by the unerring

skill of the young herdsman, had pierced his heart. Vampa gazed on him

for a moment without betraying the slightest emotion; while, on the

contrary, Teresa, shuddering in every limb, dared not approach the

slain ruffian but by degrees, and threw a hesitating glance at the dead

body over the shoulder of her lover. Suddenly Vampa turned toward his

mistress:



“‘Ah,’ said he—‘good, good! You are dressed; it is now my turn to dress

myself.’



20125m







“Teresa was clothed from head to foot in the garb of the Count of

San-Felice’s daughter. Vampa took Cucumetto’s body in his arms and

conveyed it to the grotto, while in her turn Teresa remained outside.

If a second traveller had passed, he would have seen a strange thing,—a

shepherdess watching her flock, clad in a cashmere grown, with

ear-rings and necklace of pearls, diamond pins, and buttons of

sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. He would, no doubt, have believed that

he had returned to the times of Florian, and would have declared, on

reaching Paris, that he had met an Alpine shepherdess seated at the

foot of the Sabine Hill.



“At the end of a quarter of an hour Vampa quitted the grotto; his

costume was no less elegant than that of Teresa. He wore a vest of

garnet-colored velvet, with buttons of cut gold; a silk waistcoat

covered with embroidery; a Roman scarf tied round his neck; a

cartridge-box worked with gold, and red and green silk; sky-blue velvet

breeches, fastened above the knee with diamond buckles; garters of

deerskin, worked with a thousand arabesques, and a hat whereon hung

ribbons of all colors; two watches hung from his girdle, and a splendid

poniard was in his belt.



“Teresa uttered a cry of admiration. Vampa in this attire resembled a

painting by Léopold Robert or Schnetz. He had assumed the entire

costume of Cucumetto. The young man saw the effect produced on his

betrothed, and a smile of pride passed over his lips.



“‘Now,’ he said to Teresa, ‘are you ready to share my fortune, whatever

it may be?’



“‘Oh, yes!’ exclaimed the young girl enthusiastically.



“‘And follow me wherever I go?’



“‘To the world’s end.’



“‘Then take my arm, and let us on; we have no time to lose.’



“The young girl did so without questioning her lover as to where he was

conducting her, for he appeared to her at this moment as handsome,

proud, and powerful as a god. They went towards the forest, and soon

entered it.



“We need scarcely say that all the paths of the mountain were known to

Vampa; he therefore went forward without a moment’s hesitation,

although there was no beaten track, but he knew his path by looking at

the trees and bushes, and thus they kept on advancing for nearly an

hour and a half. At the end of this time they had reached the thickest

part of the forest. A torrent, whose bed was dry, led into a deep

gorge. Vampa took this wild road, which, enclosed between two ridges,

and shadowed by the tufted umbrage of the pines, seemed, but for the

difficulties of its descent, that path to Avernus of which Virgil

speaks. Teresa had become alarmed at the wild and deserted look of the

plain around her, and pressed closely against her guide, not uttering a

syllable; but as she saw him advance with even step and composed

countenance, she endeavored to repress her emotion.



“Suddenly, about ten paces from them, a man advanced from behind a tree

and aimed at Vampa.



“‘Not another step,’ he said, ‘or you are a dead man.’



“‘What, then,’ said Vampa, raising his hand with a gesture of disdain,

while Teresa, no longer able to restrain her alarm, clung closely to

him, ‘do wolves rend each other?’



“‘Who are you?’ inquired the sentinel.



“‘I am Luigi Vampa, shepherd of the San-Felice farm.’



“‘What do you want?’



“‘I would speak with your companions who are in the glade at Rocca

Bianca.’



“‘Follow me, then,’ said the sentinel; ‘or, as you know your way, go

first.’



“Vampa smiled disdainfully at this precaution on the part of the

bandit, went before Teresa, and continued to advance with the same firm

and easy step as before. At the end of ten minutes the bandit made them

a sign to stop. The two young persons obeyed. Then the bandit thrice

imitated the cry of a crow; a croak answered this signal.



“‘Good!’ said the sentry, ‘you may now go on.’



“Luigi and Teresa again set forward; as they went on Teresa clung

tremblingly to her lover at the sight of weapons and the glistening of

carbines through the trees. The retreat of Rocca Bianca was at the top

of a small mountain, which no doubt in former days had been a

volcano—an extinct volcano before the days when Remus and Romulus had

deserted Alba to come and found the city of Rome.



“Teresa and Luigi reached the summit, and all at once found themselves

in the presence of twenty bandits.



“‘Here is a young man who seeks and wishes to speak to you,’ said the

sentinel.



“‘What has he to say?’ inquired the young man who was in command in the

chief’s absence.



“‘I wish to say that I am tired of a shepherd’s life,’ was Vampa’s

reply.



“‘Ah, I understand,’ said the lieutenant; ‘and you seek admittance into

our ranks?’



“‘Welcome!’ cried several bandits from Ferrusino, Pampinara, and

Anagni, who had recognized Luigi Vampa.



“‘Yes, but I came to ask something more than to be your companion.’



“‘And what may that be?’ inquired the bandits with astonishment.



“‘I come to ask to be your captain,’ said the young man.



“The bandits shouted with laughter.



“‘And what have you done to aspire to this honor?’ demanded the

lieutenant.



“‘I have killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose dress I now wear; and I

set fire to the villa San-Felice to procure a wedding-dress for my

betrothed.’



“An hour afterwards Luigi Vampa was chosen captain, vice Cucumetto,

deceased.”



20129m







“Well, my dear Albert,” said Franz, turning towards his friend; “what

think you of citizen Luigi Vampa?”



“I say he is a myth,” replied Albert, “and never had an existence.”



“And what may a myth be?” inquired Pastrini.



“The explanation would be too long, my dear landlord,” replied Franz.



“And you say that Signor Vampa exercises his profession at this moment

in the environs of Rome?”



“And with a boldness of which no bandit before him ever gave an

example.”



“Then the police have vainly tried to lay hands on him?”



“Why, you see, he has a good understanding with the shepherds in the

plains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and the smugglers of the coast.

They seek for him in the mountains, and he is on the waters; they

follow him on the waters, and he is on the open sea; then they pursue

him, and he has suddenly taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio,

Giannutri, or The Trial; and when they hunt for him there, he

reappears suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La Riccia.”



“And how does he behave towards travellers?”



“Alas! his plan is very simple. It depends on the distance he may be

from the city, whether he gives eight hours, twelve hours, or a day

wherein to pay their ransom; and when that time has elapsed he allows

another hour’s grace. At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if the money

is not forthcoming, he blows out the prisoner’s brains with a

pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his heart, and that settles the

account.”



“Well, Albert,” inquired Franz of his companion, “are you still

disposed to go to the Colosseum by the outer wall?”



“Quite so,” said Albert, “if the way be picturesque.”



The clock struck nine as the door opened, and a coachman appeared.



“Excellencies,” said he, “the coach is ready.”



“Well, then,” said Franz, “let us to the Colosseum.”



“By the Porta del Popolo or by the streets, your excellencies?”



“By the streets, _morbleu!_ by the streets!” cried Franz.



“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Albert, rising, and lighting his third

cigar, “really, I thought you had more courage.”



So saying, the two young men went down the staircase, and got into the

carriage.



20131m









 Chapter 34. The Colosseum



Franz had so managed his route, that during the ride to the Colosseum

they passed not a single ancient ruin, so that no preliminary

impression interfered to mitigate the colossal proportions of the

gigantic building they came to admire. The road selected was a

continuation of the Via Sistina; then by cutting off the right angle of

the street in which stands Santa Maria Maggiore and proceeding by the

Via Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the travellers would find

themselves directly opposite the Colosseum.



This itinerary possessed another great advantage,—that of leaving Franz

at full liberty to indulge his deep reverie upon the subject of Signor

Pastrini’s story, in which his mysterious host of The Trial was so

strangely mixed up. Seated with folded arms in a corner of the

carriage, he continued to ponder over the singular history he had so

lately listened to, and to ask himself an interminable number of

questions touching its various circumstances without, however, arriving

at a satisfactory reply to any of them.



One fact more than the rest brought his friend “Sinbad the Sailor” back

to his recollection, and that was the mysterious sort of intimacy that

seemed to exist between the brigands and the sailors; and Pastrini’s

account of Vampa’s having found refuge on board the vessels of

smugglers and fishermen, reminded Franz of the two Corsican bandits he

had found supping so amicably with the crew of the little yacht, which

had even deviated from its course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for the

sole purpose of landing them. The very name assumed by his host of

The Trial and again repeated by the landlord of the Hôtel de

Londres, abundantly proved to him that his island friend was playing

his philanthropic part on the shores of Piombino, Civita Vecchia,

Ostia, and Gaëta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany, and Spain; and

further, Franz bethought him of having heard his singular entertainer

speak both of Tunis and Palermo, proving thereby how largely his circle

of acquaintances extended.



But however the mind of the young man might be absorbed in these

reflections, they were at once dispersed at the sight of the dark

frowning ruins of the stupendous Colosseum, through the various

openings of which the pale moonlight played and flickered like the

unearthly gleam from the eyes of the wandering dead. The carriage

stopped near the Meta Sudans; the door was opened, and the young men,

eagerly alighting, found themselves opposite a _cicerone_, who appeared

to have sprung up from the ground, so unexpected was his appearance.



The usual guide from the hotel having followed them, they had paid two

conductors, nor is it possible, at Rome, to avoid this abundant supply

of guides; besides the ordinary _cicerone_, who seizes upon you

directly you set foot in your hotel, and never quits you while you

remain in the city, there is also a special _cicerone_ belonging to

each monument—nay, almost to each part of a monument. It may,

therefore, be easily imagined there is no scarcity of guides at the

Colosseum, that wonder of all ages, which Martial thus eulogizes:



“Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, and

the wonders of Babylon be talked of no more among us; all must bow to

the superiority of the gigantic labor of the Cæsars, and the many

voices of Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this

incomparable monument.”



As for Albert and Franz, they essayed not to escape from their

_ciceronian_ tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been so much the more

difficult to break their bondage, as the guides alone are permitted to

visit these monuments with torches in their hands. Thus, then, the

young men made no attempt at resistance, but blindly and confidingly

surrendered themselves into the care and custody of their conductors.



Franz had already made seven or eight similar excursions to the

Colosseum, while his less favored companion trod for the first time in

his life the classic ground forming the monument of Flavius Vespasian;

and, to his credit be it spoken, his mind, even amid the glib loquacity

of the guides, was duly and deeply touched with awe and enthusiastic

admiration of all he saw; and certainly no adequate notion of these

stupendous ruins can be formed save by such as have visited them, and

more especially by moonlight, at which time the vast proportions of the

building appear twice as large when viewed by the mysterious beams of a

southern moonlit sky, whose rays are sufficiently clear and vivid to

light the horizon with a glow equal to the soft twilight of a western

clime.



Scarcely, therefore, had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps

beneath the interior porticoes of the ruin, when, abandoning Albert to

the guides (who would by no means yield their prescriptive right of

carrying their victims through the routine regularly laid down, and as

regularly followed by them, but dragged the unconscious visitor to the

various objects with a pertinacity that admitted of no appeal,

beginning, as a matter of course, with the “Lions’ Den”, the “Hall of

the Gladiators” and finishing with “Cæsar’s Podium”), to escape a

jargon and mechanical survey of the wonders by which he was surrounded,

Franz ascended a half-dilapidated staircase, and, leaving them to

follow their monotonous round, seated himself at the foot of a column,

and immediately opposite a large aperture, which permitted him to enjoy

a full and undisturbed view of the gigantic dimensions of the majestic

ruin.



Franz had remained for nearly a quarter of an hour perfectly hidden by

the shadow of the vast column at whose base he had found a

resting-place, and from whence his eyes followed the motions of Albert

and his guides, who, holding torches in their hands, had emerged from a

vomitorium at the opposite extremity of the Colosseum, and then again

disappeared down the steps conducting to the seats reserved for the

Vestal virgins, resembling, as they glided along, some restless shades

following the flickering glare of so many _ignes fatui_. All at once

his ear caught a sound resembling that of a stone rolling down the

staircase opposite the one by which he had himself ascended. There was

nothing remarkable in the circumstance of a fragment of granite giving

way and falling heavily below; but it seemed to him that the substance

that fell gave way beneath the pressure of a foot, and also that

someone, who endeavored as much as possible to prevent his footsteps

from being heard, was approaching the spot where he sat.



Conjecture soon became certainty, for the figure of a man was

distinctly visible to Franz, gradually emerging from the staircase

opposite, upon which the moon was at that moment pouring a full tide of

silvery brightness.



The stranger thus presenting himself was probably a person who, like

Franz, preferred the enjoyment of solitude and his own thoughts to the

frivolous gabble of the guides. And his appearance had nothing

extraordinary in it; but the hesitation with which he proceeded,

stopping and listening with anxious attention at every step he took,

convinced Franz that he expected the arrival of some person.



By a sort of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as much as possible

behind his pillar.



About ten feet from the spot where he and the stranger were, the roof

had given way, leaving a large round opening, through which might be

seen the blue vault of heaven, thickly studded with stars.



Around this opening, which had, possibly, for ages permitted a free

entrance to the brilliant moonbeams that now illumined the vast pile,

grew a quantity of creeping plants, whose delicate green branches stood

out in bold relief against the clear azure of the firmament, while

large masses of thick, strong fibrous shoots forced their way through

the chasm, and hung floating to and fro, like so many waving strings.



The person whose mysterious arrival had attracted the attention of

Franz stood in a kind of half-light, that rendered it impossible to

distinguish his features, although his dress was easily made out. He

wore a large brown mantle, one fold of which, thrown over his left

shoulder, served likewise to mask the lower part of his countenance,

while the upper part was completely hidden by his broad-brimmed hat.

The lower part of his dress was more distinctly visible by the bright

rays of the moon, which, entering through the broken ceiling, shed

their refulgent beams on feet cased in elegantly made boots of polished

leather, over which descended fashionably cut trousers of black cloth.



20135m







From the imperfect means Franz had of judging, he could only come to

one conclusion,—that the person whom he was thus watching certainly

belonged to no inferior station of life.



Some few minutes had elapsed, and the stranger began to show manifest

signs of impatience, when a slight noise was heard outside the aperture

in the roof, and almost immediately a dark shadow seemed to obstruct

the flood of light that had entered it, and the figure of a man was

clearly seen gazing with eager scrutiny on the immense space beneath

him; then, as his eye caught sight of him in the mantle, he grasped a

floating mass of thickly matted boughs, and glided down by their help

to within three or four feet of the ground, and then leaped lightly on

his feet. The man who had performed this daring act with so much

indifference wore the Transtevere costume.



“I beg your excellency’s pardon for keeping you waiting,” said the man,

in the Roman dialect, “but I don’t think I’m many minutes after my

time, ten o’clock has just struck by the clock of Saint John Lateran.”



“Say not a word about being late,” replied the stranger in purest

Tuscan; “’tis I who am too soon. But even if you had caused me to wait

a little while, I should have felt quite sure that the delay was not

occasioned by any fault of yours.”



“Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking,” said the man; “I

came here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo, and I had an immense

deal of trouble before I could get a chance to speak to Beppo.”



“And who is Beppo?”



“Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much a year to

let me know what is going on within his holiness’s castle.”



“Indeed! You are a provident person, I see.”



“Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of these days

I may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be very glad to have some

little nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my net, and so help me out

of prison.”



“Briefly, what did you learn?”



“That two executions of considerable interest will take place the day

after tomorrow at two o’clock, as is customary at Rome at the

commencement of all great festivals. One of the culprits will be

_mazzolato_;3 he is an atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who

brought him up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer

is sentenced to be _decapitato_;4 and he, your excellency, is poor

Peppino.”



“The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical

government, but also the neighboring states, with such extreme fear,

that they are glad of all opportunity of making an example.”



“But Peppino did not even belong to my band; he was merely a poor

shepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us with provisions.”



“Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and purposes. But mark

the distinction with which he is treated; instead of being knocked on

the head as you would be if once they caught hold of you, he is simply

sentenced to be guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the

day are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every

spectator.”



“Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing to surprise

them with.”



“My good friend,” said the man in the cloak, “excuse me for saying that

you seem to me precisely in the mood to commit some wild or extravagant

act.”



“Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that is, to stop

at nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty, who has got into this

scrape solely from having served me. I should hate and despise myself

as a coward did I desert the brave fellow in his present extremity.”



“And what do you mean to do?”



“To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who, at a signal

from me, will rush forward directly Peppino is brought for execution,

and, by the assistance of their stilettos, drive back the guard, and

carry off the prisoner.”



“That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces me that my

scheme is far better than yours.”



“And what is your excellency’s project?”



“Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres, that the

person receiving them shall obtain a respite till next year for

Peppino; and during that year, another skilfully placed 1,000 piastres

will afford him the means of escaping from his prison.”



“And do you feel sure of succeeding?”



“_Pardieu!_” exclaimed the man in the cloak, suddenly expressing

himself in French.



“What did your excellency say?” inquired the other.



“I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the

means of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos,

pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included. Leave me, then, to act,

and have no fears for the result.”



“At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in readiness,

in case your excellency should fail.”



“None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is any

satisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining the reprieve I

seek.”



“Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after tomorrow, and that

you have but one day to work in.”



“And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each

hour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty

seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very many things can be done.”



“And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded or not.”



“Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three lower

windows at the Café Rospoli; should I have obtained the requisite

pardon for Peppino, the two outside windows will be hung with yellow

damasks, and the centre with white, having a large cross in red marked

on it.”



“And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the officer

directing the execution?”



“Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I will give

it to him. His dress will procure him the means of approaching the

scaffold itself, and he will deliver the official order to the officer,

who, in his turn, will hand it to the executioner; in the meantime, it

will be as well to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if

it be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses, because

in either case a very useless expense will have been incurred.”



“Your excellency,” said the man, “you are fully persuaded of my entire

devotion to you, are you not?”



“Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,” replied the

cavalier in the cloak.



“Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino, and

henceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but the most absolute

obedience from myself and those under me that one human being can

render to another.”



“Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend, for I may

remind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not very distant period,

when I, in my turn, may require your aid and influence.”



“Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will find me what I

have found you in this my heavy trouble; and if from the other end of

the world you but write me word to do such or such a thing, you may

regard it as done, for done it shall be, on the word and faith of——”



“Hush!” interrupted the stranger; “I hear a noise.”



“’Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by torchlight.”



“’Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides are nothing

but spies, and might possibly recognize you; and, however I may be

honored by your friendship, my worthy friend, if once the extent of our

intimacy were known, I am sadly afraid both my reputation and credit

would suffer thereby.”



“Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve?”



“The middle window at the Café Rospoli will be hung with white damask,

bearing a red cross.”



“And if you fail?”



“Then all three windows will have yellow draperies.”



“And then?”



“And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and

I further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess.”



“We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your excellency;

depend upon me as firmly as I do upon you.”



Saying these words, the Transteverin disappeared down the staircase,

while his companion, muffling his features more closely than before in

the folds of his mantle, passed almost close to Franz, and descended to

the arena by an outward flight of steps. The next minute Franz heard

himself called by Albert, who made the lofty building re-echo with the

sound of his friend’s name. Franz, however, did not obey the summons

till he had satisfied himself that the two men whose conversation he

had overheard were at a sufficient distance to prevent his encountering

them in his descent. In ten minutes after the strangers had departed,

Franz was on the road to the Piazza di Spagna, listening with studied

indifference to the learned dissertation delivered by Albert, after the

manner of Pliny and Calpurnius, touching the iron-pointed nets used to

prevent the ferocious beasts from springing on the spectators.



Franz let him proceed without interruption, and, in fact, did not hear

what was said; he longed to be alone, and free to ponder over all that

had occurred. One of the two men, whose mysterious meeting in the

Colosseum he had so unintentionally witnessed, was an entire stranger

to him, but not so the other; and though Franz had been unable to

distinguish his features, from his being either wrapped in his mantle

or obscured by the shadow, the tones of his voice had made too powerful

an impression on him the first time he had heard them for him ever

again to forget them, hear them when or where he might. It was more

especially when this man was speaking in a manner half jesting, half

bitter, that Franz’s ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet

well-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of Monte

Cristo, and which he heard for the second time amid the darkness and

ruined grandeur of the Colosseum. And the more he thought, the more

entire was his conviction, that the person who wore the mantle was no

other than his former host and entertainer, “Sinbad the Sailor.”



20139m







Under any other circumstances, Franz would have found it impossible to

resist his extreme curiosity to know more of so singular a personage,

and with that intent have sought to renew their short acquaintance; but

in the present instance, the confidential nature of the conversation he

had overheard made him, with propriety, judge that his appearance at

such a time would be anything but agreeable. As we have seen,

therefore, he permitted his former host to retire without attempting a

recognition, but fully promising himself a rich indemnity for his

present forbearance should chance afford him another opportunity.



In vain did Franz endeavor to forget the many perplexing thoughts which

assailed him; in vain did he court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber

refused to visit his eyelids and the night was passed in feverish

contemplation of the chain of circumstances tending to prove the

identity of the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum with the

inhabitant of the grotto of The Trial; and the more he thought, the

firmer grew his opinion on the subject.



Worn out at length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and did not awake till

late. Like a genuine Frenchman, Albert had employed his time in

arranging for the evening’s diversion; he had sent to engage a box at

the Teatro Argentina; and Franz, having a number of letters to write,

relinquished the carriage to Albert for the whole of the day.



At five o’clock Albert returned, delighted with his day’s work; he had

been occupied in leaving his letters of introduction, and had received

in return more invitations to balls and routs than it would be possible

for him to accept; besides this, he had seen (as he called it) all the

remarkable sights at Rome. Yes, in a single day he had accomplished

what his more serious-minded companion would have taken weeks to

effect. Neither had he neglected to ascertain the name of the piece to

be played that night at the Teatro Argentina, and also what performers

appeared in it. The opera of _Parisina_ was announced for

representation, and the principal actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La

Specchia.



The young men, therefore, had reason to consider themselves fortunate

in having the opportunity of hearing one of the best works by the

composer of _Lucia di Lammermoor_, supported by three of the most

renowned vocalists of Italy.



Albert had never been able to endure the Italian theatres, with their

orchestras from which it is impossible to see, and the absence of

balconies, or open boxes; all these defects pressed hard on a man who

had had his stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box at the

Opera. Still, in spite of this, Albert displayed his most dazzling and

effective costumes each time he visited the theatres; but, alas, his

elegant toilet was wholly thrown away, and one of the most worthy

representatives of Parisian fashion had to carry with him the

mortifying reflection that he had nearly overrun Italy without meeting

with a single adventure.



Sometimes Albert would affect to make a joke of his want of success;

but internally he was deeply wounded, and his self-love immensely

piqued, to think that Albert de Morcerf, the most admired and most

sought after of any young person of his day, should thus be passed

over, and merely have his labor for his pains. And the thing was so

much the more annoying, as, according to the characteristic modesty of

a Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris with the full conviction that he

had only to show himself in Italy to carry all before him, and that

upon his return he should astonish the Parisian world with the recital

of his numerous love-affairs.



Alas, poor Albert! None of those interesting adventures fell in his

way; the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and Neapolitans were all

faithful, if not to their husbands, at least to their lovers, and

thought not of changing even for the splendid appearance of Albert de

Morcerf; and all he gained was the painful conviction that the ladies

of Italy have this advantage over those of France, that they are

faithful even in their infidelity.



Yet he could not restrain a hope that in Italy, as elsewhere, there

might be an exception to the general rule.



Albert, besides being an elegant, well-looking young man, was also

possessed of considerable talent and ability; moreover, he was a

viscount—a recently created one, certainly, but in the present day it

is not necessary to go as far back as Noah in tracing a descent, and a

genealogical tree is equally estimated, whether dated from 1399 or

merely 1815; but to crown all these advantages, Albert de Morcerf

commanded an income of 50,000 livres, a more than sufficient sum to

render him a personage of considerable importance in Paris. It was

therefore no small mortification to him to have visited most of the

principal cities in Italy without having excited the most trifling

observation.



Albert, however, hoped to indemnify himself for all these slights and

indifferences during the Carnival, knowing full well that among the

different states and kingdoms in which this festivity is celebrated,

Rome is the spot where even the wisest and gravest throw off the usual

rigidity of their lives, and deign to mingle in the follies of this

time of liberty and relaxation. The Carnival was to commence on the

morrow; therefore Albert had not an instant to lose in setting forth

the programme of his hopes, expectations, and claims to notice.



With this design he had engaged a box in the most conspicuous part of

the theatre, and exerted himself to set off his personal attractions by

the aid of the most rich and elaborate toilet. The box taken by Albert

was in the first circle; although each of the three tiers of boxes is

deemed equally aristocratic, and is, for this reason, generally styled

the “nobility’s boxes,” and although the box engaged for the two

friends was sufficiently capacious to contain at least a dozen persons,

it had cost less than would be paid at some of the French theatres for

one admitting merely four occupants.



Another motive had influenced Albert’s selection of his seat,—who knew

but that, thus advantageously placed, he might not in truth attract the

notice of some fair Roman, and an introduction might ensue that would

procure him the offer of a seat in a carriage, or a place in a princely

balcony, from which he might behold the gayeties of the Carnival?



These united considerations made Albert more lively and anxious to

please than he had hitherto been. Totally disregarding the business of

the stage, he leaned from his box and began attentively scrutinizing

the beauty of each pretty woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass; but,

alas, this attempt to attract notice wholly failed; not even curiosity

had been excited, and it was but too apparent that the lovely

creatures, into whose good graces he was desirous of stealing, were all

so much engrossed with themselves, their lovers, or their own thoughts,

that they had not so much as noticed him or the manipulation of his

glass.



The truth was, that the anticipated pleasures of the Carnival, with the

“Holy Week” that was to succeed it, so filled every fair breast, as to

prevent the least attention being bestowed even on the business of the

stage. The actors made their entries and exits unobserved or unthought

of; at certain conventional moments, the spectators would suddenly

cease their conversation, or rouse themselves from their musings, to

listen to some brilliant effort of Moriani’s, a well-executed

recitative by Coselli, or to join in loud applause at the wonderful

powers of La Specchia; but that momentary excitement over, they quickly

relapsed into their former state of preoccupation or interesting

conversation.



Towards the close of the first act, the door of a box which had been

hitherto vacant was opened; a lady entered to whom Franz had been

introduced in Paris, where indeed, he had imagined she still was. The

quick eye of Albert caught the involuntary start with which his friend

beheld the new arrival, and, turning to him, he said hastily:



“Do you know the woman who has just entered that box?”



“Yes; what do you think of her?”



“Oh, she is perfectly lovely—what a complexion! And such magnificent

hair! Is she French?”



“No; a Venetian.”



“And her name is——”



“Countess G——.”



“Ah, I know her by name!” exclaimed Albert; “she is said to possess as

much wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have been presented to her

when I met her at Madame Villefort’s ball.”



“Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?” asked Franz.



“My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her as to

venture to take me to her box?”



“Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and conversing

with her three or four times in my life; but you know that even such an

acquaintance as that might warrant my doing what you ask.”



At that instant, the countess perceived Franz, and graciously waved her

hand to him, to which he replied by a respectful inclination of the

head. “Upon my word,” said Albert, “you seem to be on excellent terms

with the beautiful countess.”



“You are mistaken in thinking so,” returned Franz calmly; “but you

merely fall into the same error which leads so many of our countrymen

to commit the most egregious blunders,—I mean that of judging the

habits and customs of Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions; believe

me, nothing is more fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree

of intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the familiar

terms they seem upon; there is a similarity of feeling at this instant

between ourselves and the countess—nothing more.”



“Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it sympathy of

heart?”



“No; of taste,” continued Franz gravely.



“And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been evinced?”



“By the countess’s visiting the Colosseum, as we did last night, by

moonlight, and nearly alone.”



“You were with her, then?”



“I was.”



“And what did you say to her?”



“Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that magnificent ruin is

a glorious monument!”



“Upon my word,” cried Albert, “you must have been a very entertaining

companion alone, or all but alone, with a beautiful woman in such a

place of sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better to

talk about than the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a

chance, the living should be my theme.”



20143m







“And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen.”



“But,” said Albert, breaking in upon his discourse, “never mind the

past; let us only remember the present. Are you not going to keep your

promise of introducing me to the fair subject of our remarks?”



“Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage.”



“What a confounded long time this first act lasts. I believe, on my

soul, that they never mean to finish it.”



“Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale. How

exquisitely Coselli sings his part.”



“But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is.”



“Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever see anything

more perfect than her acting?”



“Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to

Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don’t make the same

impression on you they perhaps do on others.”



“At least, you must admire Moriani’s style and execution.”



“I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a

voice like a woman’s.”



“My good friend,” said Franz, turning to him, while Albert continued to

point his glass at every box in the theatre, “you seem determined not

to approve; you are really too difficult to please.”



The curtain at length fell on the performances, to the infinite

satisfaction of the Viscount of Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly

passed his fingers through his hair, arranged his cravat and

wristbands, and signified to Franz that he was waiting for him to lead

the way.



Franz, who had mutely interrogated the countess, and received from her

a gracious smile in token that he would be welcome, sought not to

retard the gratification of Albert’s eager impatience, but began at

once the tour of the house, closely followed by Albert, who availed

himself of the few minutes required to reach the opposite side of the

theatre to settle the height and smoothness of his collar, and to

arrange the lappets of his coat. This important task was just completed

as they arrived at the countess’s box.



At the knock, the door was immediately opened, and the young man who

was seated beside the countess, in obedience to the Italian custom,

instantly rose and surrendered his place to the strangers, who, in

turn, would be expected to retire upon the arrival of other visitors.



Franz presented Albert as one of the most distinguished young men of

the day, both as regarded his position in society and extraordinary

talents; nor did he say more than the truth, for in Paris and the

circle in which the viscount moved, he was looked upon and cited as a

model of perfection. Franz added that his companion, deeply grieved at

having been prevented the honor of being presented to the countess

during her sojourn in Paris, was most anxious to make up for it, and

had requested him (Franz) to remedy the past misfortune by conducting

him to her box, and concluded by asking pardon for his presumption in

having taken it upon himself to do so.



The countess, in reply, bowed gracefully to Albert, and extended her

hand with cordial kindness to Franz; then, inviting Albert to take the

vacant seat beside her, she recommended Franz to take the next best, if

he wished to view the ballet, and pointed to the one behind her own

chair.



Albert was soon deeply engrossed in discoursing upon Paris and Parisian

matters, speaking to the countess of the various persons they both knew

there. Franz perceived how completely he was in his element; and,

unwilling to interfere with the pleasure he so evidently felt, took up

Albert’s glass, and began in his turn to survey the audience.



Sitting alone, in the front of a box immediately opposite, but situated

on the third row, was a woman of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek

costume, which evidently, from the ease and grace with which she wore

it, was her national attire. Behind her, but in deep shadow, was the

outline of a masculine figure; but the features of this latter

personage it was not possible to distinguish. Franz could not forbear

breaking in upon the apparently interesting conversation passing

between the countess and Albert, to inquire of the former if she knew

who was the fair Albanian opposite, since beauty such as hers was well

worthy of being observed by either sex.



“All I can tell about her,” replied the countess, “is, that she has

been at Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her where she

now sits the very first night of the season, and since then she has

never missed a performance. Sometimes she is accompanied by the person

who is now with her, and at others she is merely attended by a black

servant.”



“And what do you think of her personal appearance?”



“Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely—she is just my idea of what Medora

must have been.”



Franz and the countess exchanged a smile, and then the latter resumed

her conversation with Albert, while Franz returned to his previous

survey of the house and company. The curtain rose on the ballet, which

was one of those excellent specimens of the Italian school, admirably

arranged and put on the stage by Henri, who has established for himself

a great reputation throughout Italy for his taste and skill in the

choreographic art—one of those masterly productions of grace, method,

and elegance in which the whole _corps de ballet_, from the principal

dancers to the humblest supernumerary, are all engaged on the stage at

the same time; and a hundred and fifty persons may be seen exhibiting

the same attitude, or elevating the same arm or leg with a simultaneous

movement, that would lead you to suppose that but one mind, one act of

volition, influenced the moving mass.



The ballet was called _Poliska_.



However much the ballet might have claimed his attention, Franz was too

deeply occupied with the beautiful Greek to take any note of it; while

she seemed to experience an almost childlike delight in watching it,

her eager, animated looks contrasting strongly with the utter

indifference of her companion, who, during the whole time the piece

lasted, never even moved, not even when the furious, crashing din

produced by the trumpets, cymbals, and Chinese bells sounded their

loudest from the orchestra. Of this he took no heed, but was, as far as

appearances might be trusted, enjoying soft repose and bright celestial

dreams.



The ballet at length came to a close, and the curtain fell amid the

loud, unanimous plaudits of an enthusiastic and delighted audience.



Owing to the very judicious plan of dividing the two acts of the opera

with a ballet, the pauses between the performances are very short, the

singers in the opera having time to repose themselves and change their

costume, when necessary, while the dancers are executing their

pirouettes and exhibiting their graceful steps.



The overture to the second act began; and, at the first sound of the

leader’s bow across his violin, Franz observed the sleeper slowly arise

and approach the Greek girl, who turned around to say a few words to

him, and then, leaning forward again on the railing of her box, she

became as absorbed as before in what was going on.



The countenance of the person who had addressed her remained so

completely in the shade, that, though Franz tried his utmost, he could

not distinguish a single feature. The curtain rose, and the attention

of Franz was attracted by the actors; and his eyes turned from the box

containing the Greek girl and her strange companion to watch the

business of the stage.



Most of my readers are aware that the second act of _Parisina_ opens

with the celebrated and effective duet in which Parisina, while

sleeping, betrays to Azzo the secret of her love for Ugo. The injured

husband goes through all the emotions of jealousy, until conviction

seizes on his mind, and then, in a frenzy of rage and indignation, he

awakens his guilty wife to tell her that he knows her guilt and to

threaten her with his vengeance.



This duet is one of the most beautiful, expressive and terrible

conceptions that has ever emanated from the fruitful pen of Donizetti.

Franz now listened to it for the third time; yet its notes, so tenderly

expressive and fearfully grand as the wretched husband and wife give

vent to their different griefs and passions, thrilled through the soul

of Franz with an effect equal to his first emotions upon hearing it.

Excited beyond his usual calm demeanor, Franz rose with the audience,

and was about to join the loud, enthusiastic applause that followed;

but suddenly his purpose was arrested, his hands fell by his sides, and

the half-uttered “bravos” expired on his lips.



The occupant of the box in which the Greek girl sat appeared to share

the universal admiration that prevailed; for he left his seat to stand

up in front, so that, his countenance being fully revealed, Franz had

no difficulty in recognizing him as the mysterious inhabitant of Monte

Cristo, and the very same person he had encountered the preceding

evening in the ruins of the Colosseum, and whose voice and figure had

seemed so familiar to him.



All doubt of his identity was now at an end; his singular host

evidently resided at Rome. The surprise and agitation occasioned by

this full confirmation of Franz’s former suspicion had no doubt

imparted a corresponding expression to his features; for the countess,

after gazing with a puzzled look at his face, burst into a fit of

laughter, and begged to know what had happened.



“Countess,” returned Franz, totally unheeding her raillery, “I asked

you a short time since if you knew any particulars respecting the

Albanian lady opposite; I must now beseech you to inform me who and

what is her husband?”



“Nay,” answered the countess, “I know no more of him than yourself.”



“Perhaps you never before noticed him?”



“What a question—so truly French! Do you not know that we Italians have

eyes only for the man we love?”



“True,” replied Franz.



“All I can say is,” continued the countess, taking up the _lorgnette_,

and directing it toward the box in question, “that the gentleman, whose

history I am unable to furnish, seems to me as though he had just been

dug up; he looks more like a corpse permitted by some friendly

grave-digger to quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of

ours, than anything human. How ghastly pale he is!”



“Oh, he is always as colorless as you now see him,” said Franz.



“Then you know him?” almost screamed the countess. “Oh, pray do, for

heaven’s sake, tell us all about—is he a vampire, or a resuscitated

corpse, or what?”



“I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he recognizes me.”



“And I can well understand,” said the countess, shrugging up her

beautiful shoulders, as though an involuntary shudder passed through

her veins, “that those who have once seen that man will never be likely

to forget him.”



The sensation experienced by Franz was evidently not peculiar to

himself; another, and wholly uninterested person, felt the same

unaccountable awe and misgiving.



“Well.” inquired Franz, after the countess had a second time directed

her _lorgnette_ at the box, “what do you think of our opposite

neighbor?”



20147m







“Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form.”



This fresh allusion to Byron5 drew a smile to Franz’s countenance;

although he could but allow that if anything was likely to induce

belief in the existence of vampires, it would be the presence of such a

man as the mysterious personage before him.



“I must positively find out who and what he is,” said Franz, rising

from his seat.



“No, no,” cried the countess; “you must not leave me. I depend upon you

to escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot permit you to go.”



“Is it possible,” whispered Franz, “that you entertain any fear?”



“I’ll tell you,” answered the countess. “Byron had the most perfect

belief in the existence of vampires, and even assured me that he had

seen them. The description he gave me perfectly corresponds with the

features and character of the man before us. Oh, he is the exact

personification of what I have been led to expect! The coal-black hair,

large bright, glittering eyes, in which a wild, unearthly fire seems

burning,—the same ghastly paleness. Then observe, too, that the woman

with him is altogether unlike all others of her sex. She is a

foreigner—a stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or where she comes from.

No doubt she belongs to the same horrible race he does, and is, like

himself, a dealer in magical arts. I entreat of you not to go near

him—at least tonight; and if tomorrow your curiosity still continues as

great, pursue your researches if you will; but tonight you neither can

nor shall. For that purpose I mean to keep you all to myself.”



Franz protested he could not defer his pursuit till the following day,

for many reasons.



“Listen to me,” said the countess, “and do not be so very headstrong. I

am going home. I have a party at my house tonight, and therefore cannot

possibly remain till the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for one

instant believe you so devoid of gallantry as to refuse a lady your

escort when she even condescends to ask you for it.”



There was nothing else left for Franz to do but to take up his hat,

open the door of the box, and offer the countess his arm. It was quite

evident, by her manner, that her uneasiness was not feigned; and Franz

himself could not resist a feeling of superstitious dread—so much the

stronger in him, as it arose from a variety of corroborative

recollections, while the terror of the countess sprang from an

instinctive belief, originally created in her mind by the wild tales

she had listened to till she believed them truths. Franz could even

feel her arm tremble as he assisted her into the carriage. Upon

arriving at her hotel, Franz perceived that she had deceived him when

she spoke of expecting company; on the contrary, her own return before

the appointed hour seemed greatly to astonish the servants.



“Excuse my little subterfuge,” said the countess, in reply to her

companion’s half-reproachful observation on the subject; “but that

horrid man had made me feel quite uncomfortable, and I longed to be

alone, that I might compose my startled mind.”



Franz essayed to smile.



“Nay,” said she, “do not smile; it ill accords with the expression of

your countenance, and I am sure it does not spring from your heart.

However, promise me one thing.”



“What is it?”



“Promise me, I say.”



“I will do anything you desire, except relinquish my determination of

finding out who this man is. I have more reasons than you can imagine

for desiring to know who he is, from whence he came, and whither he is

going.”



“Where he comes from I am ignorant; but I can readily tell you where he

is going to, and that is down below, without the least doubt.”



“Let us only speak of the promise you wished me to make,” said Franz.



“Well, then, you must give me your word to return immediately to your

hotel, and make no attempt to follow this man tonight. There are

certain affinities between the persons we quit and those we meet

afterwards. For heaven’s sake, do not serve as a conductor between that

man and me. Pursue your chase after him tomorrow as eagerly as you

please; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me die of

terror. And now, good-night; go to your rooms, and try to sleep away

all recollections of this evening. For my own part, I am quite sure I

shall not be able to close my eyes.”



So saying, the countess quitted Franz, leaving him unable to decide

whether she were merely amusing herself at his expense, or whether her

fears and agitations were genuine.



Upon his return to the hotel, Franz found Albert in his dressing-gown

and slippers, listlessly extended on a sofa, smoking a cigar.



“My dear fellow!” cried he, springing up, “is it really you? Why, I did

not expect to see you before tomorrow.”



“My dear Albert,” replied Franz, “I am glad of this opportunity to tell

you, once and forever, that you entertain a most erroneous notion

concerning Italian women. I should have thought the continual failures

you have met with in all your own love affairs might have taught you

better by this time.”



“Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to read them

aright. Why, here—they give you their hand—they press yours in

return—they keep up a whispering conversation—permit you to accompany

them home. Why, if a Parisian were to indulge in a quarter of these

marks of flattering attention, her reputation would be gone forever.”



“And the very reason why the women of this fine country, ‘where sounds

the _si_,’ as Dante writes, put so little restraint on their words and

actions, is because they live so much in public, and have really

nothing to conceal. Besides, you must have perceived that the countess

was really alarmed.”



“At what? At the sight of that respectable gentleman sitting opposite

to us in the same box with the lovely Greek girl? Now, for my part, I

met them in the lobby after the conclusion of the piece; and hang me,

if I can guess where you took your notions of the other world from. I

can assure you that this hobgoblin of yours is a deuced fine-looking

fellow—admirably dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from the cut of

his clothes, they are made by a first-rate Paris tailor—probably Blin

or Humann. He was rather too pale, certainly; but then, you know,

paleness is always looked upon as a strong proof of aristocratic

descent and distinguished breeding.”



Franz smiled; for he well remembered that Albert particularly prided

himself on the entire absence of color in his own complexion.



“Well, that tends to confirm my own ideas,” said Franz, “that the

countess’s suspicions were destitute alike of sense and reason. Did he

speak in your hearing? and did you catch any of his words?”



“I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew that from

the mixture of Greek words. I don’t know whether I ever told you that

when I was at college I was rather—rather strong in Greek.”



“He spoke the Romaic language, did he?”



“I think so.”



“That settles it,” murmured Franz. “’Tis he, past all doubt.”



“What do you say?”



“Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about when I

came in?”



“Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you.”



“Indeed. Of what nature?”



“Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a carriage.”



“Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human means

afforded to endeavor to get one.”



“Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed across my

brain.”



Franz looked at Albert as though he had not much confidence in the

suggestions of his imagination.



“I tell you what, M. Franz,” cried Albert, “you deserve to be called

out for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as that you were

pleased to bestow on me just now.”



“And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman if your

scheme turns out as ingenious as you assert.”



“Well, then, hearken to me.”



“I listen.”



“You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of the

question?”



“I do.”



“Neither can we procure horses?”



“True; we have offered any sum, but have failed.”



“Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a thing might be

had.”



“Very possibly.”



“And a pair of oxen?”



“As easily found as the cart.”



“Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of oxen our

business can be managed. The cart must be tastefully ornamented; and if

you and I dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a

striking tableau, after the manner of that splendid picture by Léopold

Robert. It would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join

us in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group

would then be quite complete, more especially as the countess is quite

beautiful enough to represent a Madonna.”



“Well,” said Franz, “this time, M. Albert, I am bound to give you

credit for having hit upon a most capital idea.”



“And quite a national one, too,” replied Albert with gratified pride.

“A mere masque borrowed from our own festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans!

you thought to make us, unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your

processions, like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are

to be had in your beggarly city. But you don’t know us; when we can’t

have one thing we invent another.”



“And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody?”



“Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I then

explained to him what I wished to procure. He assured me that nothing

would be easier than to furnish all I desired. One thing I was sorry

for; when I bade him have the horns of the oxen gilded, he told me

there would not be time, as it would require three days to do that; so

you see we must do without this little superfluity.”



“And where is he now?”



“Who?”



“Our host.”



“Gone out in search of our equipage, by tomorrow it might be too late.”



“Then he will be able to give us an answer tonight.”



“Oh, I expect him every minute.”



At this instant the door opened, and the head of Signor Pastrini

appeared. “_Permesso_?” inquired he.



“Certainly—certainly,” cried Franz. “Come in, my host.”



“Now, then,” asked Albert eagerly, “have you found the desired cart and

oxen?”



“Better than that!” replied Signor Pastrini, with the air of a man

perfectly well satisfied with himself.



“Take care, my worthy host,” said Albert, “_better_ is a sure enemy to

_well_.”



“Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,” returned Signor

Pastrini in a tone indicative of unbounded self-confidence.



“But what _have_ you done?” asked Franz. “Speak out, there’s a worthy

fellow.”



“Your excellencies are aware,” responded the landlord, swelling with

importance, “that The Trial is living on the same floor

with yourselves!”



“I should think we did know it,” exclaimed Albert, “since it is owing

to that circumstance that we are packed into these small rooms, like

two poor students in the back streets of Paris.”



“When, then, The Trial, hearing of the dilemma in which

you are placed, has sent to offer you seats in his carriage and two

places at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli.” The friends looked at

each other with unutterable surprise.



“But do you think,” asked Albert, “that we ought to accept such offers

from a perfect stranger?”



“What sort of person is this Count of The Trial?” asked Franz of his

host.



“A very great nobleman, but whether Maltese or Sicilian I cannot

exactly say; but this I know, that he is noble as a Borghese and rich

as a gold mine.”



“It seems to me,” said Franz, speaking in an undertone to Albert, “that

if this person merited the high panegyrics of our landlord, he would

have conveyed his invitation through another channel, and not permitted

it to be brought to us in this unceremonious way. He would have

written—or——”



At this instant someone knocked at the door.



“Come in,” said Franz.



A servant, wearing a livery of considerable style and richness,

appeared at the threshold, and, placing two cards in the landlord’s

hands, who forthwith presented them to the two young men, he said:



“Please to deliver these, from The Trial to Vicomte

Albert de Morcerf and M. Franz d’Épinay. The Trial,”

continued the servant, “begs these gentlemen’s permission to wait upon

them as their neighbor, and he will be honored by an intimation of what

time they will please to receive him.”



“Faith, Franz,” whispered Albert, “there is not much to find fault with

here.”



“Tell the count,” replied Franz, “that we will do ourselves the

pleasure of calling on him.”



The servant bowed and retired.



“That is what I call an elegant mode of attack,” said Albert, “You were

quite correct in what you said, Signor Pastrini. The Count of Monte

Cristo is unquestionably a man of first-rate breeding and knowledge of

the world.”



“Then you accept his offer?” said the host.



“Of course we do,” replied Albert. “Still, I must own I am sorry to be

obliged to give up the cart and the group of reapers—it would have

produced such an effect! And were it not for the windows at the Palazzo

Rospoli, by way of recompense for the loss of our beautiful scheme, I

don’t know but what I should have held on by my original plan. What say

you, Franz?”



“Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided

me.”



The truth was, that the mention of two places in the Palazzo Rospoli

had recalled to Franz the conversation he had overheard the preceding

evening in the ruins of the Colosseum between the mysterious unknown

and the Transteverin, in which the stranger in the cloak had undertaken

to obtain the freedom of a condemned criminal; and if this muffled-up

individual proved (as Franz felt sure he would) the same as the person

he had just seen in the Teatro Argentina, then he should be able to

establish his identity, and also to prosecute his researches respecting

him with perfect facility and freedom.



Franz passed the night in confused dreams respecting the two meetings

he had already had with his mysterious tormentor, and in waking

speculations as to what the morrow would produce. The next day must

clear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor and would-be friend,

The Trial, possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its

power was able to render himself invisible, it was very certain he

could not escape this time.



Eight o’clock found Franz up and dressed, while Albert, who had not the

same motives for early rising, was still soundly asleep. The first act

of Franz was to summon his landlord, who presented himself with his

accustomed obsequiousness.



“Pray, Signor Pastrini,” asked Franz, “is not some execution appointed

to take place today?”



“Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is that you may

procure a window to view it from, you are much too late.”



“Oh, no,” answered Franz, “I had no such intention; and even if I had

felt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have done so from Monte

Pincio; could I not?”



“Ah!” exclaimed mine host, “I did not think it likely your excellency

would have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as are always collected

on that hill, which, indeed, they consider as exclusively belonging to

themselves.”



“Very possibly I may not go,” answered Franz; “but in case I feel

disposed, give me some particulars of today’s executions.”



“What particulars would your excellency like to hear?”



“Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their names, and

description of the death they are to die.”



“That happens just lucky, your excellency! Only a few minutes ago they

brought me the _tavolettas_.”



“What are they?”



“Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets the evening

before an execution, on which is pasted up a paper containing the names

of the condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment. The

reason for so publicly announcing all this is, that all good and

faithful Catholics may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate

culprits, and, above all, beseech of Heaven to grant them a sincere

repentance.”



“And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your prayers to

those of the faithful, are they?” asked Franz somewhat incredulously.



“Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for anybody’s affairs

but my own and those of my honorable guests; but I make an agreement

with the man who pastes up the papers, and he brings them to me as he

would the playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel should

like to witness an execution, he may obtain every requisite information

concerning the time and place etc.”



“Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your part, Signor

Pastrini,” cried Franz.



“Why, your excellency,” returned the landlord, chuckling and rubbing

his hands with infinite complacency, “I think I may take upon myself to

say I neglect nothing to deserve the support and patronage of the noble

visitors to this poor hotel.”



“I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you may rely

upon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your attention to your

guests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one of these

_tavolettas_.”



“Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency’s wish,”

said the landlord, opening the door of the chamber; “I have caused one

to be placed on the landing, close by your apartment.”



Then, taking the tablet from the wall, he handed it to Franz, who read

as follows:



“‘The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23rd, being the

first day of the Carnival, executions will take place in the Piazza del

Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of two persons, named

Andrea Rondolo, and Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former

found guilty of the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named

Don César Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and the

latter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious and sanguinary

bandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The first-named malefactor will be

_mazzolato_, the second culprit _decapitato_.



“‘The prayers of all good Christians are entreated for these

unfortunate men, that it may please God to awaken them to a sense of

their guilt, and to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for

their crimes.’”



This was precisely what Franz had heard the evening before in the ruins

of the Colosseum. No part of the programme differed,—the names of the

condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment, all agreed

with his previous information. In all probability, therefore, the

Transteverin was no other than the bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and the

man shrouded in the mantle the same he had known as “Sinbad the

Sailor,” but who, no doubt, was still pursuing his philanthropic

expedition in Rome, as he had already done at Porto-Vecchio and Tunis.



Time was getting on, however, and Franz deemed it advisable to awaken

Albert; but at the moment he prepared to proceed to his chamber, his

friend entered the room in perfect costume for the day. The anticipated

delights of the Carnival had so run in his head as to make him leave

his pillow long before his usual hour.



“Now, my excellent Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, addressing his

landlord, “since we are both ready, do you think we may proceed at once

to visit The Trial?”



“Most assuredly,” replied he. “The Trial is always an

early riser; and I can answer for his having been up these two hours.”



“Then you really consider we shall not be intruding if we pay our

respects to him directly?”



20155m







“Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all the blame on myself if you find I

have led you into an error.”



“Well, then, if it be so, are you ready, Albert?”



“Perfectly.”



“Let us go and return our best thanks for his courtesy.”



“Yes, let us do so.”



The landlord preceded the friends across the landing, which was all

that separated them from the apartments of the count, rang at the bell,

and, upon the door being opened by a servant, said:



“_I signori Francesi_.”



The domestic bowed respectfully, and invited them to enter. They passed

through two rooms, furnished in a luxurious manner they had not

expected to see under the roof of Signor Pastrini, and were shown into

an elegantly fitted-up drawing-room. The richest Turkey carpets covered

the floor, and the softest and most inviting couches, easy-chairs, and

sofas, offered their high-piled and yielding cushions to such as

desired repose or refreshment. Splendid paintings by the first masters

were ranged against the walls, intermingled with magnificent trophies

of war, while heavy curtains of costly tapestry were suspended before

the different doors of the room.



“If your excellencies will please to be seated,” said the man, “I will

let the count know that you are here.”



And with these words he disappeared behind one of the tapestried

_portières_. As the door opened, the sound of a _guzla_ reached the

ears of the young men, but was almost immediately lost, for the rapid

closing of the door merely allowed one rich swell of harmony to enter.

Franz and Albert looked inquiringly at each other, then at the gorgeous

furnishings of the apartment. Everything seemed more magnificent at a

second view than it had done at their first rapid survey.



“Well,” said Franz to his friend, “what think you of all this?”



“Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it strikes me that our elegant and

attentive neighbor must either be some successful stock-jobber who has

speculated in the fall of the Spanish funds, or some prince travelling

_incog_.”



“Hush, hush!” replied Franz; “we shall ascertain who and what he is—he

comes!”



As Franz spoke, he heard the sound of a door turning on its hinges, and

almost immediately afterwards the tapestry was drawn aside, and the

owner of all these riches stood before the two young men. Albert

instantly rose to meet him, but Franz remained, in a manner, spellbound

on his chair; for in the person of him who had just entered he

recognized not only the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum, and the

occupant of the box at the Teatro Argentina, but also his extraordinary

host of The Trial.



20157m









 Chapter 35. La Mazzolata



Gentlemen,” said The Trial as he entered, “I pray you

excuse me for suffering my visit to be anticipated; but I feared to

disturb you by presenting myself earlier at your apartments; besides,

you sent me word that you would come to me, and I have held myself at

your disposal.”



“Franz and I have to thank you a thousand times, count,” returned

Albert; “you extricated us from a great dilemma, and we were on the

point of inventing a very fantastic vehicle when your friendly

invitation reached us.”



“Indeed,” returned the count, motioning the two young men to sit down.

“It was the fault of that blockhead Pastrini, that I did not sooner

assist you in your distress. He did not mention a syllable of your

embarrassment to me, when he knows that, alone and isolated as I am, I

seek every opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. As

soon as I learned I could in any way assist you, I most eagerly seized

the opportunity of offering my services.”



The two young men bowed. Franz had, as yet, found nothing to say; he

had come to no determination, and as nothing in the count’s manner

manifested the wish that he should recognize him, he did not know

whether to make any allusion to the past, or wait until he had more

proof; besides, although sure it was he who had been in the box the

previous evening, he could not be equally positive that this was the

man he had seen at the Colosseum. He resolved, therefore, to let things

take their course without making any direct overture to the count.

Moreover, he had this advantage, he was master of the count’s secret,

while the count had no hold on Franz, who had nothing to conceal.

However, he resolved to lead the conversation to a subject which might

possibly clear up his doubts.



“Count,” said he, “you have offered us places in your carriage, and at

your windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you tell us where we can obtain

a sight of the Piazza del Popolo?”



“Ah,” said the count negligently, looking attentively at Morcerf, “is

there not something like an execution upon the Piazza del Popolo?”



“Yes,” returned Franz, finding that the count was coming to the point

he wished.



“Stay, I think I told my steward yesterday to attend to this; perhaps I

can render you this slight service also.”



He extended his hand, and rang the bell thrice.



“Did you ever occupy yourself,” said he to Franz, “with the employment

of time and the means of simplifying the summoning your servants? I

have. When I ring once, it is for my valet; twice, for my majordomo;

thrice, for my steward,—thus I do not waste a minute or a word. Here he

is.”



A man of about forty-five or fifty entered, exactly resembling the

smuggler who had introduced Franz into the cavern; but he did not

appear to recognize him. It was evident he had his orders.



“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “you have procured me windows

looking on the Piazza del Popolo, as I ordered you yesterday.”



“Yes, excellency,” returned the steward; “but it was very late.”



“Did I not tell you I wished for one?” replied the count, frowning.



“And your excellency has one, which was let to Prince Lobanieff; but I

was obliged to pay a hundred——”



“That will do—that will do, Monsieur Bertuccio; spare these gentlemen

all such domestic arrangements. You have the window, that is

sufficient. Give orders to the coachman; and be in readiness on the

stairs to conduct us to it.”



The steward bowed, and was about to quit the room.



“Ah!” continued the count, “be good enough to ask Pastrini if he has

received the _tavoletta_, and if he can send us an account of the

execution.”



“There is no need to do that,” said Franz, taking out his tablets; “for

I saw the account, and copied it down.”



“Very well, you can retire, M. Bertuccio; I need you no longer. Let us

know when breakfast is ready. These gentlemen,” added he, turning to

the two friends, “will, I trust, do me the honor to breakfast with me?”



“But, my dear count,” said Albert, “we shall abuse your kindness.”



“Not at all; on the contrary, you will give me great pleasure. You

will, one or other of you, perhaps both, return it to me at Paris. M.

Bertuccio, lay covers for three.”



He then took Franz’s tablets out of his hand. “‘We announce,’ he read,

in the same tone with which he would have read a newspaper, ‘that

today, the 23rd of February, will be executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of

murder on the person of the respected and venerated Don César Torlini,

canon of the church of St. John Lateran, and Peppino, called Rocca

Priori, convicted of complicity with the detestable bandit Luigi Vampa,

and the men of his band.’



“Hum! ‘The first will be _mazzolato_, the second _decapitato_.’ Yes,”

continued the count, “it was at first arranged in this way; but I think

since yesterday some change has taken place in the order of the

ceremony.”



“Really?” said Franz.



“Yes, I passed the evening at the Cardinal Rospigliosi’s, and there

mention was made of something like a pardon for one of the two men.”



“For Andrea Rondolo?” asked Franz.



“No,” replied the count, carelessly; “for the other (he glanced at the

tablets as if to recall the name), for Peppino, called Rocca Priori.

You are thus deprived of seeing a man guillotined; but the _mazzolata_

still remains, which is a very curious punishment when seen for the

first time, and even the second, while the other, as you must know, is

very simple. The _mandaïa_6 never fails, never trembles, never strikes

thirty times ineffectually, like the soldier who beheaded the Count of

Chalais, and to whose tender mercy Richelieu had doubtless recommended

the sufferer. Ah,” added the count, in a contemptuous tone, “do not

tell me of European punishments, they are in the infancy, or rather the

old age, of cruelty.”



“Really, count,” replied Franz, “one would think that you had studied

the different tortures of all the nations of the world.”



“There are, at least, few that I have not seen,” said the count coldly.



“And you took pleasure in beholding these dreadful spectacles?”



“My first sentiment was horror, the second indifference, the third

curiosity.”



“Curiosity—that is a terrible word.”



“Why so? In life, our greatest preoccupation is death; is it not then,

curious to study the different ways by which the soul and body can

part; and how, according to their different characters, temperaments,

and even the different customs of their countries, different persons

bear the transition from life to death, from existence to annihilation?

As for myself, I can assure you of one thing,—the more men you see die,

the easier it becomes to die yourself; and in my opinion, death may be

a torture, but it is not an expiation.”



“I do not quite understand you,” replied Franz; “pray explain your

meaning, for you excite my curiosity to the highest pitch.”



“Listen,” said the count, and deep hatred mounted to his face, as the

blood would to the face of any other. “If a man had by unheard-of and

excruciating tortures destroyed your father, your mother, your

betrothed,—a being who, when torn from you, left a desolation, a wound

that never closes, in your breast,—do you think the reparation that

society gives you is sufficient when it interposes the knife of the

guillotine between the base of the occiput and the trapezal muscles of

the murderer, and allows him who has caused us years of moral

sufferings to escape with a few moments of physical pain?”



“Yes, I know,” said Franz, “that human justice is insufficient to

console us; she can give blood in return for blood, that is all; but

you must demand from her only what it is in her power to grant.”



“I will put another case to you,” continued the count; “that where

society, attacked by the death of a person, avenges death by death. But

are there not a thousand tortures by which a man may be made to suffer

without society taking the least cognizance of them, or offering him

even the insufficient means of vengeance, of which we have just spoken?

Are there not crimes for which the impalement of the Turks, the augers

of the Persians, the stake and the brand of the Iroquois Indians, are

inadequate tortures, and which are unpunished by society? Answer me, do

not these crimes exist?”



“Yes,” answered Franz; “and it is to punish them that duelling is

tolerated.”



“Ah, duelling,” cried the count; “a pleasant manner, upon my soul, of

arriving at your end when that end is vengeance! A man has carried off

your mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a man has dishonored your

daughter; he has rendered the whole life of one who had the right to

expect from Heaven that portion of happiness God has promised to

everyone of his creatures, an existence of misery and infamy; and you

think you are avenged because you send a ball through the head, or pass

a sword through the breast, of that man who has planted madness in your

brain, and despair in your heart. And remember, moreover, that it is

often he who comes off victorious from the strife, absolved of all

crime in the eyes of the world. No, no,” continued the count, “had I to

avenge myself, it is not thus I would take revenge.”



“Then you disapprove of duelling? You would not fight a duel?” asked

Albert in his turn, astonished at this strange theory.



“Oh, yes,” replied the count; “understand me, I would fight a duel for

a trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and the more so that, thanks to my

skill in all bodily exercises, and the indifference to danger I have

gradually acquired, I should be almost certain to kill my man. Oh, I

would fight for such a cause; but in return for a slow, profound,

eternal torture, I would give back the same, were it possible; an eye

for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the Orientalists say,—our masters

in everything,—those favored creatures who have formed for themselves a

life of dreams and a paradise of realities.”



“But,” said Franz to the count, “with this theory, which renders you at

once judge and executioner of your own cause, it would be difficult to

adopt a course that would forever prevent your falling under the power

of the law. Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours

out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.”



“Yes, if he be poor and inexperienced, not if he be rich and skilful;

besides, the worst that could happen to him would be the punishment of

which we have already spoken, and which the philanthropic French

Revolution has substituted for being torn to pieces by horses or broken

on the wheel. What matters this punishment, as long as he is avenged?

On my word, I almost regret that in all probability this miserable

Peppino will not be beheaded, as you might have had an opportunity then

of seeing how short a time the punishment lasts, and whether it is

worth even mentioning; but, really this is a most singular conversation

for the Carnival, gentlemen; how did it arise? Ah, I recollect, you

asked for a place at my window; you shall have it; but let us first sit

down to table, for here comes the servant to inform us that breakfast

is ready.”



As he spoke, a servant opened one of the four doors of the apartment,

saying:



“_Al suo commodo!_”



The two young men arose and entered the breakfast-room.



During the meal, which was excellent, and admirably served, Franz

looked repeatedly at Albert, in order to observe the impressions which

he doubted not had been made on him by the words of their entertainer;

but whether with his usual carelessness he had paid but little

attention to him, whether the explanation of The Trial

with regard to duelling had satisfied him, or whether the events which

Franz knew of had had their effect on him alone, he remarked that his

companion did not pay the least regard to them, but on the contrary ate

like a man who for the last four or five months had been condemned to

partake of Italian cookery—that is, the worst in the world.



As for the count, he just touched the dishes; he seemed to fulfil the

duties of a host by sitting down with his guests, and awaited their

departure to be served with some strange or more delicate food. This

brought back to Franz, in spite of himself, the recollection of the

terror with which the count had inspired the Countess G——, and her firm

conviction that the man in the opposite box was a vampire.



At the end of the breakfast Franz took out his watch.



“Well,” said the count, “what are you doing?”



“You must excuse us, count,” returned Franz, “but we have still much to

do.”



“What may that be?”



“We have no masks, and it is absolutely necessary to procure them.”



“Do not concern yourself about that; we have, I think, a private room

in the Piazza del Popolo; I will have whatever costumes you choose

brought to us, and you can dress there.”



“After the execution?” cried Franz.



“Before or after, whichever you please.”



“Opposite the scaffold?”



“The scaffold forms part of the _fête_.”



“Count, I have reflected on the matter,” said Franz, “I thank you for

your courtesy, but I shall content myself with accepting a place in

your carriage and at your window at the Rospoli Palace, and I leave you

at liberty to dispose of my place at the Piazza del Popolo.”



“But I warn you, you will lose a very curious sight,” returned the

count.



“You will describe it to me,” replied Franz, “and the recital from your

lips will make as great an impression on me as if I had witnessed it. I

have more than once intended witnessing an execution, but I have never

been able to make up my mind; and you, Albert?”



“I,” replied the viscount,—“I saw Castaing executed, but I think I was

rather intoxicated that day, for I had quitted college the same

morning, and we had passed the previous night at a tavern.”



“Besides, it is no reason because you have not seen an execution at

Paris, that you should not see one anywhere else; when you travel, it

is to see everything. Think what a figure you will make when you are

asked, ‘How do they execute at Rome?’ and you reply, ‘I do not know!’

And, besides, they say that the culprit is an infamous scoundrel, who

killed with a log of wood a worthy canon who had brought him up like

his own son. _Diable!_ when a churchman is killed, it should be with a

different weapon than a log, especially when he has behaved like a

father. If you went to Spain, would you not see the bull-fights? Well,

suppose it is a bull-fight you are going to see? Recollect the ancient

Romans of the Circus, and the sports where they killed three hundred

lions and a hundred men. Think of the eighty thousand applauding

spectators, the sage matrons who took their daughters, and the charming

Vestals who made with the thumb of their white hands the fatal sign

that said, ‘Come, despatch the dying.’”



“Shall you go, then, Albert?” asked Franz.



“_Ma foi_, yes; like you, I hesitated, but the count’s eloquence

decides me.”



“Let us go, then,” said Franz, “since you wish it; but on our way to

the Piazza del Popolo, I wish to pass through the Corso. Is this

possible, count?”



“On foot, yes, in a carriage, no.”



“I will go on foot, then.”



“Is it important that you should go that way?”



“Yes, there is something I wish to see.”



“Well, we will go by the Corso. We will send the carriage to wait for

us on the Piazza del Popolo, by the Via del Babuino, for I shall be

glad to pass, myself, through the Corso, to see if some orders I have

given have been executed.”



“Excellency,” said a servant, opening the door, “a man in the dress of

a penitent wishes to speak to you.”



“Ah! yes,” returned the count, “I know who he is, gentlemen; will you

return to the salon? you will find good cigars on the centre table. I

will be with you directly.”



The young men rose and returned into the salon, while the count, again

apologizing, left by another door. Albert, who was a great smoker, and

who had considered it no small sacrifice to be deprived of the cigars

of the Café de Paris, approached the table, and uttered a cry of joy at

perceiving some veritable _puros_.



“Well,” asked Franz, “what think you of The Trial?”



“What do I think?” said Albert, evidently surprised at such a question

from his companion; “I think he is a delightful fellow, who does the

honors of his table admirably; who has travelled much, read much, is,

like Brutus, of the Stoic school, and moreover,” added he, sending a

volume of smoke up towards the ceiling, “that he has excellent cigars.”



Such was Albert’s opinion of the count, and as Franz well knew that

Albert professed never to form an opinion except upon long reflection,

he made no attempt to change it.



“But,” said he, “did you observe one very singular thing?”



“What?”



“How attentively he looked at you.”



“At me?”



“Yes.”



Albert reflected. “Ah,” replied he, sighing, “that is not very

surprising; I have been more than a year absent from Paris, and my

clothes are of a most antiquated cut; the count takes me for a

provincial. The first opportunity you have, undeceive him, I beg, and

tell him I am nothing of the kind.”



Franz smiled; an instant after the count entered.



“I am now quite at your service, gentlemen,” said he. “The carriage is

going one way to the Piazza del Popolo, and we will go another; and, if

you please, by the Corso. Take some more of these cigars, M. de

Morcerf.”



“With all my heart,” returned Albert; “Italian cigars are horrible.

When you come to Paris, I will return all this.”



“I will not refuse; I intend going there soon, and since you allow me,

I will pay you a visit. Come, we have not any time to lose, it is

half-past twelve—let us set off.”



All three descended; the coachman received his master’s orders, and

drove down the Via del Babuino. While the three gentlemen walked along

the Piazza di Spagna and the Via Frattina, which led directly between

the Fiano and Rospoli palaces, Franz’s attention was directed towards

the windows of that last palace, for he had not forgotten the signal

agreed upon between the man in the mantle and the Transtevere peasant.



“Which are your windows?” asked he of the count, with as much

indifference as he could assume.



“The three last,” returned he, with a negligence evidently unaffected,

for he could not imagine with what intention the question was put.



Franz glanced rapidly towards the three windows. The side windows were

hung with yellow damask, and the centre one with white damask and a red

cross. The man in the mantle had kept his promise to the Transteverin,

and there could now be no doubt that he was the count.



The three windows were still untenanted. Preparations were making on

every side; chairs were placed, scaffolds were raised, and windows were

hung with flags. The masks could not appear; the carriages could not

move about; but the masks were visible behind the windows, the

carriages, and the doors.



Franz, Albert, and the count continued to descend the Corso. As they

approached the Piazza del Popolo, the crowd became more dense, and

above the heads of the multitude two objects were visible: the obelisk,

surmounted by a cross, which marks the centre of the square, and in

front of the obelisk, at the point where the three streets, del

Babuino, del Corso, and di Ripetta, meet, the two uprights of the

scaffold, between which glittered the curved knife of the _mandaïa_.



At the corner of the street they met the count’s steward, who was

awaiting his master. The window, let at an exorbitant price, which the

count had doubtless wished to conceal from his guests, was on the

second floor of the great palace, situated between the Via del Babuino

and the Monte Pincio. It consisted, as we have said, of a small

dressing-room, opening into a bedroom, and, when the door of

communication was shut, the inmates were quite alone. On chairs were

laid elegant masquerade costumes of blue and white satin.



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“As you left the choice of your costumes to me,” said the count to the

two friends, “I have had these brought, as they will be the most worn

this year; and they are most suitable, on account of the _confetti_

(sweetmeats), as they do not show the flour.”



Franz heard the words of the count but imperfectly, and he perhaps did

not fully appreciate this new attention to their wishes; for he was

wholly absorbed by the spectacle that the Piazza del Popolo presented,

and by the terrible instrument that was in the centre.



It was the first time Franz had ever seen a guillotine,—we say

guillotine, because the Roman _mandaïa_ is formed on almost the same

model as the French instrument.7 The knife, which is shaped like a

crescent, that cuts with the convex side, falls from a less height, and

that is all the difference.



Two men, seated on the movable plank on which the victim is laid, were

eating their breakfasts, while waiting for the criminal. Their repast

consisted apparently of bread and sausages. One of them lifted the

plank, took out a flask of wine, drank some, and then passed it to his

companion. These two men were the executioner’s assistants.



At this sight Franz felt the perspiration start forth upon his brow.



The prisoners, transported the previous evening from the Carceri Nuove

to the little church of Santa Maria del Popolo, had passed the night,

each accompanied by two priests, in a chapel closed by a grating,

before which were two sentinels, who were relieved at intervals. A

double line of carbineers, placed on each side of the door of the

church, reached to the scaffold, and formed a circle around it, leaving

a path about ten feet wide, and around the guillotine a space of nearly

a hundred feet.



All the rest of the square was paved with heads. Many women held their

infants on their shoulders, and thus the children had the best view.

The Monte Pincio seemed a vast amphitheatre filled with spectators; the

balconies of the two churches at the corner of the Via del Babuino and

the Via di Ripetta were crammed; the steps even seemed a parti-colored

sea, that was impelled towards the portico; every niche in the wall

held its living statue. What the count said was true—the most curious

spectacle in life is that of death.



And yet, instead of the silence and the solemnity demanded by the

occasion, laughter and jests arose from the crowd. It was evident that

the execution was, in the eyes of the people, only the commencement of

the Carnival.



Suddenly the tumult ceased, as if by magic, and the doors of the church

opened. A brotherhood of penitents, clothed from head to foot in robes

of gray sackcloth, with holes for the eyes, and holding in their hands

lighted tapers, appeared first; the chief marched at the head.



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Behind the penitents came a man of vast stature and proportions. He was

naked, with the exception of cloth drawers at the left side of which

hung a large knife in a sheath, and he bore on his right shoulder a

heavy iron sledge-hammer.



This man was the executioner.



He had, moreover, sandals bound on his feet by cords.



Behind the executioner came, in the order in which they were to die,

first Peppino and then Andrea. Each was accompanied by two priests.

Neither had his eyes bandaged.



Peppino walked with a firm step, doubtless aware of what awaited him.

Andrea was supported by two priests. Each of them, from time to time,

kissed the crucifix a confessor held out to them.



At this sight alone Franz felt his legs tremble under him. He looked at

Albert—he was as white as his shirt, and mechanically cast away his

cigar, although he had not half smoked it. The count alone seemed

unmoved—nay, more, a slight color seemed striving to rise in his pale

cheeks. His nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast that scents its

prey, and his lips, half opened, disclosed his white teeth, small and

sharp like those of a jackal. And yet his features wore an expression

of smiling tenderness, such as Franz had never before witnessed in

them; his black eyes especially were full of kindness and pity.



However, the two culprits advanced, and as they approached their faces

became visible. Peppino was a handsome young man of four or

five-and-twenty, bronzed by the sun; he carried his head erect, and

seemed on the watch to see on which side his liberator would appear.

Andrea was short and fat; his visage, marked with brutal cruelty, did

not indicate age; he might be thirty. In prison he had suffered his

beard to grow; his head fell on his shoulder, his legs bent beneath

him, and his movements were apparently automatic and unconscious.



“I thought,” said Franz to the count, “that you told me there would be

but one execution.”



“I told you true,” replied he coldly.



“And yet here are two culprits.”



“Yes; but only one of these two is about to die; the other has many

years to live.”



“If the pardon is to come, there is no time to lose.”



“And see, here it is,” said the count. At the moment when Peppino

reached the foot of the _mandaïa_, a priest arrived in some haste,

forced his way through the soldiers, and, advancing to the chief of the

brotherhood, gave him a folded paper. The piercing eye of Peppino had

noticed all. The chief took the paper, unfolded it, and, raising his

hand, “Heaven be praised, and his Holiness also,” said he in a loud

voice; “here is a pardon for one of the prisoners!”



“A pardon!” cried the people with one voice; “a pardon!”



At this cry Andrea raised his head.



“Pardon for whom?” cried he.



Peppino remained breathless.



“A pardon for Peppino, called Rocca Priori,” said the principal friar.

And he passed the paper to the officer commanding the carbineers, who

read and returned it to him.



“For Peppino!” cried Andrea, who seemed roused from the torpor in which

he had been plunged. “Why for him and not for me? We ought to die

together. I was promised he should die with me. You have no right to

put me to death alone. I will not die alone—I will not!”



And he broke from the priests struggling and raving like a wild beast,

and striving desperately to break the cords that bound his hands. The

executioner made a sign, and his two assistants leaped from the

scaffold and seized him.



“What is going on?” asked Franz of the count; for, as all the talk was

in the Roman dialect, he had not perfectly understood it.



“Do you not see?” returned the count, “that this human creature who is

about to die is furious that his fellow-sufferer does not perish with

him? and, were he able, he would rather tear him to pieces with his

teeth and nails than let him enjoy the life he himself is about to be

deprived of. Oh, man, man—race of crocodiles,” cried the count,

extending his clenched hands towards the crowd, “how well do I

recognize you there, and that at all times you are worthy of

yourselves!”



Meanwhile Andrea and the two executioners were struggling on the

ground, and he kept exclaiming, “He ought to die!—he shall die!—I will

not die alone!”



“Look, look,” cried the count, seizing the young men’s hands; “look,

for on my soul it is curious. Here is a man who had resigned himself to

his fate, who was going to the scaffold to die—like a coward, it is

true, but he was about to die without resistance. Do you know what gave

him strength? do you know what consoled him? It was, that another

partook of his punishment—that another partook of his anguish—that

another was to die before him! Lead two sheep to the butcher’s, two

oxen to the slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his

companion will not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will

bellow with joy. But man—man, whom God created in his own image—man,

upon whom God has laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his

neighbor—man, to whom God has given a voice to express his

thoughts—what is his first cry when he hears his fellow-man is saved? A

blasphemy. Honor to man, this masterpiece of nature, this king of the

creation!”



And the count burst into a laugh; a terrible laugh, that showed he must

have suffered horribly to be able thus to laugh.



However, the struggle still continued, and it was dreadful to witness.

The two assistants carried Andrea up to the scaffold; the people all

took part against Andrea, and twenty thousand voices cried, “Put him to

death! put him to death!”



Franz sprang back, but the count seized his arm, and held him before

the window.



“What are you doing?” said he. “Do you pity him? If you heard the cry

of ‘Mad dog!’ you would take your gun—you would unhesitatingly shoot

the poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of having been bitten

by another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without being bitten by one

of his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and who, now unable to

kill anyone, because his hands are bound, wishes to see his companion

in captivity perish. No, no—look, look!”



20172m







The recommendation was needless. Franz was fascinated by the horrible

spectacle.



The two assistants had borne Andrea to the scaffold, and there, in

spite of his struggles, his bites, and his cries, had forced him to his

knees. During this time the executioner had raised his mace, and signed

to them to get out of the way; the criminal strove to rise, but, ere he

had time, the mace fell on his left temple. A dull and heavy sound was

heard, and the man dropped like an ox on his face, and then turned over

on his back.



The executioner let fall his mace, drew his knife, and with one stroke

opened his throat, and mounting on his stomach, stamped violently on it

with his feet. At every stroke a jet of blood sprang from the wound.



This time Franz could contain himself no longer, but sank, half

fainting, into a seat.



Albert, with his eyes closed, was standing grasping the

window-curtains.



The count was erect and triumphant, like the Avenging Angel!







 Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome



When Franz recovered his senses, he saw Albert drinking a glass of

water, of which, to judge from his pallor, he stood in great need; and

the count, who was assuming his masquerade costume. He glanced

mechanically towards the piazza—the scene was wholly changed; scaffold,

executioners, victims, all had disappeared; only the people remained,

full of noise and excitement. The bell of Monte Citorio, which only

sounds on the pope’s decease and the opening of the Carnival, was

ringing a joyous peal.



“Well,” asked he of the count, “what has, then, happened?”



“Nothing,” replied the count; “only, as you see, the Carnival has

commenced. Make haste and dress yourself.”



“In fact,” said Franz, “this horrible scene has passed away like a

dream.”



“It is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you.”



“Yes, that I have suffered; but the culprit?”



“That is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have

awakened; and who knows which of you is the most fortunate?”



“But Peppino—what has become of him?”



“Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in

proportion as they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general

attention was directed towards his companion. He profited by this

distraction to slip away among the crowd, without even thanking the

worthy priests who accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and

egotistical animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you the

example.”



Albert was drawing on the satin pantaloon over his black trousers and

varnished boots.



“Well, Albert,” said Franz, “do you feel much inclined to join the

revels? Come, answer frankly.”



“_Ma foi_, no,” returned Albert. “But I am really glad to have seen

such a sight; and I understand what the count said—that when you have

once habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one

that causes you any emotion.”



20175m







“Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study

character,” said the count; “on the steps of the scaffold death tears

off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is

disclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the

hideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress

yourselves.”



Franz felt it would be ridiculous not to follow his two companions’

example. He assumed his costume, and fastened on the mask that scarcely

equalled the pallor of his own face. Their toilet finished, they

descended; the carriage awaited them at the door, filled with

sweetmeats and bouquets. They fell into the line of carriages.



It is difficult to form an idea of the perfect change that had taken

place. Instead of the spectacle of gloomy and silent death, the Piazza

del Popolo presented a spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A

crowd of masks flowed in from all sides, emerging from the doors,

descending from the windows. From every street and every corner drove

carriages filled with clowns, harlequins, dominoes, mummers,

pantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and peasants, screaming,

fighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with flour, confetti,

nosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their missiles, friends

and foes, companions and strangers, indiscriminately, and no one took

offence, or did anything but laugh.



Franz and Albert were like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow,

have recourse to wine, and who, as they drink and become intoxicated,

feel a thick veil drawn between the past and the present. They saw, or

rather continued to see, the image of what they had witnessed; but

little by little the general vertigo seized them, and they felt

themselves obliged to take part in the noise and confusion.



A handful of confetti that came from a neighboring carriage, and which,

while it covered Morcerf and his two companions with dust, pricked his

neck and that portion of his face uncovered by his mask like a hundred

pins, incited him to join in the general combat, in which all the masks

around him were engaged. He rose in his turn, and seizing handfuls of

confetti and sweetmeats, with which the carriage was filled, cast them

with all the force and skill he was master of.



20177m







The strife had fairly begun, and the recollection of what they had seen

half an hour before was gradually effaced from the young men’s minds,

so much were they occupied by the gay and glittering procession they

now beheld.



As for The Trial, he had never for an instant shown any

appearance of having been moved. Imagine the large and splendid Corso,

bordered from one end to the other with lofty palaces, with their

balconies hung with carpets, and their windows with flags. At these

balconies are three hundred thousand spectators—Romans, Italians,

strangers from all parts of the world, the united aristocracy of birth,

wealth, and genius. Lovely women, yielding to the influence of the

scene, bend over their balconies, or lean from their windows, and

shower down confetti, which are returned by bouquets; the air seems

darkened with the falling confetti and flying flowers. In the streets

the lively crowd is dressed in the most fantastic costumes—gigantic

cabbages walk gravely about, buffaloes’ heads bellow from men’s

shoulders, dogs walk on their hind legs; in the midst of all this a

mask is lifted, and, as in Callot’s Temptation of St. Anthony, a lovely

face is exhibited, which we would fain follow, but from which we are

separated by troops of fiends. This will give a faint idea of the

Carnival at Rome.



At the second turn, the count stopped the carriage, and requested

permission to withdraw, leaving the vehicle at their disposal. Franz

looked up—they were opposite the Rospoli Palace. At the centre window,

the one hung with white damask with a red cross, was a blue domino,

beneath which Franz’s imagination easily pictured the beautiful Greek

of the Argentina.



“Gentlemen,” said the count, springing out, “when you are tired of

being actors, and wish to become spectators of this scene, you know you

have places at my windows. In the meantime, dispose of my coachman, my

carriage, and my servants.”



We have forgotten to mention, that the count’s coachman was attired in

a bear-skin, exactly resembling Odry’s in _The Bear and the Pasha_; and

the two footmen behind were dressed up as green monkeys, with spring

masks, with which they made grimaces at everyone who passed.



Franz thanked the count for his attention. As for Albert, he was busily

occupied throwing bouquets at a carriage full of Roman peasants that

was passing near him. Unfortunately for him, the line of carriages

moved on again, and while he descended the Piazza del Popolo, the other

ascended towards the Palazzo di Venezia.



“Ah, my dear fellow,” said he to Franz; “you did not see?”



“What?”



“There,—that calash filled with Roman peasants.”



“No.”



“Well, I am convinced they are all charming women.”



“How unfortunate that you were masked, Albert,” said Franz; “here was

an opportunity of making up for past disappointments.”



“Oh,” replied he, half laughing, half serious; “I hope the Carnival

will not pass without some amends in one shape or the other.”



But, in spite of Albert’s hope, the day passed unmarked by any

incident, excepting two or three encounters with the carriage full of

Roman peasants. At one of these encounters, accidentally or purposely,

Albert’s mask fell off. He instantly rose and cast the remainder of the

bouquets into the carriage. Doubtless one of the charming females

Albert had detected beneath their coquettish disguise was touched by

his gallantry; for, as the carriage of the two friends passed her, she

threw a bunch of violets. Albert seized it, and as Franz had no reason

to suppose it was meant for him, he suffered Albert to retain it.

Albert placed it in his button-hole, and the carriage went triumphantly

on.



“Well,” said Franz to him; “there is the beginning of an adventure.”



“Laugh if you please—I really think so. So I will not abandon this

bouquet.”



“_Pardieu_,” returned Franz, laughing, “in token of your ingratitude.”



The jest, however, soon appeared to become earnest; for when Albert and

Franz again encountered the carriage with the _contadini_, the one who

had thrown the violets to Albert, clapped her hands when she beheld

them in his button-hole.



“Bravo, bravo,” said Franz; “things go wonderfully. Shall I leave you?

Perhaps you would prefer being alone?”



“No,” replied he; “I will not be caught like a fool at a first

disclosure by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the

opera-balls. If the fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further,

we shall find her, or rather, she will find us tomorrow; then she will

give me some sign or other, and I shall know what I have to do.”



“On my word,” said Franz, “you are as wise as Nestor and prudent as

Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if

she succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind.”



Albert was right; the fair unknown had resolved, doubtless, to carry

the intrigue no farther; for although the young men made several more

turns, they did not again see the calash, which had turned up one of

the neighboring streets. Then they returned to the Rospoli Palace; but

the count and the blue domino had also disappeared; the two windows,

hung with yellow damask, were still occupied by the persons whom the

count had invited.



At this moment the same bell that had proclaimed the beginning of the

mascherata sounded the retreat. The file on the Corso broke the line,

and in a second all the carriages had disappeared. Franz and Albert

were opposite the Via delle Muratte; the coachman, without saying a

word, drove up it, passed along the Piazza di Spagna and the Rospoli

Palace and stopped at the door of the hotel. Signor Pastrini came to

the door to receive his guests.



Franz hastened to inquire after the count, and to express regret that

he had not returned in sufficient time; but Pastrini reassured him by

saying that The Trial had ordered a second carriage for

himself, and that it had gone at four o’clock to fetch him from the

Rospoli Palace.



The count had, moreover, charged him to offer the two friends the key

of his box at the Argentina. Franz questioned Albert as to his

intentions; but Albert had great projects to put into execution before

going to the theatre; and instead of making any answer, he inquired if

Signor Pastrini could procure him a tailor.



“A tailor,” said the host; “and for what?”



“To make us between now and tomorrow two Roman peasant costumes,”

returned Albert.



The host shook his head.



“To make you two costumes between now and tomorrow? I ask your

excellencies’ pardon, but this is quite a French demand; for the next

week you will not find a single tailor who would consent to sew six

buttons on a waistcoat if you paid him a crown a piece for each

button.”



“Then I must give up the idea?”



“No; we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and tomorrow, when you

awake, you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be

satisfied.”



“My dear Albert,” said Franz, “leave all to our host; he has already

proved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards

go and see _l’Italienne à Alger!_



“Agreed,” returned Albert; “but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my

friend and myself attach the greatest importance to having tomorrow the

costumes we have asked for.”



The host again assured them they might rely on him, and that their

wishes should be attended to; upon which Franz and Albert mounted to

their apartments, and proceeded to disencumber themselves of their

costumes. Albert, as he took off his dress, carefully preserved the

bunch of violets; it was his token reserved for the morrow.



The two friends sat down to table; but they could not refrain from

remarking the difference between The Trial’s table and

that of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled Franz, in spite of the dislike

he seemed to have taken to the count, to confess that the advantage was

not on Pastrini’s side. During dessert, the servant inquired at what

time they wished for the carriage. Albert and Franz looked at each

other, fearing really to abuse the count’s kindness. The servant

understood them.



“His excellency The Trial had,” he said, “given

positive orders that the carriage was to remain at their lordships’

orders all day, and they could therefore dispose of it without fear of

indiscretion.”



They resolved to profit by the count’s courtesy, and ordered the horses

to be harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which

they had on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats

they had sustained.



20181m







This precaution taken, they went to the theatre, and installed

themselves in the count’s box. During the first act, the Countess G——

entered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen the count the

previous evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert in the place

of the very person concerning whom she had expressed so strange an

opinion to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed towards them,

that Franz saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her curiosity; and,

availing himself of one of the privileges of the spectators of the

Italian theatres, who use their boxes to hold receptions, the two

friends went to pay their respects to the countess. Scarcely had they

entered, when she motioned to Franz to assume the seat of honor.

Albert, in his turn, sat behind.



“Well,” said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, “it seems you

have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new

Lord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world.”



“Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess,” returned

Franz, “I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day.”



“All day?”



“Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all

day, and now we have taken possession of his box.”



“You know him, then?”



“Yes, and no.”



“How so?”



“It is a long story.”



“Tell it to me.”



“It would frighten you too much.”



“So much the more reason.”



“At least wait until the story has a conclusion.”



“Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his

acquaintance? Did anyone introduce you to him?”



“No; it was he who introduced himself to us.”



“When?”



“Last night, after we left you.”



“Through what medium?”



“The very prosaic one of our landlord.”



“He is staying, then, at the Hôtel de Londres with you?”



“Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor.”



“What is his name; for, of course, you know?”



“The Trial.”



“That is not a family name?”



“No, it is the name of the island he has purchased.”



“And he is a count?”



“A Tuscan count.”



“Well, we must put up with that,” said the countess, who was herself

from one of the oldest Venetian families. “What sort of a man is he?”



“Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf.”



“You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you,” said the countess.



“We should be very hard to please, madam,” returned Albert, “did we not

think him delightful. A friend of ten years’ standing could not have

done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy.”



“Come,” observed the countess, smiling, “I see my vampire is only some

millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid

being confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?”



“Her?”



20183m







“The beautiful Greek of yesterday.”



“No; we heard, I think, the sound of her _guzla_, but she remained

perfectly invisible.”



“When you say invisible,” interrupted Albert, “it is only to keep up

the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with

the white curtains?”



“Where was this window with white hangings?” asked the countess.



“At the Rospoli Palace.”



“The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?”



“Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?”



“Yes.”



“Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with

white damask with a red cross? Those were the count’s windows.”



“Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were

worth?”



“Two or three hundred Roman crowns?”



“Two or three thousand.”



“The deuce!”



“Does his island produce him such a revenue?”



“It does not bring him a bajocco.”



“Then why did he purchase it?”



“For a whim.”



“He is an original, then?”



“In reality,” observed Albert, “he seemed to me somewhat eccentric;

were he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was

a poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits

worthy of Didier or Anthony.”



At this moment a fresh visitor entered, and, according to custom, Franz

gave up his seat to him. This circumstance had, moreover, the effect of

changing the conversation; an hour afterwards the two friends returned

to their hotel.



Signor Pastrini had already set about procuring their disguises for the

morrow; and he assured them that they would be perfectly satisfied. The

next morning, at nine o’clock, he entered Franz’s room, followed by a

tailor, who had eight or ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm; they

selected two exactly alike, and charged the tailor to sew on each of

their hats about twenty yards of ribbon, and to procure them two of the

long silk sashes of different colors with which the lower orders

decorate themselves on fête days.



Albert was impatient to see how he looked in his new dress—a jacket and

breeches of blue velvet, silk stockings with clocks, shoes with

buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This picturesque attire set him off to

great advantage; and when he had bound the scarf around his waist, and

when his hat, placed coquettishly on one side, let fall on his shoulder

a stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to confess that costume has much

to do with the physical superiority we accord to certain nations. The

Turks used to be so picturesque with their long and flowing robes, but

are they not now hideous with their blue frocks buttoned up to the

chin, and their red caps, which make them look like a bottle of wine

with a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who looked at himself in

the glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They were thus

engaged when The Trial entered.



20185m







“Gentlemen,” said he, “although a companion is agreeable, perfect

freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that today,

and for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at

your disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so

that you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray

you, for your pleasure or your business.”



The young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for

refusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte

Cristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all

subjects with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said,

perfectly well acquainted with the literature of all countries. A

glance at the walls of his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was

a connoisseur of pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he

was no stranger to the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with

chemistry. The two friends did not venture to return the count the

breakfast he had given them; it would have been too absurd to offer him

in exchange for his excellent table the very inferior one of Signor

Pastrini. They told him so frankly, and he received their excuses with

the air of a man who appreciated their delicacy. Albert was charmed

with the count’s manners, and he was only prevented from recognizing

him for a perfect gentleman by reason of his varied knowledge.



The permission to do what he liked with the carriage pleased him above

all, for the fair peasants had appeared in a most elegant carriage the

preceding evening, and Albert was not sorry to be upon an equal footing

with them. At half-past one they descended, the coachman and footman

had put on their livery over their disguises, which gave them a more

ridiculous appearance than ever, and which gained them the applause of

Franz and Albert. Albert had fastened the faded bunch of violets to his

button-hole. At the first sound of the bell they hastened into the

Corso by the Via Vittoria.



At the second turn, a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage

filled with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his

friend, the peasants had changed their costume also; and whether it was

the result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them

both, while he had donned their costume, they had assumed his.



Albert placed the fresh bouquet in his button-hole, but he kept the

faded one in his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it

to his lips, an action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair

lady who had thrown it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as

gay as the preceding one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the

count appeared for an instant at his window, but when they again passed

he had disappeared. It is almost needless to say that the flirtation

between Albert and the fair peasant continued all day.



In the evening, on his return, Franz found a letter from the embassy,

informing him that he would have the honor of being received by his

holiness the next day. At each previous visit he had made to Rome, he

had solicited and obtained the same favor; and incited as much by a

religious feeling as by gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the capital

of the Christian world without laying his respectful homage at the feet

of one of St. Peter’s successors who has set the rare example of all

the virtues. He did not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his

condescension and touching kindness, one cannot incline one’s self

without awe before the venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI.



On his return from the Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he

brought away with him a treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad

gayety of the maskers would have been profanation.



At ten minutes past five Albert entered overjoyed. The harlequin had

reassumed her peasant’s costume, and as she passed she raised her mask.

She was charming. Franz congratulated Albert, who received his

congratulations with the air of a man conscious that they are merited.

He had recognized by certain unmistakable signs, that his fair

_incognita_ belonged to the aristocracy. He had made up his mind to

write to her the next day.



Franz remarked, while he gave these details, that Albert seemed to have

something to ask of him, but that he was unwilling to ask it. He

insisted upon it, declaring beforehand that he was willing to make any

sacrifice the other wished.



Albert let himself be pressed just as long as friendship required, and

then avowed to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing him

to occupy the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to Franz’s

absence the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her mask.

Franz was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle of

an adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and

so flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect

indiscretion of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened;

and as, during three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a

similar piece of good fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was

by no means sorry to learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore

promised Albert that he would content himself the morrow with

witnessing the Carnival from the windows of the Rospoli Palace.



The next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous

bouquet, which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous

epistle. This belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the

bouquet (conspicuous by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a

charming harlequin dressed in rose-colored satin.



The evening was no longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing doubted but

that the fair unknown would reply in the same manner. Franz anticipated

his wishes by saying that the noise fatigued him, and that he should

pass the next day in writing and looking over his journal. Albert was

not deceived, for the next evening Franz saw him enter triumphantly

shaking a folded paper which he held by one corner.



“Well,” said he, “was I mistaken?”



“She has answered you!” cried Franz.



“Read.”



This word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe. Franz took

the letter, and read:



“Tuesday evening, at seven o’clock, descend from your carriage opposite

the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your

torch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of San

Giacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the

shoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be

recognized. Until then you will not see me. —Constancy and Discretion.”



“Well,” asked he, when Franz had finished, “what do you think of that?”



“I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance.”



“I think so, also,” replied Albert; “and I very much fear you will go

alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s ball.”



Franz and Albert had received that morning an invitation from the

celebrated Roman banker.



“Take care, Albert,” said Franz. “All the nobility of Rome will be

present, and if your fair _incognita_ belong to the higher class of

society, she must go there.”



“Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same,” returned

Albert. “You have read the letter?”



“Yes.”



“You know how imperfectly the women of the _mezzo cito_ are educated in

Italy?” (This is the name of the lower class.)



“Yes.”



“Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can,

any blemish in the language or orthography.” The writing was, in

reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.



“You are born to good fortune,” said Franz, as he returned the letter.



“Laugh as much as you will,” replied Albert, “I am in love.”



“You alarm me,” cried Franz. “I see that I shall not only go alone to

the Duke of Bracciano’s, but also return to Florence alone.”



“If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful,” said Albert, “I

shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I

have always had a great taste for archæology.”



20189m







“Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of

seeing you a member of the Academy.”



Doubtless Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the

academic chair when they were informed that dinner was ready. Albert’s

love had not taken away his appetite. He hastened with Franz to seat

himself, free to recommence the discussion after dinner. After dinner,

The Trial was announced. They had not seen him for two

days. Signor Pastrini informed them that business had called him to

Civita Vecchia. He had started the previous evening, and had only

returned an hour since. He was charming. Whether he kept a watch over

himself, or whether by accident he did not sound the acrimonious chords

that in other circumstances had been touched, he was tonight like

everybody else.



The man was an enigma to Franz. The count must feel sure that Franz

recognized him; and yet he had not let fall a single word indicating

any previous acquaintance between them. On his side, however great

Franz’s desire was to allude to their former interview, the fear of

being disagreeable to the man who had loaded him and his friend with

kindness prevented him from mentioning it.



The count had learned that the two friends had sent to secure a box at

the Argentina Theatre, and were told they were all let. In consequence,

he brought them the key of his own—at least such was the apparent

motive of his visit. Franz and Albert made some difficulty, alleging

their fear of depriving him of it; but the count replied that, as he

was going to the Palli Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would

be lost if they did not profit by it. This assurance determined the two

friends to accept it.



Franz had by degrees become accustomed to the count’s pallor, which had

so forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could not refrain

from admiring the severe beauty of his features, the only defect, or

rather the principal quality of which was the pallor. Truly, a Byronic

hero! Franz could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him

without imagining his stern head upon Manfred’s shoulders, or beneath

Lara’s helmet. His forehead was marked with the line that indicates the

constant presence of bitter thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem

to penetrate to the very soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip

that gives to the words it utters a peculiar character that impresses

them on the minds of those to whom they are addressed.



The count was no longer young. He was at least forty; and yet it was

easy to understand that he was formed to rule the young men with whom

he associated at present. And, to complete his resemblance with the

fantastic heroes of the English poet, the count seemed to have the

power of fascination. Albert was constantly expatiating on their good

fortune in meeting such a man. Franz was less enthusiastic; but the

count exercised over him also the ascendency a strong mind always

acquires over a mind less domineering. He thought several times of the

project the count had of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt but that,

with his eccentric character, his characteristic face, and his colossal

fortune, he would produce a great effect there. And yet he did not wish

to be at Paris when the count was there.



The evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres; that

is, not in listening to the music, but in paying visits and conversing.

The Countess G—— wished to revive the subject of the count, but Franz

announced he had something far newer to tell her, and, in spite of

Albert’s demonstrations of false modesty, he informed the countess of

the great event which had preoccupied them for the last three days. As

similar intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if we may credit

travellers, the comtess did not manifest the least incredulity, but

congratulated Albert on his success. They promised, upon separating, to

meet at the Duke of Bracciano’s ball, to which all Rome was invited.



The heroine of the bouquet kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of

her existence the morrow or the day after.



At length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the

Carnival. On Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o’clock in the morning,

as Lent begins after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those who through

want of money, time, or enthusiasm, have not been to see the Carnival

before, mingle in the gayety, and contribute to the noise and

excitement. From two o’clock till five Franz and Albert followed in the

_fête_, exchanging handfuls of _confetti_ with the other carriages and

the pedestrians, who crowded amongst the horses’ feet and the carriage

wheels without a single accident, a single dispute, or a single fight.



The _fêtes_ are veritable pleasure days to the Italians. The author of

this history, who has resided five or six years in Italy, does not

recollect to have ever seen a ceremony interrupted by one of those

events so common in other countries. Albert was triumphant in his

harlequin costume. A knot of rose-colored ribbons fell from his

shoulder almost to the ground. In order that there might be no

confusion, Franz wore his peasant’s costume.



As the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on the

pavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue that was

silent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human storm, made up

of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs,

oranges, and nosegays.



At three o’clock the sound of fireworks, let off on the Piazza del

Popolo and the Piazza di Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the din

and confusion) announced that the races were about to begin.



The races, like the _moccoli_, are one of the episodes peculiar to the

last days of the Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages

instantly broke ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these

evolutions are executed with an inconceivable address and marvellous

rapidity, without the police interfering in the matter. The pedestrians

ranged themselves against the walls; then the trampling of horses and

the clashing of steel were heard. A detachment of carbineers, fifteen

abreast, galloped up the Corso in order to clear it for the _barberi_.

When the detachment arrived at the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley

of fireworks was discharged, to announce that the street was clear.



Almost instantly, in the midst of a tremendous and general outcry,

seven or eight horses, excited by the shouts of three hundred thousand

spectators, passed by like lightning. Then the Castle of Saint Angelo

fired three cannon to indicate that number three had won.



Immediately, without any other signal, the carriages moved on, flowing

on towards the Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent up for a

while, which again flow into the parent river; and the immense stream

again continued its course between its two granite banks.



A new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The sellers

of _moccoletti_ entered on the scene. The _moccoli_, or _moccoletti_,

are candles which vary in size from the pascal taper to the rushlight,

and which give to each actor in the great final scene of the Carnival

two very serious problems to grapple with,—first, how to keep his own

_moccoletto_ alight; and secondly, how to extinguish the _moccoletti_

of others. The _moccoletto_ is like life: man has found but one means

of transmitting it, and that one comes from God. But he has discovered

a thousand means of taking it away, and the devil has somewhat aided

him. The _moccoletto_ is kindled by approaching it to a light. But who

can describe the thousand means of extinguishing the _moccoletto_?—the

gigantic bellows, the monstrous extinguishers, the superhuman fans.

Everyone hastened to purchase _moccoletti_—Franz and Albert among the

rest.



The night was rapidly approaching; and already, at the cry of

“_Moccoletti_!” repeated by the shrill voices of a thousand vendors,

two or three stars began to burn among the crowd. It was a signal. At

the end of ten minutes fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from

the Palazzo di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the

Piazza del Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the _fête_

of Jack-o’-lanterns.



It is impossible to form any idea of it without having seen it. Suppose

that all the stars had descended from the sky and mingled in a wild

dance on the face of the earth; the whole accompanied by cries that

were never heard in any other part of the world. The _facchino_ follows

the prince, the Transteverin the citizen, everyone blowing,

extinguishing, relighting. Had old Æolus appeared at this moment, he

would have been proclaimed king of the _moccoli_, and Aquilo the

heir-presumptive to the throne.



This battle of folly and flame continued for two hours; the Corso was

light as day; the features of the spectators on the third and fourth

stories were visible.



Every five minutes Albert took out his watch; at length it pointed to

seven. The two friends were in the Via dei Pontefici. Albert sprang

out, bearing his _moccoletto_ in his hand. Two or three masks strove to

knock his _moccoletto_ out of his hand; but Albert, a first-rate

pugilist, sent them rolling in the street, one after the other, and

continued his course towards the church of San Giacomo.



The steps were crowded with masks, who strove to snatch each other’s

torches. Franz followed Albert with his eyes, and saw him mount the

first step.



Instantly a mask, wearing the well-known costume of a peasant woman,

snatched his _moccoletto_ from him without his offering any resistance.

Franz was too far off to hear what they said; but, without doubt,

nothing hostile passed, for he saw Albert disappear arm-in-arm with the

peasant girl. He watched them pass through the crowd for some time, but

at length he lost sight of them in the Via Macello.



Suddenly the bell that gives the signal for the end of the Carnival

sounded, and at the same instant all the _moccoletti_ were extinguished

as if by enchantment. It seemed as though one immense blast of the wind

had extinguished everyone.



Franz found himself in utter darkness. No sound was audible save that

of the carriages that were carrying the maskers home; nothing was

visible save a few lights that burnt behind the windows.



The Carnival was over.



20193m









 Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian



In his whole life, perhaps, Franz had never before experienced so

sudden an impression, so rapid a transition from gayety to sadness, as

in this moment. It seemed as though Rome, under the magic breath of

some demon of the night, had suddenly changed into a vast tomb. By a

chance, which added yet more to the intensity of the darkness, the

moon, which was on the wane, did not rise until eleven o’clock, and the

streets which the young man traversed were plunged in the deepest

obscurity.



The distance was short, and at the end of ten minutes his carriage, or

rather the count’s, stopped before the Hôtel de Londres.



Dinner was waiting, but as Albert had told him that he should not

return so soon, Franz sat down without him. Signor Pastrini, who had

been accustomed to see them dine together, inquired into the cause of

his absence, but Franz merely replied that Albert had received on the

previous evening an invitation which he had accepted.



The sudden extinction of the _moccoletti_, the darkness which had

replaced the light, and the silence which had succeeded the turmoil,

had left in Franz’s mind a certain depression which was not free from

uneasiness. He therefore dined very silently, in spite of the officious

attention of his host, who presented himself two or three times to

inquire if he wanted anything.



Franz resolved to wait for Albert as late as possible. He ordered the

carriage, therefore, for eleven o’clock, desiring Signor Pastrini to

inform him the moment that Albert returned to the hotel.



At eleven o’clock Albert had not come back. Franz dressed himself, and

went out, telling his host that he was going to pass the night at the

Duke of Bracciano’s. The house of the Duke of Bracciano is one of the

most delightful in Rome, the duchess, one of the last heiresses of the

Colonnas, does its honors with the most consummate grace, and thus

their _fêtes_ have a European celebrity.



Franz and Albert had brought to Rome letters of introduction to them,

and their first question on his arrival was to inquire the whereabouts

of his travelling companion. Franz replied that he had left him at the

moment they were about to extinguish the _moccoli_, and that he had

lost sight of him in the Via Macello.



“Then he has not returned?” said the duke.



“I waited for him until this hour,” replied Franz.



“And do you know whither he went?”



“No, not precisely; however, I think it was something very like a

rendezvous.”



“_Diavolo!_” said the duke, “this is a bad day, or rather a bad night,

to be out late; is it not, countess?”



These words were addressed to the Countess G——, who had just arrived,

and was leaning on the arm of Signor Torlonia, the duke’s brother.



“I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night,” replied the

countess, “and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that

of its too rapid flight.”



“I am not speaking,” said the duke with a smile, “of the persons who

are here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with

you, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely;

I meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome.”



“Ah,” asked the countess, “who is out in the streets of Rome at this

hour, unless it be to go to a ball?”



“Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his

unknown about seven o’clock this evening,” said Franz, “and whom I have

not seen since.”



“And don’t you know where he is?”



“Not at all.”



“Is he armed?”



“He is in masquerade.”



“You should not have allowed him to go,” said the duke to Franz; “you,

who know Rome better than he does.”



“You might as well have tried to stop number three of the _barberi_,

who gained the prize in the race today,” replied Franz; “and then

moreover, what could happen to him?”



“Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via

Macello.” Franz felt a shudder run through his veins at observing that

the feeling of the duke and the countess was so much in unison with his

own personal disquietude.



“I informed them at the hotel that I had the honor of passing the night

here, duke,” said Franz, “and desired them to come and inform me of his

return.”



“Ah,” replied the duke, “here I think, is one of my servants who is

seeking you.”



The duke was not mistaken; when he saw Franz, the servant came up to

him.



“Your excellency,” he said, “the master of the Hôtel de Londres has

sent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from

the Viscount of Morcerf.”



“A letter from the viscount!” exclaimed Franz.



“Yes.”



“And who is the man?”



“I do not know.”



“Why did he not bring it to me here?”



“The messenger did not say.”



“And where is the messenger?”



“He went away directly he saw me enter the ball-room to find you.”



“Oh,” said the countess to Franz, “go with all speed—poor young man!

Perhaps some accident has happened to him.”



“I will hasten,” replied Franz.



“Shall we see you again to give us any information?” inquired the

countess.



“Yes, if it is not any serious affair, otherwise I cannot answer as to

what I may do myself.”



“Be prudent, in any event,” said the countess.



“Oh! pray be assured of that.”



Franz took his hat and went away in haste. He had sent away his

carriage with orders for it to fetch him at two o’clock; fortunately

the Palazzo Bracciano, which is on one side in the Corso, and on the

other in the Square of the Holy Apostles, is hardly ten minutes’ walk

from the Hôtel de Londres.



As he came near the hotel, Franz saw a man in the middle of the street.

He had no doubt that it was the messenger from Albert. The man was

wrapped up in a large cloak. He went up to him, but, to his extreme

astonishment, the stranger first addressed him.



“What wants your excellency of me?” inquired the man, retreating a step

or two, as if to keep on his guard.



“Are not you the person who brought me a letter,” inquired Franz, “from

the Viscount of Morcerf?”



“Your excellency lodges at Pastrini’s hotel?”



“I do.”



“Your excellency is the travelling companion of the viscount?”



“I am.”



“Your excellency’s name——”



“Is the Baron Franz d’Épinay.”



20199m







“Then it is to your excellency that this letter is addressed.”



“Is there any answer?” inquired Franz, taking the letter from him.



“Yes—your friend at least hopes so.”



“Come upstairs with me, and I will give it to you.”



“I prefer waiting here,” said the messenger, with a smile.



“And why?”



“Your excellency will know when you have read the letter.”



“Shall I find you here, then?”



“Certainly.”



Franz entered the hotel. On the staircase he met Signor Pastrini.

“Well?” said the landlord.



“Well—what?” responded Franz.



“You have seen the man who desired to speak with you from your friend?”

he asked of Franz.



“Yes, I have seen him,” he replied, “and he has handed this letter to

me. Light the candles in my apartment, if you please.”



The innkeeper gave orders to a servant to go before Franz with a light.

The young man had found Signor Pastrini looking very much alarmed, and

this had only made him the more anxious to read Albert’s letter; and so

he went instantly towards the waxlight, and unfolded it. It was written

and signed by Albert. Franz read it twice before he could comprehend

what it contained. It was thus worded:



“My dear Fellow,



“The moment you have received this, have the kindness to take the

letter of credit from my pocket-book, which you will find in the square

drawer of the _secrétaire_; add your own to it, if it be not

sufficient. Run to Torlonia, draw from him instantly four thousand

piastres, and give them to the bearer. It is urgent that I should have

this money without delay. I do not say more, relying on you as you may

rely on me.



“Your friend,



“Albert de Morcerf.



“P.S.—I now believe in Italian _banditti_.”



Below these lines were written, in a strange hand, the following in

Italian:



“_Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie

mani, alla sette il Conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere_.



“Luigi Vampa.”



“_If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my

hands, by seven o’clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live_.”



This second signature explained everything to Franz, who now understood

the objection of the messenger to coming up into the apartment; the

street was safer for him. Albert, then, had fallen into the hands of

the famous bandit chief, in whose existence he had for so long a time

refused to believe.



There was no time to lose. He hastened to open the _secrétaire_, and

found the pocket-book in the drawer, and in it the letter of credit.

There were in all six thousand piastres, but of these six thousand

Albert had already expended three thousand.



As to Franz, he had no letter of credit, as he lived at Florence, and

had only come to Rome to pass seven or eight days; he had brought but a

hundred louis, and of these he had not more than fifty left. Thus seven

or eight hundred piastres were wanting to them both to make up the sum

that Albert required. True, he might in such a case rely on the

kindness of Signor Torlonia. He was, therefore, about to return to the

Palazzo Bracciano without loss of time, when suddenly a luminous idea

crossed his mind.



He remembered The Trial. Franz was about to ring for

Signor Pastrini, when that worthy presented himself.



“My dear sir,” he said, hastily, “do you know if the count is within?”



“Yes, your excellency; he has this moment returned.”



“Is he in bed?”



“I should say no.”



“Then ring at his door, if you please, and request him to be so kind as

to give me an audience.”



Signor Pastrini did as he was desired, and returning five minutes

after, he said:



“The count awaits your excellency.”



Franz went along the corridor, and a servant introduced him to the

count. He was in a small room which Franz had not yet seen, and which

was surrounded with divans. The count came towards him.



“Well, what good wind blows you hither at this hour?” said he; “have

you come to sup with me? It would be very kind of you.”



“No; I have come to speak to you of a very serious matter.”



“A serious matter,” said the count, looking at Franz with the

earnestness usual to him; “and what may it be?”



“Are we alone?”



“Yes,” replied the count, going to the door, and returning. Franz gave

him Albert’s letter.



“Read that,” he said.



The count read it.



“Well, well!” said he.



“Did you see the postscript?”



“I did, indeed.



“_‘Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle

mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere. _



“‘Luigi Vampa.’”



“What think you of that?” inquired Franz.



“Have you the money he demands?”



“Yes, all but eight hundred piastres.”



The count went to his _secrétaire_, opened it, and pulling out a drawer

filled with gold, said to Franz, “I hope you will not offend me by

applying to anyone but myself.”



“You see, on the contrary, I come to you first and instantly,” replied

Franz.



“And I thank you; have what you will;” and he made a sign to Franz to

take what he pleased.



“Is it absolutely necessary, then, to send the money to Luigi Vampa?”

asked the young man, looking fixedly in his turn at the count.



“Judge for yourself,” replied he. “The postscript is explicit.”



“I think that if you would take the trouble of reflecting, you could

find a way of simplifying the negotiation,” said Franz.



“How so?” returned the count, with surprise.



“If we were to go together to Luigi Vampa, I am sure he would not

refuse you Albert’s freedom.”



“What influence can I possibly have over a bandit?”



“Have you not just rendered him a service that can never be forgotten?”



“What is that?”



“Have you not saved Peppino’s life?”



“Well, well,” said the count, “who told you that?”



“No matter; I know it.” The count knit his brows, and remained silent

an instant.



“And if I went to seek Vampa, would you accompany me?”



“If my society would not be disagreeable.”



“Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a walk without Rome will do us

both good.”



“Shall I take any arms?”



“For what purpose?”



“Any money?”



“It is useless. Where is the man who brought the letter?”



“In the street.”



“He awaits the answer?”



“Yes.”



“I must learn where we are going. I will summon him hither.”



“It is useless; he would not come up.”



“To your apartments, perhaps; but he will not make any difficulty at

entering mine.”



The count went to the window of the apartment that looked on to the

street, and whistled in a peculiar manner. The man in the mantle

quitted the wall, and advanced into the middle of the street.

“_Salite!_” said the count, in the same tone in which he would have

given an order to his servant. The messenger obeyed without the least

hesitation, but rather with alacrity, and, mounting the steps at a

bound, entered the hotel; five seconds afterwards he was at the door of

the room.



“Ah, it is you, Peppino,” said the count. But Peppino, instead of

answering, threw himself on his knees, seized the count’s hand, and

covered it with kisses. “Ah,” said the count, “you have, then, not

forgotten that I saved your life; that is strange, for it is a week

ago.”



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“No, excellency; and never shall I forget it,” returned Peppino, with

an accent of profound gratitude.



“Never? That is a long time; but it is something that you believe so.

Rise and answer.”



Peppino glanced anxiously at Franz.



“Oh, you may speak before his excellency,” said he; “he is one of my

friends. You allow me to give you this title?” continued the count in

French, “it is necessary to excite this man’s confidence.”



“You can speak before me,” said Franz; “I am a friend of the count’s.”



“Good!” returned Peppino. “I am ready to answer any questions your

excellency may address to me.”



“How did the Viscount Albert fall into Luigi’s hands?”



“Excellency, the Frenchman’s carriage passed several times the one in

which was Teresa.”



“The chief’s mistress?”



“Yes. The Frenchman threw her a bouquet; Teresa returned it—all this

with the consent of the chief, who was in the carriage.”



“What?” cried Franz, “was Luigi Vampa in the carriage with the Roman

peasants?”



“It was he who drove, disguised as the coachman,” replied Peppino.



“Well?” said the count.



“Well, then, the Frenchman took off his mask; Teresa, with the chief’s

consent, did the same. The Frenchman asked for a rendezvous; Teresa

gave him one—only, instead of Teresa, it was Beppo who was on the steps

of the church of San Giacomo.”



“What!” exclaimed Franz, “the peasant girl who snatched his _mocoletto_

from him——”



“Was a lad of fifteen,” replied Peppino. “But it was no disgrace to

your friend to have been deceived; Beppo has taken in plenty of

others.”



“And Beppo led him outside the walls?” said the count.



“Exactly so; a carriage was waiting at the end of the Via Macello.

Beppo got in, inviting the Frenchman to follow him, and he did not wait

to be asked twice. He gallantly offered the right-hand seat to Beppo,

and sat by him. Beppo told him he was going to take him to a villa a

league from Rome; the Frenchman assured him he would follow him to the

end of the world. The coachman went up the Via di Ripetta and the Porta

San Paolo; and when they were two hundred yards outside, as the

Frenchman became somewhat too forward, Beppo put a brace of pistols to

his head, the coachman pulled up and did the same. At the same time,

four of the band, who were concealed on the banks of the Almo,

surrounded the carriage. The Frenchman made some resistance, and nearly

strangled Beppo; but he could not resist five armed men, and was forced

to yield. They made him get out, walk along the banks of the river, and

then brought him to Teresa and Luigi, who were waiting for him in the

catacombs of St. Sebastian.”



“Well,” said the count, turning towards Franz, “it seems to me that

this is a very likely story. What do you say to it?”



“Why, that I should think it very amusing,” replied Franz, “if it had

happened to anyone but poor Albert.”



“And, in truth, if you had not found me here,” said the count, “it

might have proved a gallant adventure which would have cost your friend

dear; but now, be assured, his alarm will be the only serious

consequence.”



“And shall we go and find him?” inquired Franz.



“Oh, decidedly, sir. He is in a very picturesque place—do you know the

catacombs of St. Sebastian?”



“I was never in them; but I have often resolved to visit them.”



“Well, here is an opportunity made to your hand, and it would be

difficult to contrive a better. Have you a carriage?”



“No.”



“That is of no consequence; I always have one ready, day and night.”



“Always ready?”



“Yes. I am a very capricious being, and I should tell you that

sometimes when I rise, or after my dinner, or in the middle of the

night, I resolve on starting for some particular point, and away I go.”



The count rang, and a footman appeared.



“Order out the carriage,” he said, “and remove the pistols which are in

the holsters. You need not awaken the coachman; Ali will drive.”



In a very short time the noise of wheels was heard, and the carriage

stopped at the door. The count took out his watch.



“Half-past twelve,” he said. “We might start at five o’clock and be in

time, but the delay may cause your friend to pass an uneasy night, and

therefore we had better go with all speed to extricate him from the

hands of the infidels. Are you still resolved to accompany me?”



“More determined than ever.”



“Well, then, come along.”



Franz and the count went downstairs, accompanied by Peppino. At the

door they found the carriage. Ali was on the box, in whom Franz

recognized the dumb slave of the grotto of The Trial. Franz and the

count got into the carriage. Peppino placed himself beside Ali, and

they set off at a rapid pace. Ali had received his instructions, and

went down the Corso, crossed the Campo Vaccino, went up the Strada San

Gregorio, and reached the gates of St. Sebastian. Then the porter

raised some difficulties, but The Trial produced a

permit from the governor of Rome, allowing him to leave or enter the

city at any hour of the day or night; the portcullis was therefore

raised, the porter had a louis for his trouble, and they went on their

way.



The road which the carriage now traversed was the ancient Appian Way,

and bordered with tombs. From time to time, by the light of the moon,

which began to rise, Franz imagined that he saw something like a

sentinel appear at various points among the ruins, and suddenly retreat

into the darkness on a signal from Peppino.



A short time before they reached the Baths of Caracalla the carriage

stopped, Peppino opened the door, and the count and Franz alighted.



“In ten minutes,” said the count to his companion, “we shall be there.”



He then took Peppino aside, gave him an order in a low voice, and

Peppino went away, taking with him a torch, brought with them in the

carriage. Five minutes elapsed, during which Franz saw the shepherd

going along a narrow path that led over the irregular and broken

surface of the Campagna; and finally he disappeared in the midst of the

tall red herbage, which seemed like the bristling mane of an enormous

lion.



“Now,” said the count, “let us follow him.”



Franz and the count in their turn then advanced along the same path,

which, at the distance of a hundred paces, led them over a declivity to

the bottom of a small valley. They then perceived two men conversing in

the obscurity.



“Ought we to go on?” asked Franz of the count; “or should we pause?”



“Let us go on; Peppino will have warned the sentry of our coming.”



One of the two men was Peppino, and the other a bandit on the lookout.

Franz and the count advanced, and the bandit saluted them.



“Your excellency,” said Peppino, addressing the count, “if you will

follow me, the opening of the catacombs is close at hand.”



“Go on, then,” replied the count. They came to an opening behind a

clump of bushes and in the midst of a pile of rocks, by which a man

could scarcely pass. Peppino glided first into this crevice; after they

got along a few paces the passage widened. Peppino passed, lighted his

torch, and turned to see if they came after him. The count first

reached an open space and Franz followed him closely. The passageway

sloped in a gentle descent, enlarging as they proceeded; still Franz

and the count were compelled to advance in a stooping posture, and were

scarcely able to proceed abreast of one another. They went on a hundred

and fifty paces in this way, and then were stopped by, “Who comes

there?” At the same time they saw the reflection of a torch on a

carbine barrel.



“A friend!” responded Peppino; and, advancing alone towards the sentry,

he said a few words to him in a low tone; and then he, like the first,

saluted the nocturnal visitors, making a sign that they might proceed.



Behind the sentinel was a staircase with twenty steps. Franz and the

count descended these, and found themselves in a mortuary chamber. Five

corridors diverged like the rays of a star, and the walls, dug into

niches, which were arranged one above the other in the shape of

coffins, showed that they were at last in the catacombs. Down one of

the corridors, whose extent it was impossible to determine, rays of

light were visible. The count laid his hand on Franz’s shoulder.



“Would you like to see a camp of bandits in repose?” he inquired.



“Exceedingly,” replied Franz.



“Come with me, then. Peppino, put out the torch.” Peppino obeyed, and

Franz and the count were in utter darkness, except that fifty paces in

advance of them a reddish glare, more evident since Peppino had put out

his torch, was visible along the wall.



They advanced silently, the count guiding Franz as if he had the

singular faculty of seeing in the dark. Franz himself, however, saw his

way more plainly in proportion as he went on towards the light, which

served in some manner as a guide. Three arcades were before them, and

the middle one was used as a door. These arcades opened on one side

into the corridor where the count and Franz were, and on the other into

a large square chamber, entirely surrounded by niches similar to those

of which we have spoken.



In the midst of this chamber were four stones, which had formerly

served as an altar, as was evident from the cross which still

surmounted them. A lamp, placed at the base of a pillar, lighted up

with its pale and flickering flame the singular scene which presented

itself to the eyes of the two visitors concealed in the shadow.



A man was seated with his elbow leaning on the column, and was reading

with his back turned to the arcades, through the openings of which the

new-comers contemplated him. This was the chief of the band, Luigi

Vampa. Around him, and in groups, according to their fancy, lying in

their mantles, or with their backs against a sort of stone bench, which

went all round the columbarium, were to be seen twenty brigands or

more, each having his carbine within reach. At the other end, silent,

scarcely visible, and like a shadow, was a sentinel, who was walking up

and down before a grotto, which was only distinguishable because in

that spot the darkness seemed more dense than elsewhere.



When the count thought Franz had gazed sufficiently on this picturesque

tableau, he raised his finger to his lips, to warn him to be silent,

and, ascending the three steps which led to the corridor of the

columbarium, entered the chamber by the middle arcade, and advanced

towards Vampa, who was so intent on the book before him that he did not

hear the noise of his footsteps.



“Who comes there?” cried the sentinel, who was less abstracted, and who

saw by the lamp-light a shadow approaching his chief. At this

challenge, Vampa rose quickly, drawing at the same moment a pistol from

his girdle. In a moment all the bandits were on their feet, and twenty

carbines were levelled at the count.



“Well,” said he in a voice perfectly calm, and no muscle of his

countenance disturbed, “well, my dear Vampa, it appears to me that you

receive a friend with a great deal of ceremony.”



20207m







“Ground arms,” exclaimed the chief, with an imperative sign of the

hand, while with the other he took off his hat respectfully; then,

turning to the singular personage who had caused this scene, he said,

“Your pardon, your excellency, but I was so far from expecting the

honor of a visit, that I did not really recognize you.”



“It seems that your memory is equally short in everything, Vampa,” said

the count, “and that not only do you forget people’s faces, but also

the conditions you make with them.”



“What conditions have I forgotten, your excellency?” inquired the

bandit, with the air of a man who, having committed an error, is

anxious to repair it.



“Was it not agreed,” asked the count, “that not only my person, but

also that of my friends, should be respected by you?”



“And how have I broken that treaty, your excellency?”



“You have this evening carried off and conveyed hither the Viscount

Albert de Morcerf. Well,” continued the count, in a tone that made

Franz shudder, “this young gentleman is one of _my friends_—this young

gentleman lodges in the same hotel as myself—this young gentleman has

been up and down the Corso for eight hours in my private carriage, and

yet, I repeat to you, you have carried him off, and conveyed him

hither, and,” added the count, taking the letter from his pocket, “you

have set a ransom on him, as if he were an utter stranger.”



“Why did you not tell me all this—you?” inquired the brigand chief,

turning towards his men, who all retreated before his look. “Why have

you caused me thus to fail in my word towards a gentleman like the

count, who has all our lives in his hands? By heavens! if I thought one

of you knew that the young gentleman was the friend of his excellency,

I would blow his brains out with my own hand!”



20211m







“Well,” said the count, turning towards Franz, “I told you there was

some mistake in this.”



“Are you not alone?” asked Vampa with uneasiness.



“I am with the person to whom this letter was addressed, and to whom I

desired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a man of his word. Come, your

excellency,” the count added, turning to Franz, “here is Luigi Vampa,

who will himself express to you his deep regret at the mistake he has

committed.”



Franz approached, the chief advancing several steps to meet him.



“Welcome among us, your excellency,” he said to him; “you heard what

the count just said, and also my reply; let me add that I would not for

the four thousand piastres at which I had fixed your friend’s ransom,

that this had happened.”



“But,” said Franz, looking round him uneasily, “where is the

viscount?—I do not see him.”



“Nothing has happened to him, I hope,” said the count frowningly.



“The prisoner is there,” replied Vampa, pointing to the hollow space in

front of which the bandit was on guard, “and I will go myself and tell

him he is free.”



The chief went towards the place he had pointed out as Albert’s prison,

and Franz and the count followed him.



“What is the prisoner doing?” inquired Vampa of the sentinel.



“_Ma foi_, captain,” replied the sentry, “I do not know; for the last

hour I have not heard him stir.”



“Come in, your excellency,” said Vampa. The count and Franz ascended

seven or eight steps after the chief, who drew back a bolt and opened a

door. Then, by the gleam of a lamp, similar to that which lighted the

columbarium, Albert was to be seen wrapped up in a cloak which one of

the bandits had lent him, lying in a corner in profound slumber.



“Come,” said the count, smiling with his own peculiar smile, “not so

bad for a man who is to be shot at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”



Vampa looked at Albert with a kind of admiration; he was not insensible

to such a proof of courage.



“You are right, your excellency,” he said; “this must be one of your

friends.”



Then going to Albert, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Will

your excellency please to awaken?”



Albert stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyelids, and opened his eyes.



“Oh,” said he, “is it you, captain? You should have allowed me to

sleep. I had such a delightful dream. I was dancing the galop at

Torlonia’s with the Countess G——.” Then he drew his watch from his

pocket, that he might see how time sped.



“Half-past one only?” said he. “Why the devil do you rouse me at this

hour?”



“To tell you that you are free, your excellency.”



“My dear fellow,” replied Albert, with perfect ease of mind, “remember,

for the future, Napoleon’s maxim, ‘Never awaken me but for bad news;’

if you had let me sleep on, I should have finished my galop, and have

been grateful to you all my life. So, then, they have paid my ransom?”



“No, your excellency.”



“Well, then, how am I free?”



“A person to whom I can refuse nothing has come to demand you.”



“Come hither?”



“Yes, hither.”



“Really? Then that person is a most amiable person.”



Albert looked around and perceived Franz. “What,” said he, “is it you,

my dear Franz, whose devotion and friendship are thus displayed?”



“No, not I,” replied Franz, “but our neighbor, the Count of Monte

Cristo.”



“Oh, my dear count,” said Albert gayly, arranging his cravat and

wristbands, “you are really most kind, and I hope you will consider me

as under eternal obligations to you, in the first place for the

carriage, and in the next for this visit,” and he put out his hand to

the count, who shuddered as he gave his own, but who nevertheless did

give it.



The bandit gazed on this scene with amazement; he was evidently

accustomed to see his prisoners tremble before him, and yet here was

one whose gay temperament was not for a moment altered; as for Franz,

he was enchanted at the way in which Albert had sustained the national

honor in the presence of the bandit.



“My dear Albert,” he said, “if you will make haste, we shall yet have

time to finish the night at Torlonia’s. You may conclude your

interrupted galop, so that you will owe no ill-will to Signor Luigi,

who has, indeed, throughout this whole affair acted like a gentleman.”



“You are decidedly right, and we may reach the Palazzo by two o’clock.

Signor Luigi,” continued Albert, “is there any formality to fulfil

before I take leave of your excellency?”



“None, sir,” replied the bandit, “you are as free as air.”



“Well, then, a happy and merry life to you. Come, gentlemen, come.”



And Albert, followed by Franz and the count, descended the staircase,

crossed the square chamber, where stood all the bandits, hat in hand.



“Peppino,” said the brigand chief, “give me the torch.”



“What are you going to do?” inquired the count.



“I will show you the way back myself,” said the captain; “that is the

least honor that I can render to your excellency.”



And taking the lighted torch from the hands of the herdsman, he

preceded his guests, not as a servant who performs an act of civility,

but like a king who precedes ambassadors. On reaching the door, he

bowed.



“And now, your excellency,” added he, “allow me to repeat my apologies,

and I hope you will not entertain any resentment at what has occurred.”



“No, my dear Vampa,” replied the count; “besides, you compensate for

your mistakes in so gentlemanly a way, that one almost feels obliged to

you for having committed them.”



20214m







“Gentlemen,” added the chief, turning towards the young men, “perhaps

the offer may not appear very tempting to you; but if you should ever

feel inclined to pay me a second visit, wherever I may be, you shall be

welcome.”



Franz and Albert bowed. The count went out first, then Albert. Franz

paused for a moment.



“Has your excellency anything to ask me?” said Vampa with a smile.



“Yes, I have,” replied Franz; “I am curious to know what work you were

perusing with so much attention as we entered.”



“Cæsar’s _Commentaries_,” said the bandit, “it is my favorite work.”



“Well, are you coming?” asked Albert.



“Yes,” replied Franz, “here I am,” and he, in his turn, left the caves.

They advanced to the plain.



“Ah, your pardon,” said Albert, turning round; “will you allow me,

captain?”



And he lighted his cigar at Vampa’s torch.



“Now, my dear count,” he said, “let us on with all the speed we may. I

am enormously anxious to finish my night at the Duke of Bracciano’s.”



They found the carriage where they had left it. The count said a word

in Arabic to Ali, and the horses went on at great speed.



It was just two o’clock by Albert’s watch when the two friends entered

into the dancing-room. Their return was quite an event, but as they

entered together, all uneasiness on Albert’s account ceased instantly.



“Madame,” said the Viscount of Morcerf, advancing towards the countess,

“yesterday you were so condescending as to promise me a galop; I am

rather late in claiming this gracious promise, but here is my friend,

whose character for veracity you well know, and he will assure you the

delay arose from no fault of mine.”



And as at this moment the orchestra gave the signal for the waltz,

Albert put his arm round the waist of the countess, and disappeared

with her in the whirl of dancers.



In the meanwhile Franz was considering the singular shudder that had

passed over The Trial at the moment when he had been,

in some sort, forced to give his hand to Albert.







 Chapter 38. The Rendezvous



The first words that Albert uttered to his friend, on the following

morning, contained a request that Franz would accompany him on a visit

to the count; true, the young man had warmly and energetically thanked

the count on the previous evening; but services such as he had rendered

could never be too often acknowledged. Franz, who seemed attracted by

some invisible influence towards the count, in which terror was

strangely mingled, felt an extreme reluctance to permit his friend to

be exposed alone to the singular fascination that this mysterious

personage seemed to exercise over him, and therefore made no objection

to Albert’s request, but at once accompanied him to the desired spot,

and, after a short delay, the count joined them in the salon.



“My dear count,” said Albert, advancing to meet him, “permit me to

repeat the poor thanks I offered last night, and to assure you that the

remembrance of all I owe to you will never be effaced from my memory;

believe me, as long as I live, I shall never cease to dwell with

grateful recollection on the prompt and important service you rendered

me; and also to remember that to you I am indebted even for my life.”



“My very good friend and excellent neighbor,” replied the count, with a

smile, “you really exaggerate my trifling exertions. You owe me nothing

but some trifle of 20,000 francs, which you have been saved out of your

travelling expenses, so that there is not much of a score between

us;—but you must really permit me to congratulate you on the ease and

unconcern with which you resigned yourself to your fate, and the

perfect indifference you manifested as to the turn events might take.”



“Upon my word,” said Albert, “I deserve no credit for what I could not

help, namely, a determination to take everything as I found it, and to

let those bandits see, that although men get into troublesome scrapes

all over the world, there is no nation but the French that can smile

even in the face of grim Death himself. All that, however, has nothing

to do with my obligations to you, and I now come to ask you whether, in

my own person, my family, or connections, I can in any way serve you?

My father, the Comte de Morcerf, although of Spanish origin, possesses

considerable influence, both at the court of France and Madrid, and I

unhesitatingly place the best services of myself, and all to whom my

life is dear, at your disposal.”



“Monsieur de Morcerf,” replied the count, “your offer, far from

surprising me, is precisely what I expected from you, and I accept it

in the same spirit of hearty sincerity with which it is made;—nay, I

will go still further, and say that I had previously made up my mind to

ask a great favor at your hands.”



“Oh, pray name it.”



“I am wholly a stranger to Paris—it is a city I have never yet seen.”



“Is it possible,” exclaimed Albert, “that you have reached your present

age without visiting the finest capital in the world? I can scarcely

credit it.”



“Nevertheless, it is quite true; still, I agree with you in thinking

that my present ignorance of the first city in Europe is a reproach to

me in every way, and calls for immediate correction; but, in all

probability, I should have performed so important, so necessary a duty,

as that of making myself acquainted with the wonders and beauties of

your justly celebrated capital, had I known any person who would have

introduced me into the fashionable world, but unfortunately I possessed

no acquaintance there, and, of necessity, was compelled to abandon the

idea.”



“So distinguished an individual as yourself,” cried Albert, “could

scarcely have required an introduction.”



“You are most kind; but as regards myself, I can find no merit I

possess, save that, as a millionaire, I might have become a partner in

the speculations of M. Aguado and M. Rothschild; but as my motive in

travelling to your capital would not have been for the pleasure of

dabbling in stocks, I stayed away till some favorable chance should

present itself of carrying my wish into execution. Your offer, however,

smooths all difficulties, and I have only to ask you, my dear M. de

Morcerf” (these words were accompanied by a most peculiar smile),

“whether you undertake, upon my arrival in France, to open to me the

doors of that fashionable world of which I know no more than a Huron or

a native of Cochin-China?”



“Oh, that I do, and with infinite pleasure,” answered Albert; “and so

much the more readily as a letter received this morning from my father

summons me to Paris, in consequence of a treaty of marriage (my dear

Franz, do not smile, I beg of you) with a family of high standing, and

connected with the very cream of Parisian society.”



“Connected by marriage, you mean,” said Franz, laughingly.



“Well, never mind how it is,” answered Albert, “it comes to the same

thing in the end. Perhaps by the time you return to Paris, I shall be

quite a sober, staid father of a family! A most edifying representative

I shall make of all the domestic virtues—don’t you think so? But as

regards your wish to visit our fine city, my dear count, I can only say

that you may command me and mine to any extent you please.”



“Then it is settled,” said the count, “and I give you my solemn

assurance that I only waited an opportunity like the present to realize

plans that I have long meditated.”



Franz did not doubt that these plans were the same concerning which the

count had dropped a few words in the grotto of The Trial, and while

the count was speaking the young man watched him closely, hoping to

read something of his purpose in his face, but his countenance was

inscrutable especially when, as in the present case, it was veiled in a

sphinx-like smile.



“But tell me now, count,” exclaimed Albert, delighted at the idea of

having to chaperon so distinguished a person as The Trial; “tell me

truly whether you are in earnest, or if this project of visiting Paris

is merely one of the chimerical and uncertain air castles of which we

make so many in the course of our lives, but which, like a house built

on the sand, is liable to be blown over by the first puff of wind?”



“I pledge you my honor,” returned the count, “that I mean to do as I

have said; both inclination and positive necessity compel me to visit

Paris.”



“When do you propose going thither?”



“Have you made up your mind when you shall be there yourself?”



“Certainly I have; in a fortnight or three weeks’ time, that is to say,

as fast as I can get there!”



“Nay,” said the Count; “I will give you three months ere I join you;

you see I make an ample allowance for all delays and difficulties.



“And in three months’ time,” said Albert, “you will be at my house?”



“Shall we make a positive appointment for a particular day and hour?”

inquired the count; “only let me warn you that I am proverbial for my

punctilious exactitude in keeping my engagements.”



“Day for day, hour for hour,” said Albert; “that will suit me to a

dot.”



“So be it, then,” replied the count, and extending his hand towards a

calendar, suspended near the chimney-piece, he said, “today is the 21st

of February;” and drawing out his watch, added, “it is exactly

half-past ten o’clock. Now promise me to remember this, and expect me

the 21st of May at the same hour in the forenoon.”



“Capital!” exclaimed Albert; “your breakfast shall be waiting.”



“Where do you live?”



“No. 27, Rue du Helder.”



“Have you bachelor’s apartments there? I hope my coming will not put

you to any inconvenience.”



“I reside in my father’s house, but occupy a pavilion at the farther

side of the courtyard, entirely separated from the main building.”



“Quite sufficient,” replied the count, as, taking out his tablets, he

wrote down “No. 27, Rue du Helder, 21st May, half-past ten in the

morning.”



“Now then,” said the count, returning his tablets to his pocket, “make

yourself perfectly easy; the hand of your time-piece will not be more

accurate in marking the time than myself.”



“Shall I see you again ere my departure?” asked Albert.



“That depends; when do you leave?”



“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock.”



“In that case I must say adieu to you, as I am compelled to go to

Naples, and shall not return hither before Saturday evening or Sunday

morning. And you, baron,” pursued the count, addressing Franz, “do you

also depart tomorrow?”



“Yes.”



“For France?”



“No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy for another year or two.”



“Then we shall not meet in Paris?”



“I fear I shall not have that honor.”



“Well, since we must part,” said the count, holding out a hand to each

of the young men, “allow me to wish you both a safe and pleasant

journey.”



It was the first time the hand of Franz had come in contact with that

of the mysterious individual before him, and unconsciously he shuddered

at its touch, for it felt cold and icy as that of a corpse.



20219m







“Let us understand each other,” said Albert; “it is agreed—is it

not?—that you are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du Helder, on the 21st of

May, at half-past ten in the morning, and your word of honor passed for

your punctuality?”



“The 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, Rue du Helder, No.

27,” replied the count.



The young men then rose, and bowing to the count, quitted the room.



“What is the matter?” asked Albert of Franz, when they had returned to

their own apartments; “you seem more than commonly thoughtful.”



“I will confess to you, Albert,” replied Franz, “the count is a very

singular person, and the appointment you have made to meet him in Paris

fills me with a thousand apprehensions.”



“My dear fellow,” exclaimed Albert, “what can there possibly be in that

to excite uneasiness? Why, you must have lost your senses.”



“Whether I am in my senses or not,” answered Franz, “that is the way I

feel.”



“Listen to me, Franz,” said Albert; “I am glad that the occasion has

presented itself for saying this to you, for I have noticed how cold

you are in your bearing towards the count, while he, on the other hand,

has always been courtesy itself to us. Have you anything particular

against him?”



“Possibly.”



“Did you ever meet him previously to coming hither?”



“I have.”



“And where?”



“Will you promise me not to repeat a single word of what I am about to

tell you?”



“I promise.”



“Upon your honor?”



“Upon my honor.”



“Then listen to me.”



Franz then related to his friend the history of his excursion to the

Island of The Trial and of his finding a party of smugglers there,

and the two Corsican bandits with them. He dwelt with considerable

force and energy on the almost magical hospitality he had received from

the count, and the magnificence of his entertainment in the grotto of

the _Thousand and One Nights_.



He recounted, with circumstantial exactitude, all the particulars of

the supper, the hashish, the statues, the dream, and how, at his

awakening, there remained no proof or trace of all these events, save

the small yacht, seen in the distant horizon driving under full sail

toward Porto-Vecchio.



Then he detailed the conversation overheard by him at the Colosseum,

between the count and Vampa, in which the count had promised to obtain

the release of the bandit Peppino,—an engagement which, as our readers

are aware, he most faithfully fulfilled.



At last he arrived at the adventure of the preceding night, and the

embarrassment in which he found himself placed by not having sufficient

cash by six or seven hundred piastres to make up the sum required, and

finally of his application to the count and the picturesque and

satisfactory result that followed. Albert listened with the most

profound attention.



“Well,” said he, when Franz had concluded, “what do you find to object

to in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being

rich, possesses a vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth or

Southampton, and you will find the harbors crowded with the yachts

belonging to such of the English as can afford the expense, and have

the same liking for this amusement. Now, by way of having a

resting-place during his excursions, avoiding the wretched

cookery—which has been trying its best to poison me during the last

four months, while you have manfully resisted its effects for as many

years,—and obtaining a bed on which it is possible to slumber, Monte

Cristo has furnished for himself a temporary abode where you first

found him; but, to prevent the possibility of the Tuscan government

taking a fancy to his enchanted palace, and thereby depriving him of

the advantages naturally expected from so large an outlay of capital,

he has wisely enough purchased the island, and taken its name. Just ask

yourself, my good fellow, whether there are not many persons of our

acquaintance who assume the names of lands and properties they never in

their lives were masters of?”



“But,” said Franz, “the Corsican bandits that were among the crew of

his vessel?”



“Why, really the thing seems to me simple enough. Nobody knows better

than yourself that the bandits of Corsica are not rogues or thieves,

but purely and simply fugitives, driven by some sinister motive from

their native town or village, and that their fellowship involves no

disgrace or stigma; for my own part, I protest that, should I ever go

to Corsica, my first visit, ere even I presented myself to the mayor or

prefect, should be to the bandits of Colomba, if I could only manage to

find them; for, on my conscience, they are a race of men I admire

greatly.”



“Still,” persisted Franz, “I suppose you will allow that such men as

Vampa and his band are regular villains, who have no other motive than

plunder when they seize your person. How do you explain the influence

the count evidently possessed over those ruffians?”



“My good friend, as in all probability I own my present safety to that

influence, it would ill become me to search too closely into its

source; therefore, instead of condemning him for his intimacy with

outlaws, you must give me leave to excuse any little irregularity there

may be in such a connection; not altogether for preserving my life, for

my own idea was that it never was in much danger, but certainly for

saving me 4,000 piastres, which, being translated, means neither more

nor less than 24,000 livres of our money—a sum at which, most

assuredly, I should never have been estimated in France, proving most

indisputably,” added Albert with a laugh, “that no prophet is honored

in his own country.”



“Talking of countries,” replied Franz, “of what country is the count,

what is his native tongue, whence does he derive his immense fortune,

and what were those events of his early life—a life as marvellous as

unknown—that have tinctured his succeeding years with so dark and

gloomy a misanthropy? Certainly these are questions that, in your

place, I should like to have answered.”



“My dear Franz,” replied Albert, “when, upon receipt of my letter, you

found the necessity of asking the count’s assistance, you promptly went

to him, saying, ‘My friend Albert de Morcerf is in danger; help me to

deliver him.’ Was not that nearly what you said?”



20222m







“It was.”



“Well, then, did he ask you, ‘Who is M. Albert de Morcerf? how does he

come by his name—his fortune? what are his means of existence? what is

his birthplace? of what country is he a native?’ Tell me, did he put

all these questions to you?”



“I confess he asked me none.”



“No; he merely came and freed me from the hands of Signor Vampa, where,

I can assure you, in spite of all my outward appearance of ease and

unconcern, I did not very particularly care to remain. Now, then,

Franz, when, for services so promptly and unhesitatingly rendered, he

but asks me in return to do for him what is done daily for any Russian

prince or Italian nobleman who may pass through Paris—merely to

introduce him into society—would you have me refuse? My good fellow,

you must have lost your senses to think it possible I could act with

such cold-blooded policy.”



And this time it must be confessed that, contrary to the usual state of

affairs in discussions between the young men, the effective arguments

were all on Albert’s side.



“Well,” said Franz with a sigh, “do as you please my dear viscount, for

your arguments are beyond my powers of refutation. Still, in spite of

all, you must admit that this Count of The Trial is a most singular

personage.”



“He is a philanthropist,” answered the other; “and no doubt his motive

in visiting Paris is to compete for the Monthyon prize, given, as you

are aware, to whoever shall be proved to have most materially advanced

the interests of virtue and humanity. If my vote and interest can

obtain it for him, I will readily give him the one and promise the

other. And now, my dear Franz, let us talk of something else. Come,

shall we take our luncheon, and then pay a last visit to St. Peter’s?”



Franz silently assented; and the following afternoon, at half-past five

o’clock, the young men parted. Albert de Morcerf to return to Paris,

and Franz d’Épinay to pass a fortnight at Venice.



But, ere he entered his travelling carriage, Albert, fearing that his

expected guest might forget the engagement he had entered into, placed

in the care of a waiter at the hotel a card to be delivered to the

Count of The Trial, on which, beneath the name of Viscount Albert de

Morcerf, he had written in pencil:



“27, _Rue du Helder, on the_ 21_st May, half-past ten_ A.M.”







 Chapter 39. The Guests



In the house in the Rue du Helder, where Albert had invited the Count

of The Trial, everything was being prepared on the morning of the

21st of May to do honor to the occasion. Albert de Morcerf inhabited a

pavilion situated at the corner of a large court, and directly opposite

another building, in which were the servants’ apartments. Two windows

only of the pavilion faced the street; three other windows looked into

the court, and two at the back into the garden.



Between the court and the garden, built in the heavy style of the

imperial architecture, was the large and fashionable dwelling of the

Count and Countess of Morcerf.



A high wall surrounded the whole of the property, surmounted at

intervals by vases filled with flowers, and broken in the centre by a

large gate of gilded iron, which served as the carriage entrance. A

small door, close to the lodge of the _concierge_, gave ingress and

egress to the servants and masters when they were on foot.



It was easy to discover that the delicate care of a mother, unwilling

to part from her son, and yet aware that a young man of the viscount’s

age required the full exercise of his liberty, had chosen this

habitation for Albert. There were not lacking, however, evidences of

what we may call the intelligent egoism of a youth who is charmed with

the indolent, careless life of an only son, and who lives as it were in

a gilded cage. By means of the two windows looking into the street,

Albert could see all that passed; the sight of what is going on is

necessary to young men, who always want to see the world traverse their

horizon, even if that horizon is only a public thoroughfare. Then,

should anything appear to merit a more minute examination, Albert de

Morcerf could follow up his researches by means of a small gate,

similar to that close to the _concierge’s_ door, and which merits a

particular description.



It was a little entrance that seemed never to have been opened since

the house was built, so entirely was it covered with dust and dirt; but

the well-oiled hinges and locks told quite another story. This door was

a mockery to the _concierge_, from whose vigilance and jurisdiction it

was free, and, like that famous portal in the _Arabian Nights_, opening

at the “_Sesame_” of Ali Baba, it was wont to swing backward at a

cabalistic word or a concerted tap from without from the sweetest

voices or whitest fingers in the world.



At the end of a long corridor, with which the door communicated, and

which formed the antechamber, was, on the right, Albert’s

breakfast-room, looking into the court, and on the left the salon,

looking into the garden. Shrubs and creeping plants covered the

windows, and hid from the garden and court these two apartments, the

only rooms into which, as they were on the ground floor, the prying

eyes of the curious could penetrate.



On the floor above were similar rooms, with the addition of a third,

formed out of the antechamber; these three rooms were a salon, a

boudoir, and a bedroom. The salon downstairs was only an Algerian

divan, for the use of smokers. The boudoir upstairs communicated with

the bedchamber by an invisible door on the staircase; it was evident

that every precaution had been taken. Above this floor was a large

_atelier_, which had been increased in size by pulling down the

partitions—a pandemonium, in which the artist and the dandy strove for

pre-eminence.



There were collected and piled up all Albert’s successive caprices,

hunting-horns, bass-viols, flutes—a whole orchestra, for Albert had had

not a taste but a fancy for music; easels, palettes, brushes,

pencils—for music had been succeeded by painting; foils, boxing-gloves,

broadswords, and single-sticks—for, following the example of the

fashionable young men of the time, Albert de Morcerf cultivated, with

far more perseverance than music and drawing, the three arts that

complete a dandy’s education, i.e., fencing, boxing, and single-stick;

and it was here that he received Grisier, Cooks, and Charles Leboucher.



The rest of the furniture of this privileged apartment consisted of old

cabinets, filled with Chinese porcelain and Japanese vases, Lucca della

Robbia _faïences_, and Palissy platters; of old armchairs, in which

perhaps had sat Henry IV. or Sully, Louis XIII. or Richelieu—for two of

these armchairs, adorned with a carved shield, on which were engraved

the fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field, evidently came from the

Louvre, or, at least, some royal residence.



Over these dark and sombre chairs were thrown splendid stuffs, dyed

beneath Persia’s sun, or woven by the fingers of the women of Calcutta

or of Chandernagor. What these stuffs did there, it was impossible to

say; they awaited, while gratifying the eyes, a destination unknown to

their owner himself; in the meantime they filled the place with their

golden and silky reflections.



In the centre of the room was a Roller and Blanchet “baby grand” piano

in rosewood, but holding the potentialities of an orchestra in its

narrow and sonorous cavity, and groaning beneath the weight of the

_chefs-d’œuvre_ of Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, Haydn, Grétry, and

Porpora.



On the walls, over the doors, on the ceiling, were swords, daggers,

Malay creeses, maces, battle-axes; gilded, damasked, and inlaid suits

of armor; dried plants, minerals, and stuffed birds, their

flame-colored wings outspread in motionless flight, and their beaks

forever open. This was Albert’s favorite lounging place.



However, the morning of the appointment, the young man had established

himself in the small salon downstairs. There, on a table, surrounded at

some distance by a large and luxurious divan, every species of tobacco

known,—from the yellow tobacco of Petersburg to the black of Sinai, and

so on along the scale from Maryland and Porto Rico, to Latakia,—was

exposed in pots of crackled earthenware of which the Dutch are so fond;

beside them, in boxes of fragrant wood, were ranged, according to their

size and quality, puros, regalias, havanas, and manillas; and, in an

open cabinet, a collection of German pipes, of chibouques, with their

amber mouth-pieces ornamented with coral, and of narghiles, with their

long tubes of morocco, awaiting the caprice or the sympathy of the

smokers.



Albert had himself presided at the arrangement, or, rather, the

symmetrical derangement, which, after coffee, the guests at a breakfast

of modern days love to contemplate through the vapor that escapes from

their mouths, and ascends in long and fanciful wreaths to the ceiling.



At a quarter to ten, a valet entered; he composed, with a little groom

named John, and who only spoke English, all Albert’s establishment,

although the cook of the hotel was always at his service, and on great

occasions the count’s _chasseur_ also. This valet, whose name was

Germain, and who enjoyed the entire confidence of his young master,

held in one hand a number of papers, and in the other a packet of

letters, which he gave to Albert. Albert glanced carelessly at the

different missives, selected two written in a small and delicate hand,

and enclosed in scented envelopes, opened them and perused their

contents with some attention.



“How did these letters come?” said he.



“One by the post, Madame Danglars’ footman left the other.”



“Let Madame Danglars know that I accept the place she offers me in her

box. Wait; then, during the day, tell Rosa that when I leave the Opera

I will sup with her as she wishes. Take her six bottles of different

wine—Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of Ostend oysters; get

them at Borel’s, and be sure you say they are for me.”



“At what o’clock, sir, do you breakfast?”



20227m







“What time is it now?”



“A quarter to ten.”



“Very well, at half past ten. Debray will, perhaps, be obliged to go to

the minister—and besides” (Albert looked at his tablets), “it is the

hour I told the count, 21st May, at half past ten; and though I do not

much rely upon his promise, I wish to be punctual. Is the countess up

yet?”



“If you wish, I will inquire.”



“Yes, ask her for one of her _liqueur_ cellarets, mine is incomplete;

and tell her I shall have the honor of seeing her about three o’clock,

and that I request permission to introduce someone to her.”



The valet left the room. Albert threw himself on the divan, tore off

the cover of two or three of the papers, looked at the theatre

announcements, made a face seeing they gave an opera, and not a ballet;

hunted vainly amongst the advertisements for a new tooth-powder of

which he had heard, and threw down, one after the other, the three

leading papers of Paris, muttering,



“These papers become more and more stupid every day.”



A moment after, a carriage stopped before the door, and the servant

announced M. Lucien Debray. A tall young man, with light hair, clear

gray eyes, and thin and compressed lips, dressed in a blue coat with

beautifully carved gold buttons, a white neckcloth, and a tortoiseshell

eye-glass suspended by a silken thread, and which, by an effort of the

superciliary and zygomatic muscles, he fixed in his eye, entered, with

a half-official air, without smiling or speaking.



“Good-morning, Lucien, good-morning,” said Albert; “your punctuality

really alarms me. What do I say? punctuality! You, whom I expected

last, you arrive at five minutes to ten, when the time fixed was

half-past! Has the ministry resigned?”



“No, my dear fellow,” returned the young man, seating himself on the

divan; “reassure yourself; we are tottering always, but we never fall,

and I begin to believe that we shall pass into a state of immobility,

and then the affairs of the Peninsula will completely consolidate us.”



“Ah, true; you drive Don Carlos out of Spain.”



“No, no, my dear fellow, do not confound our plans. We take him to the

other side of the French frontier, and offer him hospitality at

Bourges.”



“At Bourges?”



“Yes, he has not much to complain of; Bourges is the capital of Charles

VII. Do you not know that all Paris knew it yesterday, and the day

before it had already transpired on the Bourse, and M. Danglars (I do

not know by what means that man contrives to obtain intelligence as

soon as we do) made a million!”



“And you another order, for I see you have a blue ribbon at your

button-hole.”



“Yes; they sent me the order of Charles III.,” returned Debray

carelessly.



“Come, do not affect indifference, but confess you were pleased to have

it.”



“Oh, it is very well as a finish to the toilet. It looks very neat on a

black coat buttoned up.”



“And makes you resemble the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt.”



“It is for that reason you see me so early.”



“Because you have the order of Charles III., and you wish to announce

the good news to me?”



“No, because I passed the night writing letters,—five-and-twenty

despatches. I returned home at daybreak, and strove to sleep; but my

head ached and I got up to have a ride for an hour. At the Bois de

Boulogne, _ennui_ and hunger attacked me at once,—two enemies who

rarely accompany each other, and who are yet leagued against me, a sort

of Carlo-republican alliance. I then recollected you gave a breakfast

this morning, and here I am. I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, amuse

me.”



“It is my duty as your host,” returned Albert, ringing the bell, while

Lucien turned over, with his gold-mounted cane, the papers that lay on

the table. “Germain, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. In the meantime,

my dear Lucien, here are cigars—contraband, of course—try them, and

persuade the minister to sell us such instead of poisoning us with

cabbage leaves.”



“_Peste!_ I will do nothing of the kind; the moment they come from

government you would find them execrable. Besides, that does not

concern the home but the financial department. Address yourself to M.

Humann, section of the indirect contributions, corridor A., No. 26.”



“On my word,” said Albert, “you astonish me by the extent of your

knowledge. Take a cigar.”



“Really, my dear Albert,” replied Lucien, lighting a manilla at a

rose-colored taper that burnt in a beautifully enamelled stand—“how

happy you are to have nothing to do. You do not know your own good

fortune!”



“And what would you do, my dear diplomatist,” replied Morcerf, with a

slight degree of irony in his voice, “if you did nothing? What? private

secretary to a minister, plunged at once into European cabals and

Parisian intrigues; having kings, and, better still, queens, to

protect, parties to unite, elections to direct; making more use of your

cabinet with your pen and your telegraph than Napoleon did of his

battle-fields with his sword and his victories; possessing

five-and-twenty thousand francs a year, besides your place; a horse,

for which Château-Renaud offered you four hundred louis, and which you

would not part with; a tailor who never disappoints you; with the

opera, the jockey-club, and other diversions, can you not amuse

yourself? Well, I will amuse you.”



“How?”



“By introducing to you a new acquaintance.”



“A man or a woman?”



“A man.”



“I know so many men already.”



“But you do not know this man.”



“Where does he come from—the end of the world?”



“Farther still, perhaps.”



“The deuce! I hope he does not bring our breakfast with him.”



“Oh, no; our breakfast comes from my father’s kitchen. Are you hungry?”



“Humiliating as such a confession is, I am. But I dined at M. de

Villefort’s, and lawyers always give you very bad dinners. You would

think they felt some remorse; did you ever remark that?”



“Ah, depreciate other persons’ dinners; you ministers give such

splendid ones.”



“Yes; but we do not invite people of fashion. If we were not forced to

entertain a parcel of country boobies because they think and vote with

us, we should never dream of dining at home, I assure you.”



“Well, take another glass of sherry and another biscuit.”



“Willingly. Your Spanish wine is excellent. You see we were quite right

to pacify that country.”



“Yes; but Don Carlos?”



“Well, Don Carlos will drink Bordeaux, and in ten years we will marry

his son to the little queen.”



“You will then obtain the Golden Fleece, if you are still in the

ministry.”



“I think, Albert, you have adopted the system of feeding me on smoke

this morning.”



“Well, you must allow it is the best thing for the stomach; but I hear

Beauchamp in the next room; you can dispute together, and that will

pass away the time.”



“About what?”



“About the papers.”



“My dear friend,” said Lucien with an air of sovereign contempt, “do I

ever read the papers?”



“Then you will dispute the more.”



“M. Beauchamp,” announced the servant. “Come in, come in,” said Albert,

rising and advancing to meet the young man. “Here is Debray, who

detests you without reading you, so he says.”



“He is quite right,” returned Beauchamp; “for I criticise him without

knowing what he does. Good-day, commander!”



“Ah, you know that already,” said the private secretary, smiling and

shaking hands with him.



“_Pardieu!_”



“And what do they say of it in the world?”



“In which world? we have so many worlds in the year of grace 1838.”



“In the entire political world, of which you are one of the leaders.”



“They say that it is quite fair, and that sowing so much red, you ought

to reap a little blue.”



“Come, come, that is not bad!” said Lucien. “Why do you not join our

party, my dear Beauchamp? With your talents you would make your fortune

in three or four years.”



“I only await one thing before following your advice; that is, a

minister who will hold office for six months. My dear Albert, one word,

for I must give poor Lucien a respite. Do we breakfast or dine? I must

go to the Chamber, for our life is not an idle one.”



“You only breakfast; I await two persons, and the instant they arrive

we shall sit down to table.”







 Chapter 40. The Breakfast



And what sort of persons do you expect to breakfast?” said Beauchamp.



“A gentleman, and a diplomatist.”



“Then we shall have to wait two hours for the gentleman, and three for

the diplomatist. I shall come back to dessert; keep me some

strawberries, coffee, and cigars. I shall take a cutlet on my way to

the Chamber.”



“Do not do anything of the sort; for were the gentleman a Montmorency,

and the diplomatist a Metternich, we will breakfast at eleven; in the

meantime, follow Debray’s example, and take a glass of sherry and a

biscuit.”



“Be it so; I will stay; I must do something to distract my thoughts.”



“You are like Debray, and yet it seems to me that when the minister is

out of spirits, the opposition ought to be joyous.”



“Ah, you do not know with what I am threatened. I shall hear this

morning that M. Danglars make a speech at the Chamber of Deputies, and

at his wife’s this evening I shall hear the tragedy of a peer of

France. The devil take the constitutional government, and since we had

our choice, as they say, at least, how could we choose that?”



“I understand; you must lay in a stock of hilarity.”



“Do not run down M. Danglars’ speeches,” said Debray; “he votes for

you, for he belongs to the opposition.”



“_Pardieu_, that is exactly the worst of all. I am waiting until you

send him to speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my ease.”



“My dear friend,” said Albert to Beauchamp, “it is plain that the

affairs of Spain are settled, for you are most desperately out of humor

this morning. Recollect that Parisian gossip has spoken of a marriage

between myself and Mlle. Eugénie Danglars; I cannot in conscience,

therefore, let you run down the speeches of a man who will one day say

to me, ‘Vicomte, you know I give my daughter two millions.’”



“Ah, this marriage will never take place,” said Beauchamp. “The king

has made him a baron, and can make him a peer, but he cannot make him a

gentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is too aristocratic to consent, for

the paltry sum of two million francs, to a _mésalliance_. The Viscount

of Morcerf can only wed a marchioness.”



“But two million francs make a nice little sum,” replied Morcerf.



“It is the social capital of a theatre on the boulevard, or a railroad

from the Jardin des Plantes to La Râpée.”



“Never mind what he says, Morcerf,” said Debray, “do you marry her. You

marry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter?

It is better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it. You have

seven martlets on your arms; give three to your wife, and you will

still have four; that is one more than M. de Guise had, who so nearly

became King of France, and whose cousin was Emperor of Germany.”



“On my word, I think you are right, Lucien,” said Albert absently.



“To be sure; besides, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard—that

is, he can be.”



“Do not say that, Debray,” returned Beauchamp, laughing, “for here is

Château-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will pass

the sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body.”



“He will sully it then,” returned Lucien; “for I am low—very low.”



“Oh, heavens,” cried Beauchamp, “the minister quotes Béranger, what

shall we come to next?”



“M. de Château-Renaud—M. Maximilian Morrel,” said the servant,

announcing two fresh guests.



“Now, then, to breakfast,” said Beauchamp; “for, if I remember, you

told me you only expected two persons, Albert.”



“Morrel,” muttered Albert—“Morrel—who is he?”



But before he had finished, M. de Château-Renaud, a handsome young man

of thirty, gentleman all over,—that is, with the figure of a Guiche and

the wit of a Mortemart,—took Albert’s hand.



“My dear Albert,” said he, “let me introduce to you M. Maximilian

Morrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more—however the man

speaks for himself—my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount.”



And he stepped on one side to give place to a young man of refined and

dignified bearing, with large and open brow, piercing eyes, and black

moustache, whom our readers have already seen at Marseilles, under

circumstances sufficiently dramatic not to be forgotten. A rich

uniform, half French, half Oriental, set off his graceful and stalwart

figure, and his broad chest was decorated with the order of the Legion

of Honor. The young officer bowed with easy and elegant politeness.



“Monsieur,” said Albert with affectionate courtesy, “the count of

Château-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me;

you are his friend, be ours also.”



“Well said,” interrupted Château-Renaud; “and pray that, if you should

ever be in a similar predicament, he may do as much for you as he did

for me.”



“What has he done?” asked Albert.



“Oh, nothing worth speaking of,” said Morrel; “M. de Château-Renaud

exaggerates.”



“Not worth speaking of?” cried Château-Renaud; “life is not worth

speaking of!—that is rather too philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It

is very well for you, who risk your life every day, but for me, who

only did so once——”



“We gather from all this, baron, that Captain Morrel saved your life.”



“Exactly so.”



“On what occasion?” asked Beauchamp.



“Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I am starving,” said Debray: “do

not set him off on some long story.”



“Well, I do not prevent your sitting down to table,” replied Beauchamp,

“Château-Renaud can tell us while we eat our breakfast.”



“Gentlemen,” said Morcerf, “it is only a quarter past ten, and I expect

someone else.”



“Ah, true, a diplomatist!” observed Debray.



“Diplomat or not, I don’t know; I only know that he charged himself on

my account with a mission, which he terminated so entirely to my

satisfaction, that had I been king, I should have instantly created him

knight of all my orders, even had I been able to offer him the Golden

Fleece and the Garter.”



“Well, since we are not to sit down to table,” said Debray, “take a

glass of sherry, and tell us all about it.”



“You all know that I had the fancy of going to Africa.”



“It is a road your ancestors have traced for you,” said Albert

gallantly.



“Yes? but I doubt that your object was like theirs—to rescue the Holy

Sepulchre.”



“You are quite right, Beauchamp,” observed the young aristocrat. “It

was only to fight as an amateur. I cannot bear duelling ever since two

seconds, whom I had chosen to arrange an affair, forced me to break the

arm of one of my best friends, one whom you all know—poor Franz

d’Épinay.”



“Ah, true,” said Debray, “you did fight some time ago; about what?”



20235m







“The devil take me, if I remember,” returned Château-Renaud. “But I

recollect perfectly one thing, that, being unwilling to let such

talents as mine sleep, I wished to try upon the Arabs the new pistols

that had been given to me. In consequence I embarked for Oran, and went

from thence to Constantine, where I arrived just in time to witness the

raising of the siege. I retreated with the rest, for eight-and-forty

hours. I endured the rain during the day, and the cold during the night

tolerably well, but the third morning my horse died of cold. Poor

brute—accustomed to be covered up and to have a stove in the stable,

the Arabian finds himself unable to bear ten degrees of cold in

Arabia.”



“That’s why you want to purchase my English horse,” said Debray, “you

think he will bear the cold better.”



“You are mistaken, for I have made a vow never to return to Africa.”



“You were very much frightened, then?” asked Beauchamp.



“Well, yes, and I had good reason to be so,” replied Château-Renaud. “I

was retreating on foot, for my horse was dead. Six Arabs came up, full

gallop, to cut off my head. I shot two with my double-barrelled gun,

and two more with my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and two were

still left; one seized me by the hair (that is why I now wear it so

short, for no one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan,

and I already felt the cold steel on my neck, when this gentleman whom

you see here charged them, shot the one who held me by the hair, and

cleft the skull of the other with his sabre. He had assigned himself

the task of saving a man’s life that day; chance caused that man to be

myself. When I am rich I will order a statue of Chance from Klagmann or

Marochetti.”



“Yes,” said Morrel, smiling, “it was the 5th of September, the

anniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously preserved;

therefore, as far as it lies in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it by

some——”



20237m







“Heroic action,” interrupted Château-Renaud. “I was chosen. But that is

not all—after rescuing me from the sword, he rescued me from the cold,

not by sharing his cloak with me, like St. Martin, but by giving me the

whole; then from hunger by sharing with me—guess what?”



“A Strasbourg pie?” asked Beauchamp.



“No, his horse; of which we each of us ate a slice with a hearty

appetite. It was very hard.”



“The horse?” said Morcerf, laughing.



“No, the sacrifice,” returned Château-Renaud; “ask Debray if he would

sacrifice his English steed for a stranger?”



“Not for a stranger,” said Debray, “but for a friend I might, perhaps.”



“I divined that you would become mine, count,” replied Morrel;

“besides, as I had the honor to tell you, heroism or not, sacrifice or

not, that day I owed an offering to bad fortune in recompense for the

favors good fortune had on other days granted to us.”



“The history to which M. Morrel alludes,” continued Château-Renaud, “is

an admirable one, which he will tell you some day when you are better

acquainted with him; today let us fill our stomachs, and not our

memories. What time do you breakfast, Albert?”



“At half-past ten.”



“Precisely?” asked Debray, taking out his watch.



“Oh, you will give me five minutes’ grace,” replied Morcerf, “for I

also expect a preserver.”



“Of whom?”



“Of myself,” cried Morcerf; “_parbleu!_ do you think I cannot be saved

as well as anyone else, and that there are only Arabs who cut off

heads? Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at

table—at least, I hope so—two benefactors of humanity.”



“What shall we do?” said Debray; “we have only one Monthyon prize.”



“Well, it will be given to someone who has done nothing to deserve it,”

said Beauchamp; “that is the way the Academy mostly escapes from the

dilemma.”



“And where does he come from?” asked Debray. “You have already answered

the question once, but so vaguely that I venture to put it a second

time.”



“Really,” said Albert, “I do not know; when I invited him three months

ago, he was then at Rome, but since that time who knows where he may

have gone?”



“And you think him capable of being exact?” demanded Debray.



“I think him capable of everything.”



“Well, with the five minutes’ grace, we have only ten left.”



“I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest.”



“I beg pardon,” interrupted Beauchamp; “are there any materials for an

article in what you are going to tell us?”



“Yes, and for a most curious one.”



“Go on, then, for I see I shall not get to the Chamber this morning,

and I must make up for it.”



“I was at Rome during the last Carnival.”



“We know that,” said Beauchamp.



“Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits.”



“There are no bandits,” cried Debray.



“Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I

found them ugly enough to frighten me.”



“Come, my dear Albert,” said Debray, “confess that your cook is

behindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes,

and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish

by a story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse

you, and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be.”



“And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one

from beginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted

me to a gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian.”



“I know it,” said Château-Renaud; “I narrowly escaped catching a fever

there.”



“And I did more than that,” replied Morcerf, “for I caught one. I was

informed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Roman

crowns—about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I was

at the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz—and were he

here he would confirm every word—I wrote then to Franz that if he did

not come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past

I should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs in

whose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such

was the name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously

kept his word.”



“But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns,” said

Château-Renaud. “A man whose name is Franz d’Épinay or Albert de

Morcerf has not much difficulty in procuring them.”



“No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present

to you.”



“Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing

Andromeda.”



“No, he is a man about my own size.”



“Armed to the teeth?”



“He had not even a knitting-needle.”



“But he paid your ransom?”



“He said two words to the chief and I was free.”



“And they apologized to him for having carried you off?” said

Beauchamp.



“Just so.”



“Why, he is a second Ariosto.”



“No, his name is The Trial.”



“There is no Count of The Trial” said Debray.



“I do not think so,” added Château-Renaud, with the air of a man who

knows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.



“Does anyone know anything of a Count of The Trial?”



“He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestors

possessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea.”



“I think I can assist your researches,” said Maximilian. “The Trial

is a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors my

father employed—a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, an

atom in the infinite.”



“Precisely!” cried Albert. “Well, he of whom I speak is the lord and

master of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the title

of count somewhere in Tuscany.”



“He is rich, then?”



“I believe so.”



“But that ought to be visible.”



“That is what deceives you, Debray.”



“I do not understand you.”



“Have you read the _Arabian Nights_?”



“What a question!”



“Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if

their sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poor

fishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with

the wealth of the Indies.”



“Which means?”



“Which means that my Count of The Trial is one of those fishermen.

He has even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad

the Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold.”



“And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?” asked Beauchamp.



“No, but Franz has; for heaven’s sake, not a word of this before him.

Franz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes and

by women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quite

sure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had taken

hashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row of

statues.”



The two young men looked at Morcerf as if to say,—“Are you mad, or are

you laughing at us?”



“And I also,” said Morrel thoughtfully, “have heard something like this

from an old sailor named Penelon.”



“Ah,” cried Albert, “it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me;

you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the

labyrinth?”



“My dear Albert,” said Debray, “what you tell us is so extraordinary.”



“Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you of

them—they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering in

the affairs of their countrymen who travel.”



“Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have them

protect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that

now they have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send

you to Constantinople.”



“No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali,

the Sultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me.”



“You say very true,” responded Debray.



“Yes,” said Albert, “but this has nothing to do with the existence of

The Trial.”



“_Pardieu!_ everyone exists.”



“Doubtless, but not in the same way; everyone has not black slaves, a

princely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to an

Arabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and

Greek mistresses.”



“Have you seen the Greek mistress?”



“I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard

her one morning when I breakfasted with the count.”



“He eats, then?”



“Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating.”



“He must be a vampire.”



“Laugh, if you will; the Countess G——, who knew Lord Ruthven, declared

that the count was a vampire.”



“Ah, capital,” said Beauchamp. “For a man not connected with

newspapers, here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the

_Constitutionnel_.”



“Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure,” said

Debray; “facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead, livid

complexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politeness

unexceptionable.”



“Just so, Lucien,” returned Morcerf; “you have described him feature

for feature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made

me shudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought I

should faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which he

spoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the

executioner and the culprit.”



“Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck your

blood?” asked Beauchamp.



“Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment,

surrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right?”



“Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen,” said Morcerf, somewhat

piqued. “When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gand

or the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we are

not of the same race.”



“I am highly flattered,” returned Beauchamp.



“At the same time,” added Château-Renaud, “your Count of The Trial

is a very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with

the Italian banditti.”



“There are no Italian banditti,” said Debray.



“No vampire,” cried Beauchamp.



“No Count of The Trial” added Debray. “There is half-past ten

striking, Albert.”



20243m







“Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,”

continued Beauchamp.



But the sound of the clock had not died away when Germain announced,

“His excellency The Trial.” The involuntary start

everyone gave proved how much Morcerf’s narrative had impressed them,

and Albert himself could not wholly refrain from manifesting sudden

emotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the street, or steps in

the antechamber; the door had itself opened noiselessly. The count

appeared, dressed with the greatest simplicity, but the most fastidious

dandy could have found nothing to cavil at in his toilet. Every article

of dress—hat, coat, gloves, and boots—was from the first makers. He

seemed scarcely five-and-thirty. But what struck everybody was his

extreme resemblance to the portrait Debray had drawn. The count

advanced, smiling, into the centre of the room, and approached Albert,

who hastened towards him holding out his hand in a ceremonial manner.



“Punctuality,” said The Trial, “is the politeness of kings,

according to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same

with travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three

seconds I am behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be

accomplished without some trouble, and especially in France, where, it

seems, it is forbidden to beat the postilions.”



“My dear count,” replied Albert, “I was announcing your visit to some

of my friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did

me the honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count

of Château-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and

whose ancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray,

private secretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an

editor of a paper, and the terror of the French government, but of

whom, in spite of his national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in

Italy, since his paper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel,

captain of Spahis.”



At this name the count, who had hitherto saluted everyone with

courtesy, but at the same time with coldness and formality, stepped a

pace forward, and a slight tinge of red colored his pale cheeks.



“You wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur,” said he;

“it is a handsome uniform.”



No one could have said what caused the count’s voice to vibrate so

deeply, and what made his eye flash, which was in general so clear,

lustrous, and limpid when he pleased.



“You have never seen our Africans, count?” said Albert.



“Never,” replied the count, who was by this time perfectly master of

himself again.



“Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts

in the whole army.”



“Oh, M. de Morcerf,” interrupted Morrel.



“Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard,” continued Albert, “of

a new deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen him

today for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him as

my friend.”



At these words it was still possible to observe in The Trial the

concentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of the eyelid

that show emotion.



“Ah, you have a noble heart,” said the count; “so much the better.”



This exclamation, which corresponded to the count’s own thought rather

than to what Albert was saying, surprised everybody, and especially

Morrel, who looked at The Trial with wonder. But, at the same time,

the intonation was so soft that, however strange the speech might seem,

it was impossible to be offended at it.



20245m







“Why should he doubt it?” said Beauchamp to Château-Renaud.



“In reality,” replied the latter, who, with his aristocratic glance and

his knowledge of the world, had penetrated at once all that was

penetrable in The Trial, “Albert has not deceived us, for the count

is a most singular being. What say you, Morrel!”



“_Ma foi_, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of

the singular remark he has made about me.”



“Gentlemen,” said Albert, “Germain informs me that breakfast is ready.

My dear count, allow me to show you the way.” They passed silently into

the breakfast-room, and everyone took his place.



“Gentlemen,” said the count, seating himself, “permit me to make a

confession which must form my excuse for any improprieties I may

commit. I am a stranger, and a stranger to such a degree, that this is

the first time I have ever been at Paris. The French way of living is

utterly unknown to me, and up to the present time I have followed the

Eastern customs, which are entirely in contrast to the Parisian. I beg

you, therefore, to excuse if you find anything in me too Turkish, too

Italian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let us breakfast.”



“With what an air he says all this,” muttered Beauchamp; “decidedly he

is a great man.”



“A great man in his own country,” added Debray.



“A great man in every country, M. Debray,” said Château-Renaud.



The count was, it may be remembered, a most temperate guest. Albert

remarked this, expressing his fears lest, at the outset, the Parisian

mode of life should displease the traveller in the most essential

point.



“My dear count,” said he, “I fear one thing, and that is, that the fare

of the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazza

di Spagna. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had

some dishes prepared expressly.”



“Did you know me better,” returned the count, smiling, “you would not

give one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who has

successively lived on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla

podrida at Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, curry in India, and

swallows’ nests in China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I

eat but little; and today, that you reproach me with my want of

appetite, is my day of appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday

morning.”



“What,” cried all the guests, “you have not eaten for four-and-twenty

hours?”



“No,” replied the count; “I was forced to go out of my road to obtain

some information near Nîmes, so that I was somewhat late, and therefore

I did not choose to stop.”



“And you ate in your carriage?” asked Morcerf.



“No, I slept, as I generally do when I am weary without having the

courage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry without feeling inclined

to eat.”



“But you can sleep when you please, monsieur?” said Morrel.



“Yes.”



“You have a recipe for it?”



“An infallible one.”



“That would be invaluable to us in Africa, who have not always any food

to eat, and rarely anything to drink.”



“Yes,” said The Trial; “but, unfortunately, a recipe excellent for a

man like myself would be very dangerous applied to an army, which might

not awake when it was needed.”



“May we inquire what is this recipe?” asked Debray.



“Oh, yes,” returned The Trial; “I make no secret of it. It is a

mixture of excellent opium, which I fetched myself from Canton in order

to have it pure, and the best hashish which grows in the East—that is,

between the Tigris and the Euphrates. These two ingredients are mixed

in equal proportions, and formed into pills. Ten minutes after one is

taken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron Franz d’Épinay; I think he

tasted them one day.”



“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “he said something about it to me.”



“But,” said Beauchamp, who, as became a journalist, was very

incredulous, “you always carry this drug about you?”



“Always.”



“Would it be an indiscretion to ask to see those precious pills?”

continued Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a disadvantage.



“No, monsieur,” returned the count; and he drew from his pocket a

marvellous casket, formed out of a single emerald and closed by a

golden lid which unscrewed and gave passage to a small greenish colored

pellet about the size of a pea. This ball had an acrid and penetrating

odor. There were four or five more in the emerald, which would contain

about a dozen. The casket passed around the table, but it was more to

examine the admirable emerald than to see the pills that it passed from

hand to hand.



“And is it your cook who prepares these pills?” asked Beauchamp.



“Oh, no, monsieur,” replied The Trial; “I do not thus betray my

enjoyments to the vulgar. I am a tolerable chemist, and prepare my

pills myself.”



“This is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen,” said

Château-Renaud, “although my mother has some remarkable family jewels.”



“I had three similar ones,” returned The Trial. “I gave one to the

Sultan, who mounted it in his sabre; another to our holy father the

Pope, who had it set in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as large,

though not so fine, given by the Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor,

Pius VII. I kept the third for myself, and I had it hollowed out, which

reduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose I

intended.”



Everyone looked at The Trial with astonishment; he spoke with so

much simplicity that it was evident he spoke the truth, or that he was

mad. However, the sight of the emerald made them naturally incline to

the former belief.



“And what did these two sovereigns give you in exchange for these

magnificent presents?” asked Debray.



“The Sultan, the liberty of a woman,” replied the Count; “the Pope, the

life of a man; so that once in my life I have been as powerful as if

heaven had brought me into the world on the steps of a throne.”



“And it was Peppino you saved, was it not?” cried Morcerf; “it was for

him that you obtained pardon?”



“Perhaps,” returned the count, smiling.



“My dear count, you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to hear you

speak thus,” said Morcerf. “I had announced you beforehand to my

friends as an enchanter of the _Arabian Nights_, a wizard of the Middle

Ages; but the Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they mistake

for caprices of the imagination the most incontestable truths, when

these truths do not form a part of their daily existence. For example,

here is Debray who reads, and Beauchamp who prints, every day, ‘A

member of the Jockey Club has been stopped and robbed on the

Boulevard;’ ‘four persons have been assassinated in the Rue St. Denis’

or ‘the Faubourg St. Germain;’ ‘ten, fifteen, or twenty thieves, have

been arrested in a _café_ on the Boulevard du Temple, or in the Thermes

de Julien,’—and yet these same men deny the existence of the bandits in

the Maremma, the Campagna di Romana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell them

yourself that I was taken by bandits, and that without your generous

intercession I should now have been sleeping in the Catacombs of St.

Sebastian, instead of receiving them in my humble abode in the Rue du

Helder.”



“Ah,” said The Trial “you promised me never to mention that

circumstance.”



“It was not I who made that promise,” cried Morcerf; “it must have been

someone else whom you have rescued in the same manner, and whom you

have forgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall not only, I trust, relate

the little I do know, but also a great deal I do not know.”



“It seems to me,” returned the count, smiling, “that you played a

sufficiently important part to know as well as myself what happened.”



20249m







“Well, you promise me, if I tell all I know, to relate, in your turn,

all that I do not know?”



“That is but fair,” replied The Trial.



“Well,” said Morcerf, “for three days I believed myself the object of

the attentions of a masque, whom I took for a descendant of Tullia or

Poppæa, while I was simply the object of the attentions of a

_contadina_, and I say _contadina_ to avoid saying peasant girl. What I

know is, that, like a fool, a greater fool than he of whom I spoke just

now, I mistook for this peasant girl a young bandit of fifteen or

sixteen, with a beardless chin and slim waist, and who, just as I was

about to imprint a chaste salute on his lips, placed a pistol to my

head, and, aided by seven or eight others, led, or rather dragged me,

to the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, where I found a highly educated

brigand chief perusing Cæsar’s _Commentaries_, and who deigned to leave

off reading to inform me, that unless the next morning, before six

o’clock, four thousand piastres were paid into his account at his

banker’s, at a quarter past six I should have ceased to exist. The

letter is still to be seen, for it is in Franz d’Épinay’s possession,

signed by me, and with a postscript of M. Luigi Vampa. This is all I

know, but I know not, count, how you contrived to inspire so much

respect in the bandits of Rome who ordinarily have so little respect

for anything. I assure you, Franz and I were lost in admiration.”



“Nothing more simple,” returned the count. “I had known the famous

Vampa for more than ten years. When he was quite a child, and only a

shepherd, I gave him a few gold pieces for showing me my way, and he,

in order to repay me, gave me a poniard, the hilt of which he had

carved with his own hand, and which you may have seen in my collection

of arms. In after years, whether he had forgotten this interchange of

presents, which ought to have cemented our friendship, or whether he

did not recollect me, he sought to take me, but, on the contrary, it

was I who captured him and a dozen of his band. I might have handed him

over to Roman justice, which is somewhat expeditious, and which would

have been particularly so with him; but I did nothing of the sort—I

suffered him and his band to depart.”



“With the condition that they should sin no more,” said Beauchamp,

laughing. “I see they kept their promise.”



“No, monsieur,” returned The Trial “upon the simple condition that

they should respect myself and my friends. Perhaps what I am about to

say may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity and

your duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society which

does not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies

itself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low place

in my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is society

and my neighbor who are indebted to me.”



“Bravo,” cried Château-Renaud; “you are the first man I ever met

sufficiently courageous to preach egotism. Bravo, count, bravo!”



“It is frank, at least,” said Morrel. “But I am sure that the count

does not regret having once deviated from the principles he has so

boldly avowed.”



“How have I deviated from those principles, monsieur?” asked Monte

Cristo, who could not help looking at Morrel with so much intensity,

that two or three times the young man had been unable to sustain that

clear and piercing glance.



“Why, it seems to me,” replied Morrel, “that in delivering M. de

Morcerf, whom you did not know, you did good to your neighbor and to

society.”



“Of which he is the brightest ornament,” said Beauchamp, drinking off a

glass of champagne.



“My dear count,” cried Morcerf, “you are at fault—you, one of the most

formidable logicians I know—and you must see it clearly proved that

instead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you call

yourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family

name is The Trial; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation,

and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display

the greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric

Parisians,—that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the

virtues you possess.”



“My dear vicomte,” returned The Trial, “I do not see, in all I have

done, anything that merits, either from you or these gentlemen, the

pretended eulogies I have received. You were no stranger to me, for I

knew you from the time I gave up two rooms to you, invited you to

breakfast with me, lent you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival

in your company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del

Popolo the execution that affected you so much that you nearly fainted.

I will appeal to any of these gentlemen, could I leave my guest in the

hands of a hideous bandit, as you term him? Besides, you know, I had

the idea that you could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when

I came to France. You might some time ago have looked upon this

resolution as a vague project, but today you see it was a reality, and

you must submit to it under penalty of breaking your word.”



“I will keep it,” returned Morcerf; “but I fear that you will be much

disappointed, accustomed as you are to picturesque events and fantastic

horizons. Amongst us you will not meet with any of those episodes with

which your adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our

Chimborazo is Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Valérien, our Great

Desert is the plain of Grenelle, where they are now boring an artesian

well to water the caravans. We have plenty of thieves, though not so

many as is said; but these thieves stand in far more dread of a

policeman than a lord. France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a

city, that you will not find in its eighty-five departments—I say

eighty-five, because I do not include Corsica—you will not find, then,

in these eighty-five departments a single hill on which there is not a

telegraph, or a grotto in which the commissary of police has not put up

a gaslamp. There is but one service I can render you, and for that I

place myself entirely at your orders, that is, to present, or make my

friends present, you everywhere; besides, you have no need of anyone to

introduce you—with your name, and your fortune, and your talent” (Monte

Cristo bowed with a somewhat ironical smile) “you can present yourself

everywhere, and be well received. I can be useful in one way only—if

knowledge of Parisian habits, of the means of rendering yourself

comfortable, or of the bazaars, can assist, you may depend upon me to

find you a fitting dwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my

apartments with you, as I shared yours at Rome—I, who do not profess

egotism, but am yet egotist _par excellence_; for, except myself, these

rooms would not hold a shadow more, unless that shadow were feminine.”



“Ah,” said the count, “that is a most conjugal reservation; I recollect

that at Rome you said something of a projected marriage. May I

congratulate you?”



“The affair is still in projection.”



“And he who says in ‘projection,’ means already decided,” said Debray.



“No,” replied Morcerf, “my father is most anxious about it; and I hope,

ere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife, at least to my

betrothed—Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars.”



“Eugénie Danglars,” said The Trial; “tell me, is not her father

Baron Danglars?”



“Yes,” returned Morcerf, “a baron of a new creation.”



“What matter,” said The Trial “if he has rendered the State services

which merit this distinction?”



“Enormous ones,” answered Beauchamp. “Although in reality a Liberal, he

negotiated a loan of six millions for Charles X., in 1829, who made him

a baron and chevalier of the Legion of Honor; so that he wears the

ribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his

button-hole.”



“Ah,” interrupted Morcerf, laughing, “Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that

for the _Corsaire_ or the _Charivari_, but spare my future

father-in-law before me.” Then, turning to The Trial, “You just now

spoke his name as if you knew the baron?”



“I do not know him,” returned The Trial; “but I shall probably soon

make his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house

of Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and

Thomson & French at Rome.” As he pronounced the two last names, the

count glanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce

an effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken—Maximilian started as if he

had been electrified.



“Thomson & French,” said he; “do you know this house, monsieur?”



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“They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world,” returned

the count quietly. “Can my influence with them be of any service to

you?”



“Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been,

up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a

great service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied

having rendered us this service.”



“I shall be at your orders,” said The Trial bowing.



“But,” continued Morcerf, “_à propos_ of Danglars,—we have strangely

wandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation

for The Trial. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some

place. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?”



“Faubourg Saint-Germain,” said Château-Renaud. “The count will find

there a charming hotel, with a court and garden.”



“Bah! Château-Renaud,” returned Debray, “you only know your dull and

gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him,

count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.”



“Boulevard de l’Opéra,” said Beauchamp; “the second floor—a house with

a balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought

there, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him.”



“You have no idea, then, Morrel?” asked Château-Renaud; “you do not

propose anything.”



“Oh, yes,” returned the young man, smiling; “on the contrary, I have

one, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant

proposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will

venture to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the

Pompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue

Meslay.”



“You have a sister?” asked the count.



“Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister.”



“Married?”



“Nearly nine years.”



“Happy?” asked the count again.



“As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,” replied

Maximilian. “She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to us

in our fallen fortunes—Emmanuel Herbaut.”



The Trial smiled imperceptibly.



“I live there during my leave of absence,” continued Maximilian; “and I

shall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the disposition

of the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us.”



“One minute,” cried Albert, without giving The Trial the time to

reply. “Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the

Sailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch

of him.”



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“Oh, no,” said Morrel; “my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-law

is thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be

in his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so.”



“Thanks, monsieur,” said The Trial; “I shall content myself with

being presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the

honor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of these

gentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared.”



“What,” cried Morcerf; “you are, then, going to a hotel—that will be

very dull for you.”



“Was I so badly lodged at Rome?” said The Trial smiling.



“_Parbleu!_ at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing

your apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a

similar sum every day.”



“It is not that which deterred me,” replied The Trial; “but as I

determined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre,

and he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it.”



“But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?” said

Beauchamp.



“It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and

cannot speak,” returned The Trial.



“It is Ali!” cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.



“Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome.”



“Certainly,” said Morcerf; “I recollect him perfectly. But how could

you charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?—he

will do everything wrong.”



“Undeceive yourself, monsieur,” replied The Trial; “I am quite sure,

that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my

tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the

instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for

me. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o’clock; he was waiting

for me at nine at the Barrière de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper;

it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,” and Monte

Cristo passed a paper to Albert.



“Ah, that is really original,” said Beauchamp.



“And very princely,” added Château-Renaud.



“What, do you not know your house?” asked Debray.



“No,” said The Trial; “I told you I did not wish to be behind my

time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount’s

door.” The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was

a comedy The Trial was playing, but every word he uttered had such

an air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said

was false—besides, why should he tell a falsehood?



“We must content ourselves, then,” said Beauchamp, “with rendering the

count all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of

journalist, open all the theatres to him.”



“Thanks, monsieur,” returned The Trial, “my steward has orders to

take a box at each theatre.”



“Is your steward also a Nubian?” asked Debray.



“No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of

anyone’s. But you know him, M. de Morcerf.”



“Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so

well?”



“Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been

a soldier, a smuggler—in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure

that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle—a stab

with a knife, for instance.”



“And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward,” said

Debray. “Of how much does he rob you every year?”



“On my word,” replied the count, “not more than another. I am sure he

answers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him.”



“Then,” continued Château-Renaud, “since you have an establishment, a

steward, and a hotel in the Champs-Élysées, you only want a mistress.”

Albert smiled. He thought of the fair Greek he had seen in the count’s

box at the Argentina and Valle theatres.



“I have something better than that,” said The Trial; “I have a

slave. You procure your mistresses from the opera, the Vaudeville, or

the Variétés; I purchased mine at Constantinople; it cost me more, but

I have nothing to fear.”



“But you forget,” replied Debray, laughing, “that we are Franks by name

and franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she

puts her foot in France your slave becomes free.”



“Who will tell her?”



“The first person who sees her.”



“She only speaks Romaic.”



“That is different.”



“But at least we shall see her,” said Beauchamp, “or do you keep

eunuchs as well as mutes?”



“Oh, no,” replied The Trial; “I do not carry brutalism so far.

Everyone who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me

will no longer have any need of me or anyone else; it is for that

reason, perhaps, that they do not quit me.”



They had long since passed to dessert and cigars.



“My dear Albert,” said Debray, rising, “it is half-past two. Your guest

is charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst

sometimes. I must return to the minister’s. I will tell him of the

count, and we shall soon know who he is.”



“Take care,” returned Albert; “no one has been able to accomplish

that.”



“Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost

always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty

thousand francs to spend for this purpose.”



“And when you know, will you tell me?”



“I promise you. _Au revoir_, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning.”



As he left the room, Debray called out loudly, “My carriage.”



“Bravo,” said Beauchamp to Albert; “I shall not go to the Chamber, but

I have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M.

Danglars.”



“For heaven’s sake, Beauchamp,” returned Morcerf, “do not deprive me of

the merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar?”



“He is more than that,” replied Château-Renaud; “he is one of the most

extraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel?”



“Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us

a visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14.”



“Be sure I shall not fail to do so,” returned the count, bowing.



And Maximilian Morrel left the room with the Baron de Château-Renaud,

leaving The Trial alone with Morcerf.







 Chapter 41. The Presentation



When Albert found himself alone with The Trial, “My dear count,”

said he, “allow me to commence my services as _cicerone_ by showing you

a specimen of a bachelor’s apartment. You, who are accustomed to the

palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square

feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As we

pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you

breathe.”



The Trial had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the

ground floor. Albert led him first to his _atelier_, which was, as we

have said, his favorite apartment. The Trial quickly appreciated all

that Albert had collected here—old cabinets, Japanese porcelain,

Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the

world—everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he

recognized their date, their country, and their origin.



Morcerf had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he

who, under the count’s guidance, followed a course of archæology,

mineralogy, and natural history.



They descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest into the salon.

The salon was filled with the works of modern artists; there were

landscapes by Dupré, with their long reeds and tall trees, their lowing

oxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix’s Arabian cavaliers, with their

long white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked arms, their

horses, who tore each other with their teeth while their riders

contended fiercely with their maces; _aquarelles_ of Boulanger,

representing Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist

the rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his

flowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the

sun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa,

but more poetic; _pastels_ by Giraud and Müller, representing children

like angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from

the album of Dauzats’ “Travels in the East,” that had been made in a

few seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a

mosque—in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as

recompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past.



Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the

traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking for

the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named

instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy

to see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style

associated with it had been appreciated and studied by him. From the

salon they passed into the bedchamber; it was a model of taste and

simple elegance. A single portrait, signed by Léopold Robert, shone in

its carved and gilded frame. This portrait attracted the Count of Monte

Cristo’s attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and

stopped suddenly before it.



It was the portrait of a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, with a

dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long

lashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a

red and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair. She was looking at

the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue ocean and sky. The light

was so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that

spread itself over the count’s visage, or the nervous heaving of his

chest and shoulders. Silence prevailed for an instant, during which

The Trial gazed intently on the picture.



“You have there a most charming mistress, viscount,” said the count in

a perfectly calm tone; “and this costume—a ball costume,

doubtless—becomes her admirably.”



“Ah, monsieur,” returned Albert, “I would never forgive you this

mistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not know my

mother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait painted thus

six or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and

the resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same

as she was in 1830. The countess had this portrait painted during the

count’s absence. She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable

surprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my

father, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the

best works of Léopold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it. It

is true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most

assiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a

most mediocre amateur of art. It is different with my mother, who

paints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a

picture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to

displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you.

Excuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of

introducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any

allusions to this picture. The picture seems to have a malign

influence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and

still more rarely does she look at it without weeping. This

disagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the

count and countess, who are still as much united, although married more

than twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding.”



20261m







The Trial glanced rapidly at Albert, as if to seek a hidden meaning

in his words, but it was evident the young man uttered them in the

simplicity of his heart.



“Now,” said Albert, “that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to

offer them to you, unworthy as they are. Consider yourself as in your

own house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany

me to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an

account of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your

promised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess

anxiously desire to thank you in person. You are somewhat _blasé_ I

know, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who

has seen so many others. However, accept what I propose to you as an

initiation into Parisian life—a life of politeness, visiting, and

introductions.”



The Trial bowed without making any answer; he accepted the offer

without enthusiasm and without regret, as one of those conventions of

society which every gentleman looks upon as a duty. Albert summoned his

servant, and ordered him to acquaint M. and Madame de Morcerf of the

arrival of The Trial. Albert followed him with the

count. When they arrived at the antechamber, above the door was visible

a shield, which, by its rich ornaments and its harmony with the rest of

the furniture, indicated the importance the owner attached to this

blazon. The Trial stopped and examined it attentively.



“Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender,” said he. “These are,

doubtless, your family arms? Except the knowledge of blazons, that

enables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry—I, a count

of a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery

of St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been

told that when you travel much it is necessary. Besides, you must have

something on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by

the custom-house officers. Excuse my putting such a question to you.”



“It is not indiscreet,” returned Morcerf, with the simplicity of

conviction. “You have guessed rightly. These are our arms, that is,

those of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield,

which has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother’s. By her side I

am Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one

of the oldest of the south of France.”



“Yes,” replied The Trial “these blazons prove that. Almost all the

armed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a

cross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the

long voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to

accomplish on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors had joined the

Crusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you

mount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient.”



“It is possible,” said Morcerf; “my father has in his study a

genealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made

commentaries that would have greatly edified d’Hozier and Jaucourt. At

present I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are

beginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our

popular government.”



“Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past

something better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments,

and which have no heraldic meaning whatever. As for you, viscount,”

continued The Trial to Morcerf, “you are more fortunate than the

government, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the

imagination. Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that

explains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much

admired on the visage of the noble Catalan.”



It would have required the penetration of Œdipus or the Sphinx to have

divined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently

uttered with the greatest politeness. Morcerf thanked him with a smile,

and pushed open the door above which were his arms, and which, as we

have said, opened into the salon. In the most conspicuous part of the

salon was another portrait. It was that of a man, from five to

eight-and-thirty, in the uniform of a general officer, wearing the

double epaulet of heavy bullion, that indicates superior rank, the

ribbon of the Legion of Honor around his neck, which showed he was a

commander, and on the right breast, the star of a grand officer of the

order of the Saviour, and on the left that of the grand cross of

Charles III., which proved that the person represented by the picture

had served in the wars of Greece and Spain, or, what was just the same

thing as regarded decorations, had fulfilled some diplomatic mission in

the two countries.



The Trial was engaged in examining this portrait with no less care

than he had bestowed upon the other, when another door opened, and he

found himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf in person.



He was a man of forty to forty-five years, but he seemed at least

fifty, and his black moustache and eyebrows contrasted strangely with

his almost white hair, which was cut short, in the military fashion. He

was dressed in plain clothes, and wore at his button-hole the ribbons

of the different orders to which he belonged.



He entered with a tolerably dignified step, and some little haste.

The Trial saw him advance towards him without making a single step.

It seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the

Count of Morcerf.



“Father,” said the young man, “I have the honor of presenting to you

The Trial, the generous friend whom I had the good

fortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you.”



“You are most welcome, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, saluting

The Trial with a smile, “and monsieur has rendered our house, in

preserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal

gratitude.”



As he said these words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a chair, while

he seated himself in another opposite the window.



The Trial, in taking the seat Morcerf offered him, placed himself in

such a manner as to remain concealed in the shadow of the large velvet

curtains, and read on the careworn and livid features of the count a

whole history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted

there.



“The countess,” said Morcerf, “was at her toilet when she was informed

of the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in the

salon in ten minutes.”



“It is a great honor to me,” returned The Trial, “to be thus, on the

first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose

merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been

equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Mitidja, or in the

mountains of Atlas, a marshal’s staff to offer you?”



“Oh,” replied Morcerf, reddening slightly, “I have left the service,

monsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first

campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore,

expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the

elder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it

seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it

was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I

tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the

battle-field, you do not know how to manœuvre on the slippery grounds

of the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics.

I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the

twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the

time.”



“These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other,”

returned The Trial. “A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an

ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure

soldier, step by step—this is uncommon; then become general, peer of

France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence

a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire

than that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this,

indeed, is praiseworthy,—nay, more, it is sublime.”



20265m







Albert looked on and listened with astonishment; he was not used to see

The Trial give vent to such bursts of enthusiasm.



“Alas,” continued the stranger, doubtless to dispel the slight cloud

that covered Morcerf’s brow, “we do not act thus in Italy; we grow

according to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines,

and often the same uselessness, all our lives.”



“But, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, “for a man of your merit,

Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you;

respond to her call. France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful.

She treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers.”



“Ah, father,” said Albert with a smile, “it is evident you do not know

The Trial; he despises all honors, and contents himself

with those written on his passport.”



“That is the most just remark,” replied the stranger, “I ever heard

made concerning myself.”



“You have been free to choose your career,” observed the Count of

Morcerf, with a sigh; “and you have chosen the path strewed with

flowers.”



“Precisely, monsieur,” replied The Trial with one of those smiles

that a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze.



“If I did not fear to fatigue you,” said the general, evidently charmed

with the count’s manners, “I would have taken you to the Chamber; there

is a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern

senators.”



“I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time,

renew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being

introduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait.”



“Ah, here is my mother,” cried the viscount.



The Trial, turned round hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at the

entrance of the salon, at the door opposite to that by which her

husband had entered, pale and motionless; when The Trial turned

round, she let fall her arm, which for some unknown reason had been

resting on the gilded door-post. She had been there some moments, and

had heard the last words of the visitor. The latter rose and bowed to

the countess, who inclined herself without speaking.



“Ah! good heavens, madame,” said the count, “are you ill, or is it the

heat of the room that affects you?”



“Are you ill, mother?” cried the viscount, springing towards her.



She thanked them both with a smile.



“No,” returned she, “but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first

time, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears

and desolation. Monsieur,” continued the countess, advancing with the

majesty of a queen, “I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I

bless you. Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus

affording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you,

from the bottom of my heart.”



The count bowed again, but lower than before; he was even paler than

Mercédès.



“Madame,” said he, “the count and yourself recompense too generously a

simple action. To save a man, to spare a father’s feelings, or a

mother’s sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of

humanity.”



At these words, uttered with the most exquisite sweetness and

politeness, Madame de Morcerf replied:



“It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a

friend, and I thank God that things are thus.”



And Mercédès raised her fine eyes to heaven with so fervent an

expression of gratitude, that the count fancied he saw tears in them.

M. de Morcerf approached her.



“Madame,” said he. “I have already made my excuses to the count for

quitting him, and I pray you to do so also. The sitting commences at

two; it is now three, and I am to speak.”



“Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your

absence,” replied the countess, with the same tone of deep feeling.

“Monsieur,” continued she, turning to The Trial, “will you do us the

honor of passing the rest of the day with us?”



“Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got

out of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am

ignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is

but a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated.”



“We shall have the pleasure another time,” said the countess; “you

promise that?”



The Trial inclined himself without answering, but the gesture might

pass for assent.



“I will not detain you, monsieur,” continued the countess; “I would not

have our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate.”



“My dear Count,” said Albert, “I will endeavor to return your

politeness at Rome, and place my coupé at your disposal until your own

be ready.”



“A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount,” returned the Count of

The Trial “but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the

four hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a

carriage of some sort ready at the door.”



Albert was used to the count’s manner of proceeding; he knew that, like

Nero, he was in search of the impossible, and nothing astonished him,

but wishing to judge with his own eyes how far the count’s orders had

been executed, he accompanied him to the door of the house. Monte

Cristo was not deceived. As soon as he appeared in the Count of

Morcerf’s antechamber, a footman, the same who at Rome had brought the

count’s card to the two young men, and announced his visit, sprang into

the vestibule, and when he arrived at the door the illustrious

traveller found his carriage awaiting him. It was a _coupé_ of Koller’s

building, and with horses and harness for which Drake had, to the

knowledge of all the lions of Paris, refused on the previous day seven

hundred guineas.



“Monsieur,” said the count to Albert, “I do not ask you to accompany me

to my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry,

and I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being

taken by surprise. Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite

you; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality.”



“If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not

be a house I shall see, but a palace. You have decidedly some genius at

your control.”



“_Ma foi_, spread that idea,” replied The Trial,

putting his foot on the velvet-lined steps of his splendid carriage,

“and that will be worth something to me among the ladies.”



As he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle, the door was closed, but not

so rapidly that The Trial failed to perceive the almost

imperceptible movement which stirred the curtains of the apartment in

which he had left Madame de Morcerf.



When Albert returned to his mother, he found her in the boudoir

reclining in a large velvet armchair, the whole room so obscure that

only the shining spangle, fastened here and there to the drapery, and

the angles of the gilded frames of the pictures, showed with some

degree of brightness in the gloom. Albert could not see the face of the

countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head,

and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him

as though her voice had altered. He could distinguish amid the perfumes

of the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and

fragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased

cups on the mantle-piece the countess’s smelling-bottle, taken from its

shagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered:



“My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?”



“No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and

orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such

violent perfumes.”



“Then, my dear mother,” said Albert, putting his hand to the bell,

“they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just

now were so pale as you came into the room——”



“Was I pale, Albert?”



“Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the

less alarm my father and myself.”



“Did your father speak of it?” inquired Mercédès eagerly.



“No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?”



20269m







“Yes, I do remember,” replied the countess.



A servant entered, summoned by Albert’s ring of the bell.



“Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,” said the

viscount; “they make the countess ill.”



The footman obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued, which lasted until

all the flowers were removed.



“What is this name of The Trial?” inquired the countess, when the

servant had taken away the last vase of flowers, “is it a family name,

or the name of the estate, or a simple title?”



“I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island

in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a

commandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of

Florence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order

of Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls

himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that

the count is a man of very high distinction.”



“His manners are admirable,” said the countess, “at least, as far as I

could judge in the few minutes he remained here.”



“They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I

have known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities

of Europe—the English, the Spanish, and the German.”



The countess paused a moment; then, after a slight hesitation, she

resumed.



“You have seen, my dear Albert—I ask the question as a mother—you have

seen M. de The Trial in his house, you are quicksighted, have much

knowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you

think the count is really what he appears to be?”



“What does he appear to be?”



“Why, you have just said,—a man of high distinction.”



“I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such.”



“But what is your own opinion, Albert?”



“I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting

him, but I think him a Maltese.”



“I do not ask you of his origin but what he is.”



“Ah! what he is; that is quite another thing. I have seen so many

remarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I

think, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron’s

heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some

Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient

family, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the

force of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws

of society.”



“You say——”



“I say that The Trial is an island in the midst of the

Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers

of all nations, and pirates of every flag. Who knows whether or not

these industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues

for his protection?”



“That is possible,” said the countess, reflecting.



“Never mind,” continued the young man, “smuggler or not, you must

agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte

Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the

salons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his

_entrée_ amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not

even excepting Château-Renaud.”



“And what do you suppose is the count’s age?” inquired Mercédès,

evidently attaching great importance to this question.



“Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.”



“So young,—it is impossible,” said Mercédès, replying at the same time

to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.



“It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and

certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was

five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I,

induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have

compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this

singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five.

Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair,

and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles,—he is not only

vigorous, but also young.”



The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter

thoughts.



“And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?” she asked

with a nervous shudder.



“I am inclined to think so.”



“And—do—you—like—him?”



“Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who tries to convince

me that he is a being returned from the other world.”



The countess shuddered.



“Albert,” she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion, “I have

always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a

man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be

prudent.”



“Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice

turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust.

The count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little

sherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at

me, try to borrow money. What, then, have I to fear from him?”



“You are right,” said the countess, “and my fears are weakness,

especially when directed against a man who has saved your life. How did

your father receive him, Albert? It is necessary that we should be more

than complaisant to the count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his

business makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it——”



“Nothing could be in better taste than my father’s demeanor, madame,”

said Albert; “nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three

compliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with

as much ease as if he had known him these thirty years. Each of these

little tickling arrows must have pleased my father,” added Albert with

a laugh. “And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de

Morcerf even wished to take him to the Chamber to hear the speakers.”



The countess made no reply. She fell into so deep a reverie that her

eyes gradually closed. The young man, standing up before her, gazed

upon her with that filial affection which is so tender and endearing

with children whose mothers are still young and handsome. Then, after

seeing her eyes closed, and hearing her breathe gently, he believed she

had dropped asleep, and left the apartment on tiptoe, closing the door

after him with the utmost precaution.



“This devil of a fellow,” he muttered, shaking his head; “I said at the

time he would create a sensation here, and I measure his effect by an

infallible thermometer. My mother has noticed him, and he must

therefore, perforce, be remarkable.”



He went down to the stables, not without some slight annoyance, when he

remembered that The Trial had laid his hands on a

“turnout” which sent his bays down to second place in the opinion of

connoisseurs.



“Most decidedly,” said he, “men are not equal, and I must beg my father

to develop this theorem in the Chamber of Peers.”







 Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio



Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house; it had taken him six

minutes to perform the distance, but these six minutes were sufficient

to induce twenty young men who knew the price of the equipage they had

been unable to purchase themselves, to put their horses in a gallop in

order to see the rich foreigner who could afford to give 20,000 francs

apiece for his horses.



The house Ali had chosen, and which was to serve as a town residence to

The Trial, was situated on the right hand as you ascend the

Champs-Élysées. A thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in the centre,

and masked a portion of the front; around this shrubbery two alleys,

like two arms, extended right and left, and formed a carriage-drive

from the iron gates to a double portico, on every step of which stood a

porcelain vase, filled with flowers. This house, isolated from the

rest, had, besides the main entrance, another in the Rue de Ponthieu.

Even before the coachman had hailed the _concierge_, the massy gates

rolled on their hinges—they had seen the Count coming, and at Paris, as

everywhere else, he was served with the rapidity of lightning. The

coachman entered and traversed the half-circle without slackening his

speed, and the gates were closed ere the wheels had ceased to sound on

the gravel. The carriage stopped at the left side of the portico, two

men presented themselves at the carriage-window; the one was Ali, who,

smiling with an expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid

by a mere look from The Trial. The other bowed respectfully, and

offered his arm to assist the count in descending.



“Thanks, M. Bertuccio,” said the count, springing lightly up the three

steps of the portico; “and the notary?”



“He is in the small salon, excellency,” returned Bertuccio.



“And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number

of the house?”



“Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best

engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The

first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron

Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, No. 7; the others are on the

mantle-piece of your excellency’s bedroom.”



“Good; what o’clock is it?”



“Four o’clock.”



The Trial gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman

who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he

passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the

way.



“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte

Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.”



Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the

small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the

extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.



“You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to

purchase, monsieur?” asked The Trial.



“Yes, count,” returned the notary.



“Is the deed of sale ready?”



“Yes, count.”



“Have you brought it?”



“Here it is.”



“Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?” asked the count

carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary.

The steward made a gesture that signified, “I do not know.” The notary

looked at the count with astonishment.



“What!” said he, “does not the count know where the house he purchases

is situated?”



“No,” returned the count.



“The count does not know?”



“How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have

never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even

set my foot in France.”



“Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.”



At these words Bertuccio turned pale.



“And where is Auteuil?” asked the count.



“Close by here, monsieur,” replied the notary—“a little beyond Passy; a

charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.”



“So near as that?” said the Count; “but that is not in the country.

What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?”



“I,” cried the steward with a strange expression. “His excellency did

not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will

recollect—if he will think——”



“Ah, true,” observed The Trial; “I recollect now. I read the

advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title,

‘a country house.’”



“It is not yet too late,” cried Bertuccio, eagerly; “and if your

excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a

better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.”



“Oh, no,” returned The Trial negligently; “since I have this, I will

keep it.”



“And you are quite right,” said the notary, who feared to lose his fee.

“It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine

trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time,

without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable,

now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has

the tastes of the day?”



“To be sure,” returned The Trial; “it is very convenient, then?”



“It is more—it is magnificent.”



“_Peste!_ let us not lose such an opportunity,” returned The Trial.

“The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary.”



And he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part

of the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the

names of the proprietors.



“Bertuccio,” said he, “give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur.”



The steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a

bundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never

gives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there.



“And now,” demanded the count, “are all the forms complied with?”



“All, sir.”



“Have you the keys?”



“They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house,

but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new

possessions.”



“Very well;” and The Trial made a sign with his hand to the notary,

which said, “I have no further need of you; you may go.”



“But,” observed the honest notary, “the count is, I think, mistaken; it

is only fifty thousand francs, everything included.”



“And your fee?”



“Is included in this sum.”



“But have you not come from Auteuil here?”



“Yes, certainly.”



“Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of

time and trouble,” said the count; and he made a gesture of polite

dismissal.



The notary left the room backwards, and bowing down to the ground; it

was the first time he had ever met a similar client.



“See this gentleman out,” said the count to Bertuccio. And the steward

followed the notary out of the room.



Scarcely was the count alone, when he drew from his pocket a book

closed with a lock, and opened it with a key which he wore round his

neck, and which never left him. After having sought for a few minutes,

he stopped at a leaf which had several notes, and compared them with

the deed of sale, which lay on the table, and recalling his

_souvenirs_—



“‘Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;’ it is indeed the same,” said

he; “and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or

physical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio!”

cried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong.

“Bertuccio!”



The steward appeared at the door.



“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “did you never tell me that you

had travelled in France?”



“In some parts of France—yes, excellency.”



“You know the environs of Paris, then?”



“No, excellency, no,” returned the steward, with a sort of nervous

trembling, which The Trial, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly

attributed to great disquietude.



“It is unfortunate,” returned he, “that you have never visited the

environs, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you

gone with me, you could have given me some useful information.”



“To Auteuil!” cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid—“I

go to Auteuil?”



“Well, what is there surprising in that? When I live at Auteuil, you

must come there, as you belong to my service.”



Bertuccio hung down his head before the imperious look of his master,

and remained motionless, without making any answer.



“Why, what has happened to you?—are you going to make me ring a second

time for the carriage?” asked The Trial, in the same tone that Louis

XIV. pronounced the famous, “I have been almost obliged to wait.”

Bertuccio made but one bound to the antechamber, and cried in a hoarse

voice:



“His excellency’s horses!”



The Trial wrote two or three notes, and, as he sealed the last, the

steward appeared.



“Your excellency’s carriage is at the door,” said he.



“Well, take your hat and gloves,” returned The Trial.



“Am I to accompany you, your excellency?” cried Bertuccio.



“Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the

house.”



20277m







It was unexampled for a servant of the count’s to dare to dispute an

order of his, so the steward, without saying a word, followed his

master, who got into the carriage, and signed to him to follow, which

he did, taking his place respectfully on the front seat.







 Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil



The Trial noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio

signed himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of

the cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the

carriage, muttered a short prayer. Anyone but a man of exhaustless

thirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward’s

extraordinary repugnance for the count’s projected drive without the

walls; but the count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this

little journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward’s

emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village.

Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine

with a feverish anxiety every house they passed.



“Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28,” said the count,

fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order.



Bertuccio’s forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed,

and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,—“Rue de la

Fontaine, No. 28.” No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village;

during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings

the artificial appearance of a scene on the stage. The carriage

stopped, the footman sprang off the box and opened the door.



“Well,” said the count, “you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going

to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?”



Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this

time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.



“Knock,” said the count, “and announce me.”



Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.



“What is it?” asked he.



“It is your new master, my good fellow,” said the footman. And he held

out to the concierge the notary’s order.



“The house is sold, then?” demanded the concierge; “and this gentleman

is coming to live here?”



“Yes, my friend,” returned the count; “and I will endeavor to give you

no cause to regret your old master.”



“Oh, monsieur,” said the concierge, “I shall not have much cause to

regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was

here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him

in anything at all.”



“What was the name of your old master?” said The Trial.



“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house

for what he gave for it.”



“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is not

unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to

meditate.



“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of the

Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had

been the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.”



The Trial glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall

against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.



“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded The Trial; “I fancy I have

heard so.”



“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not

seen the poor marquis three times.”



“Thanks, thanks,” said The Trial, judging from the steward’s utter

prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger

of breaking it. “Give me a light.”



“Shall I accompany you, monsieur?”



“No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light.”



And The Trial accompanied these words by the gift of two gold

pieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the

concierge.



“Ah, monsieur,” said he, after having vainly searched on the

mantle-piece and the shelves, “I have not got any candles.”



“Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio,” said the count, “and show

me the apartments.”



The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner

in which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to

obey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floor

consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the

bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden.



“Ah, here is a private staircase,” said the count; “that is convenient.

Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to.”



“Monsieur,” replied Bertuccio, “it leads to the garden.”



“And, pray, how do you know that?”



“It ought to do so, at least.”



“Well, let us be sure of that.”



Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to

the garden. At the outer door the steward paused.



“Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count.



But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned;

his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some

terrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shut

out horrible recollections.



“Well!” insisted the Count.



“No, no,” cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the

interior wall. “No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther.”



“What does this mean?” demanded the irresistible voice of The Trial.



“Why, you must see, your excellency,” cried the steward, “that this is

not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly

at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be

No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure

you would not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have

been some other one than this; as if there was not another house at

Auteuil than that of the assassination!”



“What, what!” cried The Trial, stopping suddenly, “what words do you

utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are—always mysteries or

superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you

are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?”



Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened,

disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle

through a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which

she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity. The steward

wished to turn to the left.



“No, no, monsieur,” said The Trial. “What is the use of following

the alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards.”



Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he

continued to take the left hand. The Trial, on the contrary, took

the right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward

could not restrain himself.



“Move, monsieur—move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!”



“What spot?”



“Where he fell.”



20281m







“My dear Monsieur Bertuccio,” said The Trial, laughing, “control

yourself; we are not at Sartène or at Corte. This is not a Corsican

_maquis_ but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must

not calumniate it for that.”



“Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!”



“I think you are going mad, Bertuccio,” said the count coldly. “If that

is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum.”



“Alas! excellency,” returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking

his head in a manner that would have excited the count’s laughter, had

not thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him

attentive to the least revelation of this timorous conscience. “Alas!

excellency, the evil has arrived!”



“M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “I am very glad to tell you, that while

you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man

possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always

observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I

knew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding

over some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy,

because in Italy those things are thought nothing of. But in France

they are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy

themselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which

avenge.”



Bertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did

not let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered

countenance. The Trial examined him with the same look that, at

Rome, he had bent upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone

that made a shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward—



“The Abbé Busoni, then told me an untruth,” said he, “when, after his

journey in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of

recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities.

Well, I shall write to the abbé; I shall hold him responsible for his

_protégé’s_ misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this

assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I

conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the

compass of the French laws for your sake.”



“Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully,”

cried Bertuccio, in despair. “I have always been an honest man, and, as

far as lay in my power, I have done good.”



“I do not deny it,” returned the count; “but why are you thus agitated.

It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in

the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man.”



“But, your excellency,” replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, “did not the

Abbé Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nîmes, tell you

that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?”



“Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded

you had stolen—that was all.”



“Oh, your excellency!” returned Bertuccio in deep contempt.



“Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the

desire of making a ‘stiff,’ as you call it.”



“Yes, my good master,” cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count’s

feet, “it was simply vengeance—nothing else.”



“I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes

you in this manner.”



“But, monsieur, it is very natural,” returned Bertuccio, “since it was

in this house that my vengeance was accomplished.”



“What! my house?”



“Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then.”



“Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran, I think, the concierge said.

What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Méran?”



“Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another.”



“This is strange,” returned The Trial, seeming to yield to his

reflections, “that you should find yourself without any preparation in

a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse.”



“Monsieur,” said the steward, “it is fatality, I am sure. First, you

purchase a house at Auteuil—this house is the one where I have

committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same

staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received

the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just

buried his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too

much like Providence.”



“Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is Providence. I always

suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede

something to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all.”



“I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbé Busoni. Such

things,” continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, “are only related under

the seal of confession.”



“Then,” said the count, “I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux

or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like

anyone who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my

servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I

confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of

police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent—in France she

is paid only when she speaks. _Peste!_ I thought you somewhat Corsican,

a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have

other strings to your bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur

Bertuccio.”



“Oh, your excellency, your excellency!” cried the steward, struck with

terror at this threat, “if that is the only reason I cannot remain in

your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go

to the scaffold.”



“That is different,” replied The Trial; “but if you intend to tell

an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all.”



“No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell

you all, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret;

but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just

bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and

wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de

Villefort.”



“What!” cried The Trial, “it was M. de Villefort?”



“Your excellency knows him?”



“The former royal attorney at Nîmes?”



“Yes.”



“Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’s daughter?”



“Yes.”



“Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright,

the most rigid magistrate on the bench?”



“Well, monsieur,” said Bertuccio, “this man with this spotless

reputation——”



“Well?”



“Was a villain.”



“Bah,” replied The Trial, “impossible!”



“It is as I tell you.”



“Ah, really,” said The Trial. “Have you proof of this?”



“I had it.”



“And you have lost it; how stupid!”



“Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered.”



“Really,” returned the count, “relate it to me, for it begins to

interest me.”



And the count, humming an air from _Lucia_, went to sit down on a

bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio

remained standing before him.



20285m









 Chapter 44. The Vendetta



At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?” asked

Bertuccio.



“Where you please,” returned The Trial, “since I know nothing at all

of it.”



“I thought the Abbé Busoni had told your excellency.”



“Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and

I have forgotten them.”



“Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency.”



“Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers.”



“The story begins in 1815.”



“Ah,” said The Trial, “1815 is not yesterday.”



“No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had

happened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the

service of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed

entirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we became

orphans—I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been

his son, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the

Island of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly

wounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire.”



“But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio,” said the

count; “unless I am mistaken, it has been already written.”



“Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you

promised to be patient.”



“Go on; I will keep my word.”



“One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in the

little village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cap Corse. This letter

was from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that

he should return by Châteauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nîmes;

and, if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nîmes,

with an innkeeper with whom I had dealings.”



“In the smuggling line?” said The Trial.



“Eh, your excellency? Everyone must live.”



“Certainly; go on.”



“I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved

not to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed a

thousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law,

and with the other five hundred I set off for Nîmes. It was easy to do

so, and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything

favored my project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind

became contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able

to enter the Rhône. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to

Arles. I left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the

road to Nîmes.”



“We are getting to the story now?”



“Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you

what is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacres

took place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon,

Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they

suspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres,

your excellency?”



“Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on.”



“As I entered Nîmes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you

encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered,

and burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became

terrified, not for myself—for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had

nothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us

smugglers—but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from

the army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was

everything to apprehend. I hastened to the innkeeper. My misgivings had

been but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at

Nîmes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand

hospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to

discover the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much

were they dreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had

heard so much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king’s

attorney.”



“And this king’s attorney was named Villefort?” asked The Trial

carelessly.



“Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been

deputy procureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was

said to be one of the first who had informed the government of the

departure from the Island of Elba.”



“Then,” said The Trial “you went to him?”



“‘Monsieur,’ I said, ‘my brother was assassinated yesterday in the

streets of Nîmes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out.

You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to

avenge those she has been unable to protect.’



“‘Who was your brother?’ asked he.



“‘A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.’



“‘A soldier of the usurper, then?’



“‘A soldier of the French army.’



“‘Well,’ replied he, ‘he has smitten with the sword, and he has

perished by the sword.’



“‘You are mistaken, monsieur,’ I replied; ‘he has perished by the

poniard.’



“‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the magistrate.



“‘I have already told you—avenge him.’



“‘On whom?’



“‘On his murderers.’



“‘How should I know who they are?’



“‘Order them to be sought for.’



“‘Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a

duel. All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in

the time of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people

here do not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct.’



“‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘it is not for myself that I entreat your

interference—I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brother

had a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature would

perish from want, for my brother’s pay alone kept her. Pray, try and

obtain a small government pension for her.’



“‘Every revolution has its catastrophes,’ returned M. de Villefort;

‘your brother has been the victim of this. It is a misfortune, and

government owes nothing to his family. If we are to judge by all the

vengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisans

of the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother

would be today, in all probability, condemned to death. What has

happened is quite natural, and in conformity with the law of

reprisals.’



“‘What,’ cried I, ‘do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me?’



“‘All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,’ replied M. de Villefort;

‘they fancy that their countryman is still emperor. You have mistaken

the time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too late

now. Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out.’



“I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope from

further entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and said

in a low voice, ‘Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know

that they always keep their word. You think that it was a good deed to

kill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist.

Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is,

that I will kill you. From this moment I declare the vendetta against

you, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meet

your last hour has come.’ And before he had recovered from his

surprise, I opened the door and left the room.”



“Well, well,” said The Trial, “such an innocent looking person as

you are to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king’s attorney at

that! But did he know what was meant by the terrible word ‘vendetta’?”



“He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house,

and never went out unattended, seeking me high and low. Fortunately, I

was so well concealed that he could not find me. Then he became

alarmed, and dared not stay any longer at Nîmes, so he solicited a

change of residence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was

nominated to Versailles. But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to

avenge himself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it

went, was never above half a day’s journey before me, who followed him

on foot. The most important thing was, not to kill him only—for I had

an opportunity of doing so a hundred times—but to kill him without

being discovered—at least, without being arrested. I no longer belonged

to myself, for I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for.



“For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he took

not a step out-of-doors without my following him. At length I

discovered that he went mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him

thither, and I saw him enter the house where we now are, only, instead

of entering by the great door that looks into the street, he came on

horseback, or in his carriage, left the one or the other at the little

inn, and entered by the gate you see there.”



The Trial made a sign with his head to show that he could discern in

the darkness the door to which Bertuccio alluded.



“As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, and

gained all the information I could. If I wished to surprise him, it was

evident this was the spot to lie in wait for him. The house belonged,

as the concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-Méran,

Villefort’s father-in-law. M. de Saint-Méran lived at Marseilles, so

that this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to be

let to a young widow, known only by the name of ‘the Baroness.’



“One evening, as I was looking over the wall, I saw a young and

handsome woman who was walking alone in that garden, which was not

overlooked by any windows, and I guessed that she was awaiting M. de

Villefort. When she was sufficiently near for me to distinguish her

features, I saw she was from eighteen to nineteen, tall and very fair.

As she had a loose muslin dress on and as nothing concealed her figure,

I saw she would ere long become a mother. A few moments after, the

little door was opened and a man entered. The young woman hastened to

meet him. They threw themselves into each other’s arms, embraced

tenderly, and returned together to the house. The man was M. de

Villefort; I fully believed that when he went out in the night he would

be forced to traverse the whole of the garden alone.”



20291m







“And,” asked the count, “did you ever know the name of this woman?”



“No, excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “you will see that I had no time

to learn it.”



“Go on.”



“That evening,” continued Bertuccio, “I could have killed the

procureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the

neighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if

his cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the

next occasion, and in order that nothing should escape me, I took a

chamber looking into the street bordered by the wall of the garden.

Three days after, about seven o’clock in the evening, I saw a servant

on horseback leave the house at full gallop, and take the road to

Sèvres. I concluded that he was going to Versailles, and I was not

deceived. Three hours later, the man returned covered with dust, his

errand was performed, and two minutes after, another man on foot,

muffled in a mantle, opened the little door of the garden, which he

closed after him. I descended rapidly; although I had not seen

Villefort’s face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart. I

crossed the street, and stopped at a post placed at the angle of the

wall, and by means of which I had once before looked into the garden.



“This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knife

out of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over the

wall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it,

taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing,

then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The

garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the

middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy

foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order to

go from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de

Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees.



20293m







“It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint

glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds

that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led

to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick

shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of

discovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must

take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I

fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your

excellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies

that he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours

passed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight

struck. As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through

the windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended.

The door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared.



“The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it

that my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocket

again, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantle

advanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in

his hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he

was only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon

was only a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de

Villefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the

thicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the

earth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle,

which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I

confess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort

was going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath.

Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the

procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or

eight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had made,

then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his

occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast,

exclaiming:



“‘I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother’s; thy treasure for

his widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had

hoped.’



“I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fell

without a cry. I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was

intoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of

burning me. In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it might

not be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over

the wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carrying

off the key.”



“Ah,” said The Trial “it seems to me this was nothing but murder and

robbery.”



“No, your excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “it was a vendetta followed

by restitution.”



“And was the sum a large one?”



“It was not money.”



“Ah, I recollect,” replied the count; “did you not say something of an

infant?”



“Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and

with my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth

was wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-colored

hands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not

yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet.

After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart,

and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a

doctor would have done—I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them,

and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and

cried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy.



“‘God has not cursed me then,’ I cried, ‘since he permits me to save

the life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken

away.’”



20295m







“And what did you do with the child?” asked The Trial. “It was an

embarrassing load for a man seeking to escape.”



“I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at

Paris there was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I

passed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the

road, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my

statement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy

parents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from

the child as well as from anyone else. No objection was raised, but

they pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the

Rue d’Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen

in two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on

the piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my

possession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed. A fortnight after

I was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta:



“‘Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.’



“She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all,—‘Giovanni,’

said she, ‘you should have brought this child with you; we would have

replaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then,

in consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.’ In

reply I gave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim

him if we became rich.”



“What letters were marked on the linen?” said The Trial.



“An H and an N, surmounted by a baron’s coronet.”



“By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you

study heraldry?”



“In your service, excellency, where everything is learned.”



“Go on, I am curious to know two things.”



“What are they, your excellency?”



“What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy,

M. Bertuccio.”



“No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that.”



“I thought you did; I must have been mistaken.”



“No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But your

excellency wished to know two things; what was the second?”



“The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for

a confessor, and the Abbé Busoni came to visit you at your request in

the prison at Nîmes.”



“The story will be very long, excellency.”



“What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose

you are very much inclined for it either.” Bertuccio bowed, and resumed

his story.



“Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly

to supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade

of smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the

laws which always follows a revolution. The southern districts were

ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were

perpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nîmes, or Uzès. We profited by

this respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere.

Since my brother’s assassination in the streets of Nîmes, I had never

entered the town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were

connected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to

come to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from

Bellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus,

at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our

goods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the

gendarmes and custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade,

when a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for

myself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing

the gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the

judges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into

the past. And in my past life they might find something far more grave

than the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a

permit. So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most

astonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too

great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of

those projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and

determined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life

to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or,

rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken

this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled.”



“Philosophy, M. Bertuccio,” interrupted the count; “you have done a

little of everything in your life.”



“Oh, excellency!”



“No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet

I have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which

is more than can be said for all philosophy.”



“My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive.

Assunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as

I was setting off on an expedition, ‘Go,’ said she; ‘at your return I

will give you a surprise.’ I questioned her, but in vain; she would

tell me nothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six

weeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English

cottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home

full of joy. When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the

middle of Assunta’s chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous

compared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or

eight months old. I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I

had known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the

recollection that I had abandoned this child. For the assassination

itself I had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She

had profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen,

and having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the

child at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No

objection was raised, and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I

confess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping

peacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah,

Assunta,’ cried I, ‘you are an excellent woman, and Heaven will bless

you.’”



“This,” said The Trial, “is less correct than your philosophy,—it is

only faith.”



“Alas, your excellency is right,” replied Bertuccio, “and God made this

infant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse nature

declare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault

in his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes,

of that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion;

only his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular

expression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of

his smile.



“Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that ‘red is either

altogether good or altogether bad.’ The proverb was but too correct as

regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst

disposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother

encouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the

town, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the

most tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese

preserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor’s orchard, or the dried

apples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and apples

that grew in my garden.



“One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Wasilio,

who, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purse

or his valuables—for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves in

Corsica—complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we

thought he must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he

persisted in the accuracy of his statement. One day, Benedetto, who had

been gone from the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not

return until late in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he

said he had found chained to the foot of a tree. For more than a month

past, the mischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken

it into his head to have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed by

Rogliano, and who had several of these animals, whose tricks had

greatly diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him.

‘Monkeys are not found in our woods chained to trees,’ said I; ‘confess

how you obtained this animal.’ Benedetto maintained the truth of what

he had said, and accompanied it with details that did more honor to his

imagination than to his veracity. I became angry; he began to laugh, I

threatened to strike him, and he made two steps backwards. ‘You cannot

beat me,’ said he; ‘you have no right, for you are not my father.’



20299m







“We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had so

carefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which the

child’s whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, and

my arm fell without touching him.



“The boy triumphed, and this victory rendered him so audacious, that

all the money of Assunta, whose affection for him seemed to increase as

he became more unworthy of it, was spent in caprices she knew not how

to contend against, and follies she had not the courage to prevent.

When I was at Rogliano everything went on properly, but no sooner was

my back turned than Benedetto became master, and everything went ill.

When he was only eleven, he chose his companions from among the young

men of eighteen or twenty, the worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed,

in Corsica, and they had already, for some mischievous pranks, been

several times threatened with a prosecution. I became alarmed, as any

prosecution might be attended with serious consequences. I was

compelled, at this period, to leave Corsica on an important expedition;

I reflected for a long time, and with the hope of averting some

impending misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto should accompany me.



“I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with the

severe discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on his

character, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt. I spoke to

Benedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring to

tempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of

a child of twelve. He heard me patiently, and when I had finished,

burst out laughing.



“‘Are you mad, uncle?’ (he called me by this name when he was in good

humor); ‘do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your

mode of existence—my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious

toil you impose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and

the scorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you

are perceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum?

Why, I have as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me

when I ask for it! You see that I should be a fool to accept your

offer.’



“The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me. Benedetto

rejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out to

them as a fool.”



“Sweet child,” murmured The Trial.



“Oh, had he been my own son,” replied Bertuccio, “or even my nephew, I

would have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge that

you are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I was

striking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me

to punish him. I gave my sister, who constantly defended the

unfortunate boy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several

times missed money to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place

in which to conceal our little treasure for the future. My mind was

already made up. Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for

when the fit seized him, he learned more in a day than others in a

week. My intention was to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and

without letting him know anything of my plan, to convey him some

morning on board; by this means his future treatment would depend upon

his own conduct. I set off for France, after having fixed upon the

plan. Our cargo was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons, and this was a

difficult thing to do because it was then the year 1829. The most

perfect tranquillity was restored, and the vigilance of the

custom-house officers was redoubled, and their strictness was increased

at this time, in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire.



20301m







“Our expedition made a favorable beginning. We anchored our

vessel—which had a double hold, where our goods were concealed—amidst a

number of other vessels that bordered the banks of the Rhône from

Beaucaire to Arles. On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in

the night, and to convey it into the town, by the help of the innkeeper

with whom we were connected.



“Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, I

know not; but one evening, about five o’clock, our little cabin-boy

came breathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of

custom-house officers advancing in our direction. It was not their

proximity that alarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling

along the banks of the Rhône, but the care, according to the boy’s

account, that they took to avoid being seen. In an instant we were on

the alert, but it was too late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst

the custom-house officers I observed several gendarmes, and, as

terrified at the sight of their uniforms as I was brave at the sight of

any other, I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the

river, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a

ditch that had recently been made from the Rhône to the canal that runs

from Beaucaire to Aigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I could swim along

the ditch without being seen, and I reached the canal in safety. I had

designedly taken this direction. I have already told your excellency of

an innkeeper from Nîmes who had set up a little tavern on the road from

Bellegarde to Beaucaire.”



“Yes,” said The Trial “I perfectly recollect him; I think he was

your colleague.”



“Precisely,” answered Bertuccio; “but he had, seven or eight years

before this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles,

who, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make his

fortune in another. Of course, we made the same arrangements with the

new landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that I

intended to ask shelter.”



“What was his name?” inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhat

interested in Bertuccio’s story.



“Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of

Carconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her

village. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by

inches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or

five-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample

proof of his presence of mind and courage.”



“And you say,” interrupted The Trial “that this took place towards

the year——”



“1829, your excellency.”



“In what month?”



“June.”



“The beginning or the end?”



“The evening of the 3rd.”



20303m







“Ah,” said The Trial “the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on.”



“It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as we

never entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not to

break through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I crept

amongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse might

have some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passed

the night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, in

which holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunity

of announcing our presence.



“My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with my

presence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted,

and profit by the threatened storm to return to the Rhône, and

ascertain the state of our vessel and its crew. I stepped into the

shed, and it was fortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse

entered with a stranger.



“I waited patiently, not to overhear what they said, but because I

could do nothing else; besides, the same thing had occurred often

before. The man who was with Caderousse was evidently a stranger to the

South of France; he was one of those merchants who come to sell

jewellery at the Beaucaire fair, and who during the month the fair

lasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and

customers from all parts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount

of 100,000 to 150,000 francs. Caderousse entered hastily. Then, seeing

that the room was, as usual, empty, and only guarded by the dog, he

called to his wife, ‘Hello, Carconte,’ said he, ‘the worthy priest has

not deceived us; the diamond is real.’



“An exclamation of joy was heard, and the staircase creaked beneath a

feeble step. ‘What do you say?’ asked his wife, pale as death.



“‘I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the

first jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000 francs for it. Only, in

order to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to

relate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which

the diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sit

down, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment.’



“The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and the

apparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond

that seemed to have come from the casket of a prince.



“‘Relate your story, madame,’ said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit by

the absence of the husband, so that the latter could not influence the

wife’s story, to see if the two recitals tallied.



“‘Oh,’ returned she, ‘it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a great

friend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantès. This poor

fellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at

his death he bequeathed this diamond to him.’



“‘But how did he obtain it?’ asked the jeweller; ‘had he it before he

was imprisoned?’



“‘No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance

of a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantès took

the same care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman,

when he was set free, gave this stone to Dantès, who, less fortunate,

died, and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbé,

who was here this morning, to deliver it.’



“‘The same story,’ muttered the jeweller; ‘and improbable as it seemed

at first, it may be true. There’s only the price we are not agreed

about.’



“‘How not agreed about?’ said Caderousse. ‘I thought we agreed for the

price I asked.’



“‘That is,’ replied the jeweller, ‘I offered 40,000 francs.’



‘Forty thousand,’ cried La Carconte; ‘we will not part with it for that

sum. The abbé told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting.’



“‘What was the abbé’s name?’ asked the indefatigable questioner.



“‘The Abbé Busoni,’ said La Carconte.



“‘He was a foreigner?’



“‘An Italian from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.’



“‘Let me see this diamond again,’ replied the jeweller; ‘the first time

you are often mistaken as to the value of a stone.’



“Caderousse took from his pocket a small case of black shagreen,

opened, and gave it to the jeweller. At the sight of the diamond, which

was as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte’s eyes sparkled with

cupidity.”



“And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?” said Monte

Cristo; “did you credit it?”



“Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I

thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft.”



“That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M.

Bertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dantès, of whom they spoke?”



“No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but

once afterwards, and that was from the Abbé Busoni himself, when I saw

him in the prison at Nîmes.”



“Go on.”



“The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of

steel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of

its setting, and weighed it carefully.



“‘I will give you 45,000,’ said he, ‘but not a sou more; besides, as

that is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me.’



“‘Oh, that’s no matter,’ replied Caderousse, ‘I will go back with you

to fetch the other 5,000 francs.’



“‘No,’ returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring to

Caderousse, ‘no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much,

for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen. However, I will

not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000.’



“‘At least, replace the diamond in the ring,’ said La Carconte sharply.



“‘Ah, true,’ replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone.



“‘No matter,’ observed Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket,

‘someone else will purchase it.’



“‘Yes,’ continued the jeweller; ‘but someone else will not be so easy

as I am, or content himself with the same story. It is not natural that

a man like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against

you. You will have to find the Abbé Busoni; and abbés who give diamonds

worth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you

in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at

liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs,

will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000

francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in

purchasing.’



“Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each other.



“‘No,’ said Caderousse, ‘we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs.’



“‘As you please, my dear sir,’ said the jeweller; ‘I had, however, as

you see, brought you the money in bright coin.’ And he drew from his

pocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyes

of the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of bank-notes.



“There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it

was plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over

in his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous

sum which fascinated his gaze. He turned towards his wife.



“‘What do you think of this?’ he asked in a low voice.



“‘Let him have it—let him have it,’ she said. ‘If he returns to

Beaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he

says, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbé Busoni?—in all

probability we shall never see him.’



“‘Well, then, so I will!’ said Caderousse; ‘so you may have the diamond

for 45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of

silver buckles.’



“The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which contained

several samples of the articles demanded. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I am very

straightforward in my dealings—take your choice.’



“The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the

husband a pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs.



“‘I hope you will not complain now?’ said the jeweller.



“‘The abbé told me it was worth 50,000 francs,’ muttered Caderousse.



“‘Come, come—give it to me! What a strange fellow you are,’ said the

jeweller, taking the diamond from his hand. ‘I give you 45,000

francs—that is, 2,500 livres of income,—a fortune such as I wish I had

myself, and you are not satisfied!’



“‘And the five-and-forty thousand francs,’ inquired Caderousse in a

hoarse voice, ‘where are they? Come—let us see them.’



“‘Here they are,’ replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon the

table 15,000 francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in bank-notes.



“‘Wait whilst I light the lamp,’ said La Carconte; ‘it is growing dark,

and there may be some mistake.’ In fact, night had come on during this

conversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for

the last half-hour. The thunder growled in the distance; but it was

apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte,

absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain. I myself felt

a strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all

these bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it

always happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot.

Caderousse counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then

handed them to his wife, who counted and counted them again in her

turn. During this time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle

in the lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of light which made him

unmindful of those which—precursors of the storm—began to play in at

the windows.



“‘Well,’ inquired the jeweller, ‘is the cash all right?’



“‘Yes,’ said Caderousse. ‘Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and

find a bag somewhere.’



“La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern

pocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters,

and put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or

three crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the

entire fortune of the miserable couple.



“‘There,’ said Caderousse; ‘and now, although you have wronged us of

perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us? I invite you

with good-will.’



“‘Thank you,’ replied the jeweller, ‘it must be getting late, and I

must return to Beaucaire—my wife will be getting uneasy.’ He drew out

his watch, and exclaimed, ‘_Morbleu!_ nearly nine o’clock—why, I shall

not get back to Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night, my friends. If

the Abbé Busoni should by any accident return, think of me.’



“‘In another week you will have left Beaucaire,’ remarked Caderousse,

‘for the fair ends in a few days.’



“‘True, but that makes no difference. Write to me at Paris, to M.

Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the

journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.’



“At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by

a flash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the

lamp.



20307m







“‘See here,’ exclaimed Caderousse. ‘You cannot think of going out in

such weather as this.’



“‘Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,’ said the jeweller.



“‘And then there are robbers,’ said La Carconte. ‘The road is never

very safe during fair time.’



“‘Oh, as to the robbers,’ said Joannes, ‘here is something for them,’

and he drew from his pocket a pair of small pistols, loaded to the

muzzle. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘are dogs who bark and bite at the same time,

they are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond,

Friend Caderousse.’



“Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look. It seemed

as though they were both inspired at the same time with some horrible

thought. ‘Well, then, a good journey to you,’ said Caderousse.



“‘Thanks,’ replied the jeweller. He then took his cane, which he had

placed against an old cupboard, and went out. At the moment when he

opened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was nearly

extinguished. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘this is very nice weather, and two

leagues to go in such a storm.’



“‘Remain,’ said Caderousse. ‘You can sleep here.’



“‘Yes; do stay,’ added La Carconte in a tremulous voice; ‘we will take

every care of you.’



“‘No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night.’ Caderousse

followed him slowly to the threshold. ‘I can see neither heaven nor

earth,’ said the jeweller, who was outside the door. ‘Do I turn to the

right, or to the left hand?’



“‘To the right,’ said Caderousse. ‘You cannot go wrong—the road is

bordered by trees on both sides.’



“‘Good—all right,’ said a voice almost lost in the distance.



“‘Close the door,’ said La Carconte; ‘I do not like open doors when it

thunders.’



“‘Particularly when there is money in the house, eh?’ answered

Caderousse, double-locking the door.



20311m







“He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and

pocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold

and bank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the

flickering lamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman,

especially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was

intensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled

burning coals.



“‘Why,’ she inquired in a hoarse voice, ‘did you invite him to sleep

here tonight?’



“‘Why?’ said Caderousse with a shudder; ‘why, that he might not have

the trouble of returning to Beaucaire.’



“‘Ah,’ responded the woman, with an expression impossible to describe;

‘I thought it was for something else.’



“‘Woman, woman—why do you have such ideas?’ cried Caderousse; ‘or, if

you have them, why don’t you keep them to yourself?’



“‘Well,’ said La Carconte, after a moment’s pause, ‘you are not a man.’



“‘What do you mean?’ added Caderousse.



“‘If you had been a man, you would not have let him go from here.’



“‘Woman!’



“‘Or else he should not have reached Beaucaire.’



“‘Woman!’



“‘The road takes a turn—he is obliged to follow it—while alongside of

the canal there is a shorter road.’



“‘Woman!—you offend the good God. There—listen!’



And at this moment there was a tremendous peal of thunder, while the

livid lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in

the distance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode.

‘Mercy!’ said Caderousse, crossing himself.



20312m







“At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence which

usually follows a clap of thunder, they heard a knocking at the door.

Caderousse and his wife started and looked aghast at each other.



“‘Who’s there?’ cried Caderousse, rising, and drawing up in a heap the

gold and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with his

two hands.



“‘It is I,’ shouted a voice.



“‘And who are you?’



“‘Eh, _pardieu!_ Joannes, the jeweller.’



“‘Well, and you said I offended the good God,’ said La Carconte with a

horrid smile. ‘Why, the good God sends him back again.’ Caderousse sank

pale and breathless into his chair.



“La Carconte, on the contrary, rose, and going with a firm step towards

the door, opened it, saying, as she did so:



“‘Come in, dear M. Joannes.’



“‘_Ma foi_,’ said the jeweller, drenched with rain, ‘I am not destined

to return to Beaucaire tonight. The shortest follies are best, my dear

Caderousse. You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and have

returned to sleep beneath your friendly roof.’



“Caderousse stammered out something, while he wiped away the sweat that

started to his brow. La Carconte double-locked the door behind the

jeweller.”







 Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood



As the jeweller returned to the apartment, he cast around him a

scrutinizing glance—but there was nothing to excite suspicion, if it

did not exist, or to confirm it, if it were already awakened.

Caderousse’s hands still grasped the gold and bank-notes, and La

Carconte called up her sweetest smiles while welcoming the reappearance

of their guest.



“‘Well, well,’ said the jeweller, ‘you seem, my good friends, to have

had some fears respecting the accuracy of your money, by counting it

over so carefully directly I was gone.’



“‘Oh, no,’ answered Caderousse, ‘that was not my reason, I can assure

you; but the circumstances by which we have become possessed of this

wealth are so unexpected, as to make us scarcely credit our good

fortune, and it is only by placing the actual proof of our riches

before our eyes that we can persuade ourselves that the whole affair is

not a dream.’



“The jeweller smiled. ‘Have you any other guests in your house?’

inquired he.



“‘Nobody but ourselves,’ replied Caderousse; ‘the fact is, we do not

lodge travellers—indeed, our tavern is so near the town, that nobody

would think of stopping here.’



“‘Then I am afraid I shall very much inconvenience you.’



“‘Inconvenience us? Not at all, my dear sir,’ said La Carconte in her

most gracious manner. ‘Not at all, I assure you.’



“‘But where will you manage to stow me?’



“‘In the chamber overhead.’



“‘Surely that is where you yourselves sleep?’



“‘Never mind that; we have a second bed in the adjoining room.’



“Caderousse stared at his wife with much astonishment.



“The jeweller, meanwhile, was humming a song as he stood warming his

back at the fire La Carconte had kindled to dry the wet garments of her

guest; and this done, she next occupied herself in arranging his

supper, by spreading a napkin at the end of the table, and placing on

it the slender remains of their dinner, to which she added three or

four fresh-laid eggs. Caderousse had once more parted with his

treasure—the banknotes were replaced in the pocket-book, the gold put

back into the bag, and the whole carefully locked in the cupboard. He

then began pacing the room with a pensive and gloomy air, glancing from

time to time at the jeweller, who stood reeking with the steam from his

wet clothes, and merely changing his place on the warm hearth, to

enable the whole of his garments to be dried.



“‘There,’ said La Carconte, as she placed a bottle of wine on the

table, ‘supper is ready whenever you are.’



“‘And you?’ asked Joannes.



“‘I don’t want any supper,’ said Caderousse.



“‘We dined so very late,’ hastily interposed La Carconte.



“‘Then it seems I am to eat alone,’ remarked the jeweller.



“‘Oh, we shall have the pleasure of waiting upon you,’ answered La

Carconte, with an eager attention she was not accustomed to manifest

even to guests who paid for what they took.



“From time to time Caderousse darted on his wife keen, searching

glances, but rapid as the lightning flash. The storm still continued.



“‘There, there,’ said La Carconte; ‘do you hear that? upon my word, you

did well to come back.’



“‘Nevertheless,’ replied the jeweller, ‘if by the time I have finished

my supper the tempest has at all abated, I shall make another start.’



“‘It’s the mistral,’ said Caderousse, ‘and it will be sure to last till

tomorrow morning.’ He sighed heavily.



“‘Well,’ said the jeweller, as he placed himself at table, ‘all I can

say is, so much the worse for those who are abroad.’



“‘Yes,’ chimed in La Carconte, ‘they will have a wretched night of it.’



“The jeweller began eating his supper, and the woman, who was

ordinarily so querulous and indifferent to all who approached her, was

suddenly transformed into the most smiling and attentive hostess. Had

the unhappy man on whom she lavished her assiduities been previously

acquainted with her, so sudden an alteration might well have excited

suspicion in his mind, or at least have greatly astonished him.

Caderousse, meanwhile, continued to pace the room in gloomy silence,

sedulously avoiding the sight of his guest; but as soon as the stranger

had completed his repast, the agitated innkeeper went eagerly to the

door and opened it.



“‘I believe the storm is over,’ said he.



“But as if to contradict his statement, at that instant a violent clap

of thunder seemed to shake the house to its very foundation, while a

sudden gust of wind, mingled with rain, extinguished the lamp he held

in his hand.



“Trembling and awe-struck, Caderousse hastily shut the door and

returned to his guest, while La Carconte lighted a candle by the

smouldering ashes that glimmered on the hearth.



“‘You must be tired,’ said she to the jeweller; ‘I have spread a pair

of white sheets on your bed; go up when you are ready, and sleep well.’



“Joannes stayed for a while to see whether the storm seemed to abate in

its fury, but a brief space of time sufficed to assure him that,

instead of diminishing, the violence of the rain and thunder

momentarily increased; resigning himself, therefore, to what seemed

inevitable, he bade his host good-night, and mounted the stairs. He

passed over my head and I heard the flooring creak beneath his

footsteps. The quick, eager glance of La Carconte followed him as he

ascended, while Caderousse, on the contrary, turned his back, and

seemed most anxiously to avoid even glancing at him.



“All these circumstances did not strike me as painfully at the time as

they have since done; in fact, all that had happened (with the

exception of the story of the diamond, which certainly did wear an air

of improbability), appeared natural enough, and called for neither

apprehension nor mistrust; but, worn out as I was with fatigue, and

fully purposing to proceed onwards directly the tempest abated, I

determined to obtain a few hours’ sleep. Overhead I could accurately

distinguish every movement of the jeweller, who, after making the best

arrangements in his power for passing a comfortable night, threw

himself on his bed, and I could hear it creak and groan beneath his

weight.



“Insensibly my eyelids grew heavy, deep sleep stole over me, and having

no suspicion of anything wrong, I sought not to shake it off. I looked

into the kitchen once more and saw Caderousse sitting by the side of a

long table upon one of the low wooden stools which in country places

are frequently used instead of chairs; his back was turned towards me,

so that I could not see the expression of his countenance—neither

should I have been able to do so had he been placed differently, as his

head was buried between his two hands. La Carconte continued to gaze on

him for some time, then shrugging her shoulders, she took her seat

immediately opposite to him.



“At this moment the expiring embers threw up a fresh flame from the

kindling of a piece of wood that lay near, and a bright light flashed

over the room. La Carconte still kept her eyes fixed on her husband,

but as he made no sign of changing his position, she extended her hard,

bony hand, and touched him on the forehead.



20317m







“Caderousse shuddered. The woman’s lips seemed to move, as though she

were talking; but because she merely spoke in an undertone, or my

senses were dulled by sleep, I did not catch a word she uttered.

Confused sights and sounds seemed to float before me, and gradually I

fell into a deep, heavy slumber. How long I had been in this

unconscious state I know not, when I was suddenly aroused by the report

of a pistol, followed by a fearful cry. Weak and tottering footsteps

resounded across the chamber above me, and the next instant a dull,

heavy weight seemed to fall powerless on the staircase. I had not yet

fully recovered consciousness, when again I heard groans, mingled with

half-stifled cries, as if from persons engaged in a deadly struggle. A

cry more prolonged than the others and ending in a series of groans

effectually roused me from my drowsy lethargy. Hastily raising myself

on one arm, I looked around, but all was dark; and it seemed to me as

if the rain must have penetrated through the flooring of the room

above, for some kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop by drop, upon

my forehead, and when I passed my hand across my brow, I felt that it

was wet and clammy.



“To the fearful noises that had awakened me had succeeded the most

perfect silence—unbroken, save by the footsteps of a man walking about

in the chamber above. The staircase creaked, he descended into the room

below, approached the fire and lit a candle.



“The man was Caderousse—he was pale and his shirt was all bloody.

Having obtained the light, he hurried upstairs again, and once more I

heard his rapid and uneasy footsteps.



“A moment later he came down again, holding in his hand the small

shagreen case, which he opened, to assure himself it contained the

diamond,—seemed to hesitate as to which pocket he should put it in,

then, as if dissatisfied with the security of either pocket, he

deposited it in his red handkerchief, which he carefully rolled round

his head.



“After this he took from his cupboard the bank-notes and gold he had

put there, thrust the one into the pocket of his trousers, and the

other into that of his waistcoat, hastily tied up a small bundle of

linen, and rushing towards the door, disappeared in the darkness of the

night.



“Then all became clear and manifest to me, and I reproached myself with

what had happened, as though I myself had done the guilty deed. I

fancied that I still heard faint moans, and imagining that the

unfortunate jeweller might not be quite dead, I determined to go to his

relief, by way of atoning in some slight degree, not for the crime I

had committed, but for that which I had not endeavored to prevent. For

this purpose I applied all the strength I possessed to force an

entrance from the cramped spot in which I lay to the adjoining room.

The poorly fastened boards which alone divided me from it yielded to my

efforts, and I found myself in the house. Hastily snatching up the

lighted candle, I hurried to the staircase; about midway a body was

lying quite across the stairs. It was that of La Carconte. The pistol I

had heard had doubtless been fired at her. The shot had frightfully

lacerated her throat, leaving two gaping wounds from which, as well as

the mouth, the blood was pouring in floods. She was stone dead. I

strode past her, and ascended to the sleeping chamber, which presented

an appearance of the wildest disorder. The furniture had been knocked

over in the deadly struggle that had taken place there, and the sheets,

to which the unfortunate jeweller had doubtless clung, were dragged

across the room. The murdered man lay on the floor, his head leaning

against the wall, and about him was a pool of blood which poured forth

from three large wounds in his breast; there was a fourth gash, in

which a long table knife was plunged up to the handle.



“I stumbled over some object; I stooped to examine—it was the second

pistol, which had not gone off, probably from the powder being wet. I

approached the jeweller, who was not quite dead, and at the sound of my

footsteps and the creaking of the floor, he opened his eyes, fixed them

on me with an anxious and inquiring gaze, moved his lips as though

trying to speak, then, overcome by the effort, fell back and expired.



“This appalling sight almost bereft me of my senses, and finding that I

could no longer be of service to anyone in the house, my only desire

was to fly. I rushed towards the staircase, clutching my hair, and

uttering a groan of horror.



“Upon reaching the room below, I found five or six custom-house

officers, and two or three gendarmes—all heavily armed. They threw

themselves upon me. I made no resistance; I was no longer master of my

senses. When I strove to speak, a few inarticulate sounds alone escaped

my lips.



“As I noticed the significant manner in which the whole party pointed

to my blood-stained garments, I involuntarily surveyed myself, and then

I discovered that the thick warm drops that had so bedewed me as I lay

beneath the staircase must have been the blood of La Carconte. I

pointed to the spot where I had concealed myself.



“‘What does he mean?’ asked a gendarme.



“One of the officers went to the place I directed.



“‘He means,’ replied the man upon his return, ‘that he got in that

way;’ and he showed the hole I had made when I broke through.



“Then I saw that they took me for the assassin. I recovered force and

energy enough to free myself from the hands of those who held me, while

I managed to stammer forth:



“‘I did not do it! Indeed, indeed I did not!’



“A couple of gendarmes held the muzzles of their carbines against my

breast.



“‘Stir but a step,’ said they, ‘and you are a dead man.’



“‘Why should you threaten me with death,’ cried I, ‘when I have already

declared my innocence?’



“‘Tush, tush,’ cried the men; ‘keep your innocent stories to tell to

the judge at Nîmes. Meanwhile, come along with us; and the best advice

we can give you is to do so unresistingly.’



“Alas, resistance was far from my thoughts. I was utterly overpowered

by surprise and terror; and without a word I suffered myself to be

handcuffed and tied to a horse’s tail, and thus they took me to Nîmes.



“I had been tracked by a customs-officer, who had lost sight of me near

the tavern; feeling certain that I intended to pass the night there, he

had returned to summon his comrades, who just arrived in time to hear

the report of the pistol, and to take me in the midst of such

circumstantial proofs of my guilt as rendered all hopes of proving my

innocence utterly futile. One only chance was left me, that of

beseeching the magistrate before whom I was taken to cause every

inquiry to be made for the Abbé Busoni, who had stopped at the inn of

the Pont du Gard on that morning.



“If Caderousse had invented the story relative to the diamond, and

there existed no such person as the Abbé Busoni, then, indeed, I was

lost past redemption, or, at least, my life hung upon the feeble chance

of Caderousse himself being apprehended and confessing the whole truth.



“Two months passed away in hopeless expectation on my part, while I

must do the magistrate the justice to say that he used every means to

obtain information of the person I declared could exculpate me if he

would. Caderousse still evaded all pursuit, and I had resigned myself

to what seemed my inevitable fate. My trial was to come on at the

approaching assizes; when, on the 8th of September—that is to say,

precisely three months and five days after the events which had

perilled my life—the Abbé Busoni, whom I never ventured to believe I

should see, presented himself at the prison doors, saying he understood

one of the prisoners wished to speak to him; he added, that having

learned at Marseilles the particulars of my imprisonment, he hastened

to comply with my desire.



“You may easily imagine with what eagerness I welcomed him, and how

minutely I related the whole of what I had seen and heard. I felt some

degree of nervousness as I entered upon the history of the diamond,

but, to my inexpressible astonishment, he confirmed it in every

particular, and to my equal surprise, he seemed to place entire belief

in all I said.



“And then it was that, won by his mild charity, seeing that he was

acquainted with all the habits and customs of my own country, and

considering also that pardon for the only crime of which I was really

guilty might come with a double power from lips so benevolent and kind,

I besought him to receive my confession, under the seal of which I

recounted the Auteuil affair in all its details, as well as every other

transaction of my life. That which I had done by the impulse of my best

feelings produced the same effect as though it had been the result of

calculation. My voluntary confession of the assassination at Auteuil

proved to him that I had not committed that of which I stood accused.

When he quitted me, he bade me be of good courage, and to rely upon his

doing all in his power to convince my judges of my innocence.



“I had speedy proofs that the excellent abbé was engaged in my behalf,

for the rigors of my imprisonment were alleviated by many trifling

though acceptable indulgences, and I was told that my trial was to be

postponed to the assizes following those now being held.



“In the interim it pleased Providence to cause the apprehension of

Caderousse, who was discovered in some distant country, and brought

back to France, where he made a full confession, refusing to make the

fact of his wife’s having suggested and arranged the murder any excuse

for his own guilt. The wretched man was sentenced to the galleys for

life, and I was immediately set at liberty.”



“And then it was, I presume,” said The Trial “that you came to me as

the bearer of a letter from the Abbé Busoni?”



“It was, your excellency; the benevolent abbé took an evident interest

in all that concerned me.



“‘Your mode of life as a smuggler,’ said he to me one day, ‘will be the

ruin of you; if you get out, don’t take it up again.’



“‘But how,’ inquired I, ‘am I to maintain myself and my poor sister?’



“‘A person, whose confessor I am,’ replied he, ‘and who entertains a

high regard for me, applied to me a short time since to procure him a

confidential servant. Would you like such a post? If so, I will give

you a letter of introduction to him.’



“‘Oh, father,’ I exclaimed, ‘you are very good.’



“‘But you must swear solemnly that I shall never have reason to repent

my recommendation.’



“I extended my hand, and was about to pledge myself by any promise he

would dictate, but he stopped me.



“‘It is unnecessary for you to bind yourself by any vow,’ said he; ‘I

know and admire the Corsican nature too well to fear you. Here, take

this,’ continued he, after rapidly writing the few lines I brought to

your excellency, and upon receipt of which you deigned to receive me

into your service, and proudly I ask whether your excellency has ever

had cause to repent having done so?”



“No,” replied the count; “I take pleasure in saying that you have

served me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might have shown more

confidence in me.”



“I, your excellency?”



“Yes; you. How comes it, that having both a sister and an adopted son,

you have never spoken to me of either?”



20323m







“Alas, I have still to recount the most distressing period of my life.

Anxious as you may suppose I was to behold and comfort my dear sister,

I lost no time in hastening to Corsica, but when I arrived at Rogliano

I found a house of mourning, the consequences of a scene so horrible

that the neighbors remember and speak of it to this day. Acting by my

advice, my poor sister had refused to comply with the unreasonable

demands of Benedetto, who was continually tormenting her for money, as

long as he believed there was a sou left in her possession. One morning

he threatened her with the severest consequences if she did not supply

him with what he desired, and disappeared and remained away all day,

leaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him as if he were her own

child, to weep over his conduct and bewail his absence. Evening came,

and still, with all the patient solicitude of a mother, she watched for

his return.



“As the eleventh hour struck, he entered with a swaggering air,

attended by two of the most dissolute and reckless of his boon

companions. She stretched out her arms to him, but they seized hold of

her, and one of the three—none other than the accursed Benedetto

exclaimed:



“‘Put her to torture and she’ll soon tell us where her money is.’



“It unfortunately happened that our neighbor, Wasilio, was at Bastia,

leaving no person in his house but his wife; no human creature beside

could hear or see anything that took place within our dwelling. Two

held poor Assunta, who, unable to conceive that any harm was intended

to her, smiled in the face of those who were soon to become her

executioners. The third proceeded to barricade the doors and windows,

then returned, and the three united in stifling the cries of terror

incited by the sight of these preparations, and then dragged Assunta

feet foremost towards the brazier, expecting to wring from her an

avowal of where her supposed treasure was secreted. In the struggle her

clothes caught fire, and they were obliged to let go their hold in

order to preserve themselves from sharing the same fate. Covered with

flames, Assunta rushed wildly to the door, but it was fastened; she

flew to the windows, but they were also secured; then the neighbors

heard frightful shrieks; it was Assunta calling for help. The cries

died away in groans, and next morning, as soon as Wasilio’s wife could

muster up courage to venture abroad, she caused the door of our

dwelling to be opened by the public authorities, when Assunta, although

dreadfully burnt, was found still breathing; every drawer and closet in

the house had been forced open, and the money stolen. Benedetto never

again appeared at Rogliano, neither have I since that day either seen

or heard anything concerning him.



“It was subsequently to these dreadful events that I waited on your

excellency, to whom it would have been folly to have mentioned

Benedetto, since all trace of him seemed entirely lost; or of my

sister, since she was dead.”



“And in what light did you view the occurrence?” inquired The Trial.



“As a punishment for the crime I had committed,” answered Bertuccio.

“Oh, those Villeforts are an accursed race!”



“Truly they are,” murmured the count in a lugubrious tone.



“And now,” resumed Bertuccio, “your excellency may, perhaps, be able to

comprehend that this place, which I revisit for the first time—this

garden, the actual scene of my crime—must have given rise to

reflections of no very agreeable nature, and produced that gloom and

depression of spirits which excited the notice of your excellency, who

was pleased to express a desire to know the cause. At this instant a

shudder passes over me as I reflect that possibly I am now standing on

the very grave in which lies M. de Villefort, by whose hand the ground

was dug to receive the corpse of his child.”



“Everything is possible,” said The Trial, rising from the bench on

which he had been sitting; “even,” he added in an inaudible voice,

“even that the procureur be not dead. The Abbé Busoni did right to send

you to me,” he went on in his ordinary tone, “and you have done well in

relating to me the whole of your history, as it will prevent my forming

any erroneous opinions concerning you in future. As for that Benedetto,

who so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace

out whither he has gone, or what has become of him?”



“No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should

shun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God,

I have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and

believe he is dead.”



“Do not think so, Bertuccio,” replied the count; “for the wicked are

not so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special

watch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance.”



“So be it,” responded Bertuccio, “all I ask of heaven is that I may

never see him again. And now, your excellency,” he added, bowing his

head, “you know everything—you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty

is in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation?”



“My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the

Abbé Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you,

and, perhaps, to others. Benedetto, if still living, will become the

instrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly

punished in his turn. As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but

one point in which you are really guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore,

after rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it

to its mother? There was the crime, Bertuccio—that was where you became

really culpable.”



“True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that I

acted like a coward. My first duty, directly I had succeeded in

recalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in

order to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which

would, in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung

to life, partly on my sister’s account, and partly from that feeling of

pride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and

victorious in the execution of our vengeance. Perhaps, too, the natural

and instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my own.

And then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor

brother.”



Bertuccio hid his face in his hands as he uttered these words, while

The Trial fixed on him a look of inscrutable meaning. After a brief

silence, rendered still more solemn by the time and place, the count

said, in a tone of melancholy wholly unlike his usual manner:



“In order to bring this conversation to a fitting termination (the last

we shall ever hold upon this subject), I will repeat to you some words

I have heard from the lips of the Abbé Busoni. For all evils there are

two remedies—time and silence. And now leave me, Monsieur Bertuccio, to

walk alone here in the garden. The very circumstances which inflict on

you, as a principal in the tragic scene enacted here, such painful

emotions, are to me, on the contrary, a source of something like

contentment, and serve but to enhance the value of this dwelling in my

estimation. The chief beauty of trees consists in the deep shadow of

their umbrageous boughs, while fancy pictures a moving multitude of

shapes and forms flitting and passing beneath that shade. Here I have a

garden laid out in such a way as to afford the fullest scope for the

imagination, and furnished with thickly grown trees, beneath whose

leafy screen a visionary like myself may conjure up phantoms at will.

This to me, who expected but to find a blank enclosure surrounded by a

straight wall, is, I assure you, a most agreeable surprise. I have no

fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had

been done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the

living in a single day. Retire within, Bertuccio, and tranquillize your

mind. Should your confessor be less indulgent to you in your dying

moments than you found the Abbé Busoni, send for me, if I am still on

earth, and I will soothe your ears with words that shall effectually

calm and soothe your parting soul ere it goes forth to traverse the

ocean called eternity.”



Bertuccio bowed respectfully, and turned away, sighing heavily. Monte

Cristo, left alone, took three or four steps onwards, and murmured:



“Here, beneath this plane-tree, must have been where the infant’s grave

was dug. There is the little door opening into the garden. At this

corner is the private staircase communicating with the sleeping

apartment. There will be no necessity for me to make a note of these

particulars, for there, before my eyes, beneath my feet, all around me,

I have the plan sketched with all the living reality of truth.”



After making the tour of the garden a second time, the count re-entered

his carriage, while Bertuccio, who perceived the thoughtful expression

of his master’s features, took his seat beside the driver without

uttering a word. The carriage proceeded rapidly towards Paris.



That same evening, upon reaching his abode in the Champs-Élysées, the

Count of The Trial went over the whole building with the air of one

long acquainted with each nook or corner. Nor, although preceding the

party, did he once mistake one door for another, or commit the smallest

error when choosing any particular corridor or staircase to conduct him

to a place or suite of rooms he desired to visit. Ali was his principal

attendant during this nocturnal survey. Having given various orders to

Bertuccio relative to the improvements and alterations he desired to

make in the house, the Count, drawing out his watch, said to the

attentive Nubian:



“It is half-past eleven o’clock; Haydée will soon be here. Have the

French attendants been summoned to await her coming?”



Ali extended his hands towards the apartments destined for the fair

Greek, which were so effectually concealed by means of a tapestried

entrance, that it would have puzzled the most curious to have divined

their existence. Ali, having pointed to the apartments, held up three

fingers of his right hand, and then, placing it beneath his head, shut

his eyes, and feigned to sleep.



“I understand,” said The Trial, well acquainted with Ali’s

pantomime; “you mean to tell me that three female attendants await

their new mistress in her sleeping-chamber.”



Ali, with considerable animation, made a sign in the affirmative.



“Madame will be tired tonight,” continued The Trial, “and will, no

doubt, wish to rest. Desire the French attendants not to weary her with

questions, but merely to pay their respectful duty and retire. You will

also see that the Greek servants hold no communication with those of

this country.”



He bowed. Just at that moment voices were heard hailing the concierge.

The gate opened, a carriage rolled down the avenue, and stopped at the

steps. The count hastily descended, presented himself at the already

opened carriage door, and held out his hand to a young woman,

completely enveloped in a green silk mantle heavily embroidered with

gold. She raised the hand extended towards her to her lips, and kissed

it with a mixture of love and respect. Some few words passed between

them in that sonorous language in which Homer makes his gods converse.

The young woman spoke with an expression of deep tenderness, while the

count replied with an air of gentle gravity.



Preceded by Ali, who carried a rose-colored flambeau in his hand, the

young lady, who was no other than the lovely Greek who had been Monte

Cristo’s companion in Italy, was conducted to her apartments, while the

count retired to the pavilion reserved for himself. In another hour

every light in the house was extinguished, and it might have been

thought that all its inmates slept.







 Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit



About two o’clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of

magnificent English horses, stopped at the door of The Trial and a

person, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a

white waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown

trousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so low over his

eyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so

little did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles

stamped on his features—a person, in a word, who, although evidently

past fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards

from the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the

armorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the

porter’s lodge whether The Trial resided there, and if

he were within.



While waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the

garden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants

who passed to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat

impertinent. His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than

intelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed,

they were drawn in over the teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and

projecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the

flatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull,

which rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears,

combined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the

eyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage

must needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when

they gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the

red ribbon that depended from his button-hole.



The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the

porter’s lodge, saying:



“Pray, does not The Trial live here?”



“His excellency does reside here,” replied the concierge; “but——” added

he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the

negative.



“But what?” asked the groom.



“His excellency does not receive visitors today.”



“Then here is my master’s card, the Baron Danglars. You will take it to

the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my

master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him.”



“I never speak to his excellency,” replied the concierge; “the valet de

chambre will carry your message.”



The groom returned to the carriage.



“Well?” asked Danglars.



The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated

what the concierge had said.



“Bless me,” murmured Baron Danglars, “this must surely be a prince

instead of a count by their styling him ‘excellency,’ and only

venturing to address him by the medium of his valet de chambre.

However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I

must see him when he requires his money.”



Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his

coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, “To the

Chamber of Deputies.”



Apprised in time of the visit paid him, The Trial had, from behind

the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of

an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house,

garden, and servants.



“That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,” said the count in a tone

of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case. “How comes it

that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding,

serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked

nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,” cried he, striking at the same

time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. “Summon Bertuccio,” said the

count. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment.



“Did your excellency desire to see me?” inquired he.



“I did,” replied the count. “You no doubt observed the horses standing

a few minutes since at the door?”



“Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable

beauty.”



“Then how comes it,” said The Trial with a frown, “that, when I

desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in

Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my

stables?”



At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count

spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head.



“It is not your fault, my good Ali,” said the count in the Arabic

language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of

showing, either in voice or face—“it is not your fault. You do not

understand the points of English horses.”



The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity.



“Permit me to assure your excellency,” said Bertuccio, “that the horses

you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours.”



The Trial shrugged his shoulders. “It seems, sir steward,” said he,

“that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as

care to pay the price.”



“His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000

francs for his horses?”



“Very well. Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an

opportunity of doubling his capital.”



“Is your excellency really in earnest?” inquired the steward.



The Trial regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words

with the look of one equally surprised and displeased.



“I have to pay a visit this evening,” replied he. “I desire that these

horses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my

carriage.”



Bertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door,

he paused, and then said, “At what o’clock does your excellency wish

the carriage and horses to be ready?”



“At five o’clock,” replied the count.



“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” interposed the steward in a

deprecating manner, “for venturing to observe that it is already two

o’clock.”



“I am perfectly aware of that fact,” answered The Trial calmly.

Then, turning towards Ali, he said, “Let all the horses in my stables

be led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those

she prefers for her carriage. Request her also to oblige me by saying

whether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served

in her apartments. Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to

come hither.”



Scarcely had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber.



“Monsieur Baptistin,” said the count, “you have been in my service one

year, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or

demerits of those about me. You suit me very well.”



Baptistin bowed low.



“It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you?”



“Oh, your excellency!” exclaimed Baptistin eagerly.



“Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking,” replied Monte

Cristo. “You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here—more

than many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his

country, obtains. You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who

work ten times harder than you do for their money. Then, though

yourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care

of your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you.

Again, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet,

amounting in the course of a year to a sum equalling your wages.”



“Nay, indeed, your excellency.”



“I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your

profits end here. It would be long indeed ere you would find so

lucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill. I

neither ill-use nor ill-treat my servants by word or action. An error I

readily forgive, but wilful negligence or forgetfulness, never. My

commands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather

be obliged to repeat my words twice, or even three times, than they

should be misunderstood. I am rich enough to know whatever I desire to

know, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity. If, then, I

should learn that you had taken upon yourself to speak of me to anyone

favorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my

conduct, that very instant you would quit my service. You may now

retire. I never caution my servants a second time—remember that.”



Baptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door.



“I forgot to mention to you,” said the count, “that I lay yearly aside

a certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I am

compelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in

this money, while their portion goes to the fund accumulating for those

domestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my

death. You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun

to accumulate—let it continue to do so.”



This address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding

one word of the language in which it was spoken, stood wholly unmoved,

produced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have

occasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics.



“I assure your excellency,” said he, “that at least it shall be my

study to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali

as my model.”



“By no means,” replied the count in the most frigid tones; “Ali has

many faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly

serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid

servant, but a mere slave—a dog, who, should he fail in his duty

towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill.”



Baptistin opened his eyes with astonishment.



“You seem incredulous,” said The Trial, who repeated to Ali in the

Arabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French.



The Nubian smiled assentingly to his master’s words, then, kneeling on

one knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the count. This corroboration

of the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the

wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin. The count then motioned the

valet de chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where

they conversed long and earnestly together. As the hand of the clock

pointed to five the count struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali was

wanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three

Bertuccio. The steward entered.



“My horses,” said The Trial.



“They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency

desired. Does your excellency wish me to accompany him?”



“No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go.”



The count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld his carriage

drawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning

as the property of Danglars. As he passed them he said:



“They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to

purchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured

them sooner.”



“Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in

obtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price.”



“Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful,”

inquired the count, shrugging his shoulders.



“Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish.

Whither does your excellency desire to be driven?”



“To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.”



This conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which

a flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive. As Bertuccio, with a

respectful bow, was moving away, the count called him back.



“I have another commission for you, M. Bertuccio,” said he; “I am

desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy—for instance,

between Le Havre and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide range. It will

be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small

harbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at

anchor. She draws only fifteen feet. She must be kept in constant

readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make

the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you

have met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the

advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette

must now, I think, be on her way to Fécamp, must she not?”



20333m







“Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we

quitted Marseilles.”



“And the yacht.”



“Was ordered to remain at Martigues.”



“’Tis well. I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in

charge of the two vessels so as to keep them on the alert.”



“And the steamboat?”



“She is at Châlons?”



“Yes.”



“The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels.”



“Very good.”



“When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of

horses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road.”



“Your excellency may depend upon me.”



The Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps,

and sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the

banker’s house.



Danglars was engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad

committee. But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his

visitor was announced. As the count’s title sounded on his ear he rose,

and addressing his colleagues, who were members of one or the other

Chamber, he said:



“Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most

ridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this,—Thomson & French,

the Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the

Count of The Trial, and have given him an unlimited credit with me.

I confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course

of my extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it

has greatly roused my curiosity. I took the trouble this morning to

call on the pretended count—if he were a real count he wouldn’t be so

rich. But, would you believe it, ‘He was not receiving.’ So the master

of The Trial gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a

capricious beauty. I made inquiries, and found that the house in the

Champs-Élysées is his own property, and certainly it was very decently

kept up. But,” pursued Danglars with one of his sinister smiles, “an

order for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part

of the banker to whom that order is given. I am very anxious to see

this man. I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it

little knew whom they had to deal with. ‘They laugh best who laugh

last!’”



Having delivered himself of this pompous address, uttered with a degree

of energy that left the baron almost out of breath, he bowed to the

assembled party and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose sumptuous

furnishings of white and gold had caused a great sensation in the

Chaussée d’Antin. It was to this apartment he had desired his guest to

be shown, with the purpose of overwhelming him at the sight of so much

luxury. He found the count standing before some copies of Albano and

Fattore that had been passed off to the banker as originals; but which,

mere copies as they were, seemed to feel their degradation in being

brought into juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that covered the

ceiling.



The count turned round as he heard the entrance of Danglars into the

room. With a slight inclination of the head, Danglars signed to the

count to be seated, pointing significantly to a gilded armchair,

covered with white satin embroidered with gold. The count sat down.



20335m







“I have the honor, I presume, of addressing M. de The Trial.”



The count bowed.



“And I of speaking to Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion of Honor,

and member of the Chamber of Deputies?”



The Trial repeated all the titles he had read on the baron’s card.



Danglars felt the irony and compressed his lips.



“You will, I trust, excuse me, monsieur, for not calling you by your

title when I first addressed you,” he said, “but you are aware that we

are living under a popular form of government, and that I am myself a

representative of the liberties of the people.”



“So much so,” replied The Trial, “that while you call yourself baron

you are not willing to call anybody else count.”



“Upon my word, monsieur,” said Danglars with affected carelessness, “I

attach no sort of value to such empty distinctions; but the fact is, I

was made baron, and also chevalier of the Legion of Honor, in return

for services rendered, but——”



“But you have discarded your titles after the example set you by

Messrs. de Montmorency and Lafayette? That was a noble example to

follow, monsieur.”



“Why,” replied Danglars, “not entirely so; with the servants,—you

understand.”



“I see; to your domestics you are ‘my lord,’ the journalists style you

‘monsieur,’ while your constituents call you ‘citizen.’ These are

distinctions very suitable under a constitutional government. I

understand perfectly.”



Again Danglars bit his lips; he saw that he was no match for Monte

Cristo in an argument of this sort, and he therefore hastened to turn

to subjects more congenial.



“Permit me to inform you, Count,” said he, bowing, “that I have

received a letter of advice from Thomson & French, of Rome.”



“I am glad to hear it, baron,—for I must claim the privilege of

addressing you after the manner of your servants. I have acquired the

bad habit of calling persons by their titles from living in a country

where barons are still barons by right of birth. But as regards the

letter of advice, I am charmed to find that it has reached you; that

will spare me the troublesome and disagreeable task of coming to you

for money myself. You have received a regular letter of advice?”



“Yes,” said Danglars, “but I confess I didn’t quite comprehend its

meaning.”



“Indeed?”



“And for that reason I did myself the honor of calling upon you, in

order to beg for an explanation.”



“Go on, monsieur. Here I am, ready to give you any explanation you

desire.”



“Why,” said Danglars, “in the letter—I believe I have it about me”—here

he felt in his breast-pocket—“yes, here it is. Well, this letter gives

The Trial unlimited credit on our house.”



“Well, baron, what is there difficult to understand about that?”



“Merely the term _unlimited_—nothing else, certainly.”



“Is not that word known in France? The people who wrote are

Anglo-Germans, you know.”



“Oh, as for the composition of the letter, there is nothing to be said;

but as regards the competency of the document, I certainly have

doubts.”



“Is it possible?” asked the count, assuming all air and tone of the

utmost simplicity and candor. “Is it possible that Thomson & French are

not looked upon as safe and solvent bankers? Pray tell me what you

think, baron, for I feel uneasy, I can assure you, having some

considerable property in their hands.”



“Thomson & French are perfectly solvent,” replied Danglars, with an

almost mocking smile; “but the word _unlimited_, in financial affairs,

is so extremely vague.”



“Is, in fact, unlimited,” said The Trial.



“Precisely what I was about to say,” cried Danglars. “Now what is vague

is doubtful; and it was a wise man who said, ‘when in doubt, keep

out.’”



“Meaning to say,” rejoined The Trial, “that however Thomson & French

may be inclined to commit acts of imprudence and folly, the Baron

Danglars is not disposed to follow their example.”



“Not at all.”



“Plainly enough; Messrs. Thomson & French set no bounds to their

engagements while those of M. Danglars have their limits; he is a wise

man, according to his own showing.”



“Monsieur,” replied the banker, drawing himself up with a haughty air,

“the extent of my resources has never yet been questioned.”



“It seems, then, reserved for me,” said The Trial coldly, “to be the

first to do so.”



“By what right, sir?”



“By right of the objections you have raised, and the explanations you

have demanded, which certainly must have some motive.”



Once more Danglars bit his lips. It was the second time he had been

worsted, and this time on his own ground. His forced politeness sat

awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence. The Trial

on the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a

certain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure, and thus

possessed the advantage.



“Well, sir,” resumed Danglars, after a brief silence, “I will endeavor

to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum

you propose to draw upon me?”



“Why, truly,” replied The Trial, determined not to lose an inch of

the ground he had gained, “my reason for desiring an ‘unlimited’ credit

was precisely because I did not know how much money I might need.”



The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand. So

throwing himself back in his armchair, he said, with an arrogant and

purse-proud air:



“Let me beg of you not to hesitate in naming your wishes; you will then

be convinced that the resources of the house of Danglars, however

limited, are still equal to meeting the largest demands; and were you

even to require a million——”



“I beg your pardon,” interposed The Trial.



“I said a million,” replied Danglars, with the confidence of ignorance.



“But could I do with a million?” retorted the count. “My dear sir, if a

trifle like that could suffice me, I should never have given myself the

trouble of opening an account. A million? Excuse my smiling when you

speak of a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or

dressing-case.”



And with these words The Trial took from his pocket a small case

containing his visiting-cards, and drew forth two orders on the

treasury for 500,000 francs each, payable at sight to the bearer. A man

like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of

correction. The effect of the present revelation was stunning; he

trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy. The pupils of his eyes, as

he gazed at The Trial dilated horribly.



“Come, come,” said The Trial, “confess honestly that you have not

perfect confidence in Thomson & French. I understand, and foreseeing

that such might be the case, I took, in spite of my ignorance of

affairs, certain precautions. See, here are two similar letters to that

you have yourself received; one from the house of Arstein & Eskeles of

Vienna, to Baron Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of London, upon

M. Lafitte. Now, sir, you have but to say the word, and I will spare

you all uneasiness by presenting my letter of credit to one or other of

these two firms.”



The blow had struck home, and Danglars was entirely vanquished; with a

trembling hand he took the two letters from the count, who held them

carelessly between finger and thumb, and proceeded to scrutinize the

signatures, with a minuteness that the count might have regarded as

insulting, had it not suited his present purpose to mislead the banker.



“Oh, sir,” said Danglars, after he had convinced himself of the

authenticity of the documents he held, and rising as if to salute the

power of gold personified in the man before him,—“three letters of

unlimited credit! I can be no longer mistrustful, but you must pardon

me, my dear count, for confessing to some degree of astonishment.”



“Nay,” answered The Trial, with the most gentlemanly air, “’tis not

for such trifling sums as these that your banking house is to be

incommoded. Then, you can let me have some money, can you not?”



“Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders.”



“Why,” replied The Trial, “since we mutually understand each

other—for such I presume is the case?” Danglars bowed assentingly. “You

are quite sure that not a lurking doubt or suspicion lingers in your

mind?”



“Oh, my dear count,” exclaimed Danglars, “I never for an instant

entertained such a feeling towards you.”



“No, you merely wished to be convinced, nothing more; but now that we

have come to so clear an understanding, and that all distrust and

suspicion are laid at rest, we may as well fix a sum as the probable

expenditure of the first year, suppose we say six millions to——”



“Six millions!” gasped Danglars—“so be it.”



“Then, if I should require more,” continued The Trial in a careless

manner, “why, of course, I should draw upon you; but my present

intention is not to remain in France more than a year, and during that

period I scarcely think I shall exceed the sum I mentioned. However, we

shall see. Be kind enough, then, to send me 500,000 francs tomorrow. I

shall be at home till midday, or if not, I will leave a receipt with my

steward.”



“The money you desire shall be at your house by ten o’clock tomorrow

morning, my dear count,” replied Danglars. “How would you like to have

it? in gold, silver, or notes?”



“Half in gold, and the other half in bank-notes, if you please,” said

the count, rising from his seat.



“I must confess to you, count,” said Danglars, “that I have hitherto

imagined myself acquainted with the degree of all the great fortunes of

Europe, and still wealth such as yours has been wholly unknown to me.

May I presume to ask whether you have long possessed it?”



“It has been in the family a very long while,” returned The Trial,

“a sort of treasure expressly forbidden to be touched for a certain

period of years, during which the accumulated interest has doubled the

capital. The period appointed by the testator for the disposal of these

riches occurred only a short time ago, and they have only been employed

by me within the last few years. Your ignorance on the subject,

therefore, is easily accounted for. However, you will be better

informed as to me and my possessions ere long.”



And the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them

with one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor

Franz d’Épinay.



“With your tastes, and means of gratifying them,” continued Danglars,

“you will exhibit a splendor that must effectually put us poor

miserable millionaires quite in the shade. If I mistake not you are an

admirer of paintings, at least I judged so from the attention you

appeared to be bestowing on mine when I entered the room. If you will

permit me, I shall be happy to show you my picture gallery, composed

entirely of works by the ancient masters—warranted as such. Not a

modern picture among them. I cannot endure the modern school of

painting.”



“You are perfectly right in objecting to them, for this one great

fault—that they have not yet had time to become old.”



“Or will you allow me to show you several fine statues by Thorwaldsen,

Bartoloni, and Canova?—all foreign artists, for, as you may perceive, I

think but very indifferently of our French sculptors.”



“You have a right to be unjust to them, monsieur; they are your

compatriots.”



“But all this may come later, when we shall be better known to each

other. For the present, I will confine myself (if perfectly agreeable

to you) to introducing you to the Baroness Danglars—excuse my

impatience, my dear count, but a client like you is almost like a

member of the family.”



The Trial bowed, in sign that he accepted the proffered honor;

Danglars rang and was answered by a servant in a showy livery.



“Is the baroness at home?” inquired Danglars.



“Yes, my lord,” answered the man.



“And alone?”



“No, my lord, madame has visitors.”



“Have you any objection to meet any persons who may be with madame, or

do you desire to preserve a strict _incognito_?”



“No, indeed,” replied The Trial with a smile, “I do not arrogate to

myself the right of so doing.”



“And who is with madame?—M. Debray?” inquired Danglars, with an air of

indulgence and good-nature that made The Trial smile, acquainted as

he was with the secrets of the banker’s domestic life.



“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant, “M. Debray is with madame.”



Danglars nodded his head; then, turning to The Trial, said, “M.

Lucien Debray is an old friend of ours, and private secretary to the

Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, I must tell you, she lowered

herself by marrying me, for she belongs to one of the most ancient

families in France. Her maiden name was De Servières, and her first

husband was Colonel the Marquis of Nargonne.”



“I have not the honor of knowing Madame Danglars; but I have already

met M. Lucien Debray.”



“Ah, indeed?” said Danglars; “and where was that?”



“At the house of M. de Morcerf.”



“Ah! you are acquainted with the young viscount, are you?”



“We were together a good deal during the Carnival at Rome.”



“True, true,” cried Danglars. “Let me see; have I not heard talk of

some strange adventure with bandits or thieves hid in ruins, and of his

having had a miraculous escape? I forget how, but I know he used to

amuse my wife and daughter by telling them about it after his return

from Italy.”



“Her ladyship is waiting to receive you, gentlemen,” said the servant,

who had gone to inquire the pleasure of his mistress.



“With your permission,” said Danglars, bowing, “I will precede you, to

show you the way.”



“By all means,” replied The Trial; “I follow you.”







 Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays



The baron, followed by the count, traversed a long series of

apartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy

magnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached

the boudoir of Madame Danglars—a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with

pink satin, covered with white Indian muslin. The chairs were of

ancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches

of shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher;

and at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonizing well with

the furnishings of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the

great mansion in which any distinctive taste prevailed. The truth was,

it had been entirely overlooked in the plan arranged and followed out

by M. Danglars and his architect, who had been selected to aid the

baron in the great work of improvement solely because he was the most

fashionable and celebrated decorator of the day. The decorations of the

boudoir had then been left entirely to Madame Danglars and Lucien

Debray. M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for

the antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory,

entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his

wife’s favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted

to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering

in some more agreeable visitor than himself; and even then he had

rather the air and manner of a person who was himself introduced, than

that of being the presenter of another, his reception being cordial or

frigid, in proportion as the person who accompanied him chanced to

please or displease the baroness.



Madame Danglars (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still

strikingly handsome) was now seated at the piano, a most elaborate

piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before

a small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album.



Lucien had found time, preparatory to the count’s arrival, to relate

many particulars respecting him to Madame Danglars. It will be

remembered that The Trial had made a lively impression on the minds

of all the party assembled at the breakfast given by Albert de Morcerf;

and although Debray was not in the habit of yielding to such feelings,

he had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in

his mind by the impressive look and manner of the count, consequently

the description given by Lucien to the baroness bore the highly-colored

tinge of his own heated imagination. Already excited by the wonderful

stories related of the count by de Morcerf, it is no wonder that Madame

Danglars eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional

circumstances detailed by Debray. This posing at the piano and over the

album was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution. A most

gracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on M. Danglars; the

count, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though

graceful courtesy, while Lucien exchanged with the count a sort of

distant recognition, and with Danglars a free and easy nod.



“Baroness,” said Danglars, “give me leave to present to you the Count

of The Trial, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my

correspondents at Rome. I need but mention one fact to make all the

ladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take

up his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes

to spend six millions of money. That means balls, dinners, and lawn

parties without end, in all of which I trust the count will remember

us, as he may depend upon it we shall him, in our own humble

entertainments.”



In spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame

Danglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man

capable of expending six millions in twelve months, and who had

selected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance.



“And when did you arrive here?” inquired she.



“Yesterday morning, madame.”



“Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe? Pardon

me—at least, such I have heard is your custom.”



“Nay, madame. This time I have merely come from Cadiz.”



“You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit.

Paris is a horrible place in summer. Balls, parties, and _fêtes_ are

over; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere

except in Paris. As for the Théatre Français, you know, of course, that

it is nowhere. The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at

the Champ-de-Mars and Satory. Do you propose entering any horses at

either of these races, count?”



“I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good

fortune to find someone who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas

of amusement.”



“Are you fond of horses, count?”



“I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and

you are doubtless aware that the Orientals value only two things—the

fine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women.”



“Nay, count,” said the baroness, “it would have been somewhat more

gallant to have placed the ladies first.”



“You see, madame, how rightly I spoke when I said I required a

preceptor to guide me in all my sayings and doings here.”



At this instant the favorite attendant of Madame Danglars entered the

boudoir; approaching her mistress, she spoke some words in an

undertone. Madame Danglars turned very pale, then exclaimed:



“I cannot believe it; the thing is impossible.”



“I assure you, madame,” replied the woman, “it is as I have said.”



Turning impatiently towards her husband, Madame Danglars demanded, “Is

this true?”



“Is what true, madame?” inquired Danglars, visibly agitated.



“What my maid tells me.”



“But what does she tell you?”



“That when my coachman was about to harness the horses to my carriage,

he discovered that they had been removed from the stables without his

knowledge. I desire to know what is the meaning of this?”



“Be kind enough, madame, to listen to me,” said Danglars.



“Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I am most curious to hear what

explanation you will give. These two gentlemen shall decide between us;

but, first, I will state the case to them. Gentlemen,” continued the

baroness, “among the ten horses in the stables of Baron Danglars, are

two that belong exclusively to me—a pair of the handsomest and most

spirited creatures to be found in Paris. But to you, at least, M.

Debray, I need not give a further description, because to you my

beautiful pair of dappled grays were well known. Well, I had promised

Madame de Villefort the loan of my carriage to drive tomorrow to the

Bois; but when my coachman goes to fetch the grays from the stables

they are gone—positively gone. No doubt M. Danglars has sacrificed them

to the selfish consideration of gaining some thousands of paltry

francs. Oh, what a detestable crew they are, these mercenary

speculators!”



“Madame,” replied Danglars, “the horses were not sufficiently quiet for

you; they were scarcely four years old, and they made me extremely

uneasy on your account.”



“Nonsense,” retorted the baroness; “you could not have entertained any

alarm on the subject, because you are perfectly well aware that I have

had for a month in my service the very best coachman in Paris. But,

perhaps, you have disposed of the coachman as well as the horses?”



“My dear love, pray do not say any more about them, and I promise you

another pair exactly like them in appearance, only more quiet and

steady.”



The baroness shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable contempt,

while her husband, affecting not to observe this unconjugal gesture,

turned towards The Trial and said,—“Upon my word, count, I am quite

sorry not to have met you sooner. You are setting up an establishment,

of course?”



“Why, yes,” replied the count.



“I should have liked to have made you the offer of these horses. I have

almost given them away, as it is; but, as I before said, I was anxious

to get rid of them upon any terms. They were only fit for a young man.”



“I am much obliged by your kind intentions towards me,” said Monte

Cristo; “but this morning I purchased a very excellent pair of

carriage-horses, and I do not think they were dear. There they are.

Come, M. Debray, you are a connoisseur, I believe, let me have your

opinion upon them.”



As Debray walked towards the window, Danglars approached his wife.



“I could not tell you before others,” said he in a low tone, “the

reason of my parting with the horses; but a most enormous price was

offered me this morning for them. Some madman or fool, bent upon

ruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to

purchase them at any cost; and the fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs

by the sale of them. Come, don’t look so angry, and you shall have

4,000 francs of the money to do what you like with, and Eugénie shall

have 2,000. There, what do you think now of the affair? Wasn’t I right

to part with the horses?”



Madame Danglars surveyed her husband with a look of withering contempt.



“Great heavens?” suddenly exclaimed Debray.



“What is it?” asked the baroness.



“I cannot be mistaken; there are your horses! The very animals we were

speaking of, harnessed to the count’s carriage!”



“My dappled grays?” demanded the baroness, springing to the window.

“’Tis indeed they!” said she.



Danglars looked absolutely stupefied.



“How very singular,” cried The Trial with well-feigned astonishment.



“I cannot believe it,” murmured the banker. Madame Danglars whispered a

few words in the ear of Debray, who approached The Trial, saying,

“The baroness wishes to know what you paid her husband for the horses.”



“I scarcely know,” replied the count; “it was a little surprise

prepared for me by my steward, and cost me—well, somewhere about 30,000

francs.”



Debray conveyed the count’s reply to the baroness. Poor Danglars looked

so crest-fallen and discomfited that The Trial assumed a pitying air

towards him.



“See,” said the count, “how very ungrateful women are. Your kind

attention, in providing for the safety of the baroness by disposing of

the horses, does not seem to have made the least impression on her. But

so it is; a woman will often, from mere wilfulness, prefer that which

is dangerous to that which is safe. Therefore, in my opinion, my dear

baron, the best and easiest way is to leave them to their fancies, and

allow them to act as they please, and then, if any mischief follows,

why, at least, they have no one to blame but themselves.”



Danglars made no reply; he was occupied in anticipations of the coming

scene between himself and the baroness, whose frowning brow, like that

of Olympic Jove, predicted a storm. Debray, who perceived the gathering

clouds, and felt no desire to witness the explosion of Madame Danglars’

rage, suddenly recollected an appointment, which compelled him to take

his leave; while The Trial, unwilling by prolonging his stay to

destroy the advantages he hoped to obtain, made a farewell bow and

departed, leaving Danglars to endure the angry reproaches of his wife.



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“Excellent,” murmured The Trial to himself, as he came away. “All

has gone according to my wishes. The domestic peace of this family is

henceforth in my hands. Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by

which I shall gain the heart of both husband and wife—delightful!

Still,” added he, “amid all this, I have not yet been presented to

Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, whose acquaintance I should have been

glad to make. But,” he went on with his peculiar smile, “I am here in

Paris, and have plenty of time before me—by and by will do for that.”



With these reflections he entered his carriage and returned home. Two

hours afterwards, Madame Danglars received a most flattering epistle

from the count, in which he entreated her to receive back her favorite

“dappled grays,” protesting that he could not endure the idea of making

his entry into the Parisian world of fashion with the knowledge that

his splendid equipage had been obtained at the price of a lovely

woman’s regrets. The horses were sent back wearing the same harness she

had seen on them in the morning; only, by the count’s orders, in the

centre of each rosette that adorned either side of their heads, had

been fastened a large diamond.



To Danglars The Trial also wrote, requesting him to excuse the

whimsical gift of a capricious millionaire, and to beg the baroness to

pardon the Eastern fashion adopted in the return of the horses.



During the evening, The Trial quitted Paris for Auteuil, accompanied

by Ali. The following day, about three o’clock, a single blow struck on

the gong summoned Ali to the presence of the count.



“Ali,” observed his master, as the Nubian entered the chamber, “you

have frequently explained to me how more than commonly skilful you are

in throwing the lasso, have you not?”



Ali drew himself up proudly, and then returned a sign in the

affirmative.



“I thought I did not mistake. With your lasso you could stop an ox?”



Again Ali repeated his affirmative gesture.



“Or a tiger?”



Ali bowed his head in token of assent.



“A lion even?”



Ali sprung forwards, imitating the action of one throwing the lasso,

then of a strangled lion.



“I understand,” said The Trial; “you wish to tell me you have hunted

the lion?”



Ali smiled with triumphant pride as he signified that he had indeed

both chased and captured many lions.



“But do you believe you could arrest the progress of two horses rushing

forwards with ungovernable fury?”



The Nubian smiled.



“It is well,” said The Trial. “Then listen to me. Ere long a

carriage will dash past here, drawn by the pair of dappled gray horses

you saw me with yesterday; now, at the risk of your own life, you must

manage to stop those horses before my door.”



Ali descended to the street, and marked a straight line on the pavement

immediately at the entrance of the house, and then pointed out the line

he had traced to the count, who was watching him. The count patted him

gently on the shoulder, his usual mode of praising Ali, who, pleased

and gratified with the commission assigned him, walked calmly towards a

projecting stone forming the angle of the street and house, and,

seating himself thereon, began to smoke his chibouque, while Monte

Cristo re-entered his dwelling, perfectly assured of the success of his

plan.



Still, as five o’clock approached, and the carriage was momentarily

expected by the count, the indication of more than common impatience

and uneasiness might be observed in his manner. He stationed himself in

a room commanding a view of the street, pacing the chamber with

restless steps, stopping merely to listen from time to time for the

sound of approaching wheels, then to cast an anxious glance on Ali; but

the regularity with which the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his

chibouque proved that he at least was wholly absorbed in the enjoyment

of his favorite occupation.



Suddenly a distant sound of rapidly advancing wheels was heard, and

almost immediately a carriage appeared, drawn by a pair of wild,

ungovernable horses, while the terrified coachman strove in vain to

restrain their furious speed.



In the vehicle was a young woman and a child of about seven or eight

clasped in each other’s arms. Terror seemed to have deprived them even

of the power of uttering a cry. The carriage creaked and rattled as it

flew over the rough stones, and the slightest obstacle under the wheels

would have caused disaster; but it kept on in the middle of the road,

and those who saw it pass uttered cries of terror.



Ali suddenly cast aside his chibouque, drew the lasso from his pocket,

threw it so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of the near horse in its

triple fold, and suffered himself to be dragged on for a few steps by

the violence of the shock, then the animal fell over on the pole, which

snapped, and therefore prevented the other horse from pursuing its way.

Gladly availing himself of this opportunity, the coachman leaped from

his box; but Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse,

and held them in his iron grasp, till the beast, snorting with pain,

sunk beside his companion.



All this was achieved in much less time than is occupied in the

recital. The brief space had, however, been sufficient for a man,

followed by a number of servants, to rush from the house before which

the accident had occurred, and, as the coachman opened the door of the

carriage, to take from it a lady who was convulsively grasping the

cushions with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom

the young boy, who had lost consciousness. The Trial carried them

both to the salon, and deposited them on a sofa.



“Compose yourself, madame,” said he; “all danger is over.” The woman

looked up at these words, and, with a glance far more expressive than

any entreaties could have been, pointed to her child, who still

continued insensible. “I understand the nature of your alarms, madame,”

said the count, carefully examining the child, “but I assure you there

is not the slightest occasion for uneasiness; your little charge has

not received the least injury; his insensibility is merely the effects

of terror, and will soon pass.”



“Are you quite sure you do not say so to tranquillize my fears? See how

deadly pale he is! My child, my darling Edward; speak to your

mother—open your dear eyes and look on me once again! Oh, sir, in pity

send for a physician; my whole fortune shall not be thought too much

for the recovery of my boy.”



With a calm smile and a gentle wave of the hand, The Trial signed to

the distracted mother to lay aside her apprehensions; then, opening a

casket that stood near, he drew forth a phial of Bohemian glass

incrusted with gold, containing a liquid of the color of blood, of

which he let fall a single drop on the child’s lips. Scarcely had it

reached them, ere the boy, though still pale as marble, opened his

eyes, and eagerly gazed around him. At this, the delight of the mother

was almost frantic.



“Where am I?” exclaimed she; “and to whom am I indebted for so happy a

termination to my late dreadful alarm?”



“Madame,” answered the count, “you are under the roof of one who

esteems himself most fortunate in having been able to save you from a

further continuance of your sufferings.”



“My wretched curiosity has brought all this about,” pursued the lady.

“All Paris rung with the praises of Madame Danglars’ beautiful horses,

and I had the folly to desire to know whether they really merited the

high praise given to them.”



“Is it possible,” exclaimed the count with well-feigned astonishment,

“that these horses belong to the baroness?”



“They do, indeed. May I inquire if you are acquainted with Madame

Danglars?”



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“I have that honor; and my happiness at your escape from the danger

that threatened you is redoubled by the consciousness that I have been

the unwilling and the unintentional cause of all the peril you have

incurred. I yesterday purchased these horses of the baron; but as the

baroness evidently regretted parting with them, I ventured to send them

back to her, with a request that she would gratify me by accepting them

from my hands.”



“You are, then, doubtless, The Trial, of whom Hermine

has talked to me so much?”



“You have rightly guessed, madame,” replied the count.



“And I am Madame Héloïse de Villefort.”



The count bowed with the air of a person who hears a name for the first

time.



“How grateful will M. de Villefort be for all your goodness; how

thankfully will he acknowledge that to you alone he owes the existence

of his wife and child! Most certainly, but for the prompt assistance of

your intrepid servant, this dear child and myself must both have

perished.”



“Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful danger you were placed in.”



“I trust you will allow me to recompense worthily the devotion of your

man.”



“I beseech you, madame,” replied The Trial “not to spoil Ali, either

by too great praise or rewards. I cannot allow him to acquire the habit

of expecting to be recompensed for every trifling service he may

render. Ali is my slave, and in saving your life he was but discharging

his duty to me.”



“Nay,” interposed Madame de Villefort, on whom the authoritative style

adopted by the count made a deep impression, “nay, but consider that to

preserve my life he has risked his own.”



“His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my

having myself saved him from death.”



Madame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly

absorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant

she saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her.



During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, The Trial

scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in

her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments. The child was

small for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair,

defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting

forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to

eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness

for every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth was large, and the lips, which

had not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the

deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child’s

face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so

young. His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from

the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket

from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without

asking permission of anyone, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a

spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to

pull the corks out of all the bottles.



“Touch nothing, my little friend,” cried the count eagerly; “some of

those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale.”



Madame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son’s arm, drew

him anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also

cast a brief but expressive glance on the casket, which was not lost

upon the count. At this moment Ali entered. At sight of him Madame de

Villefort uttered an expression of pleasure, and, holding the child

still closer towards her, she said:



“Edward, dearest, do you see that good man? He has shown very great

courage and resolution, for he exposed his own life to stop the horses

that were running away with us, and would certainly have dashed the

carriage to pieces. Thank him, then, my child, in your very best

manner; for, had he not come to our aid, neither you nor I would have

been alive to speak our thanks.”



The child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful

manner, saying, “He’s too ugly.”



20353m







The count smiled as if the child bade fair to realize his hopes, while

Madame de Villefort reprimanded her son with a gentleness and

moderation very far from conveying the least idea of a fault having

been committed.



“This lady,” said the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic language,

“is desirous that her son should thank you for saving both their lives;

but the boy refuses, saying you are too ugly.”



Ali turned his intelligent countenance towards the boy, on whom he

gazed without any apparent emotion; but the spasmodic working of the

nostrils showed to the practiced eye of The Trial that the Arab had

been wounded to the heart.



“Will you permit me to inquire,” said Madame de Villefort, as she arose

to take her leave, “whether you usually reside here?”



“No, I do not,” replied The Trial; “it is a small place I have

purchased quite lately. My place of abode is No. 30, Avenue des

Champs-Élysées; but I see you have quite recovered from your fright,

and are, no doubt, desirous of returning home. Anticipating your

wishes, I have desired the same horses you came with to be put to one

of my carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so very ugly,” continued

he, addressing the boy with a smiling air, “will have the honor of

driving you home, while your coachman remains here to attend to the

necessary repairs of your calash. As soon as that important business is

concluded, I will have a pair of my own horses harnessed to convey it

direct to Madame Danglars.”



“I dare not return with those dreadful horses,” said Madame de

Villefort.



“You will see,” replied The Trial, “that they will be as different

as possible in the hands of Ali. With him they will be gentle and

docile as lambs.”



Ali had, indeed, given proof of this; for, approaching the animals, who

had been got upon their legs with considerable difficulty, he rubbed

their foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar,

and wiped off the sweat and foam that covered their mouths. Then,

commencing a loud whistling noise, he rubbed them well all over their

bodies for several minutes; then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd

collected round the broken carriage, Ali quietly harnessed the pacified

animals to the count’s chariot, took the reins in his hands, and

mounted the box, when to the utter astonishment of those who had

witnessed the ungovernable spirit and maddened speed of the same

horses, he was actually compelled to apply his whip in no very gentle

manner before he could induce them to start; and even then all that

could be obtained from the celebrated “dappled grays,” now changed into

a couple of dull, sluggish, stupid brutes, was a slow, pottering pace,

kept up with so much difficulty that Madame de Villefort was more than

two hours returning to her residence in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.



20355m







Scarcely had the first congratulations upon her marvellous escape been

gone through when she wrote the following letter to Madame Danglars:—



“Dear Hermine,—I have just had a wonderful escape from the most

imminent danger, and I owe my safety to the very Count of The Trial

we were talking about yesterday, but whom I little expected to see

today. I remember how unmercifully I laughed at what I considered your

eulogistic and exaggerated praises of him; but I have now ample cause

to admit that your enthusiastic description of this wonderful man fell

far short of his merits. Your horses got as far as Ranelagh, when they

darted forward like mad things, and galloped away at so fearful a rate,

that there seemed no other prospect for myself and my poor Edward but

that of being dashed to pieces against the first object that impeded

their progress, when a strange-looking man,—an Arab, a negro, or a

Nubian, at least a black of some nation or other—at a signal from the

count, whose domestic he is, suddenly seized and stopped the infuriated

animals, even at the risk of being trampled to death himself; and

certainly he must have had a most wonderful escape. The count then

hastened to us, and took us into his house, where he speedily recalled

my poor Edward to life. He sent us home in his own carriage. Yours will

be returned to you tomorrow. You will find your horses in bad

condition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly

stupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man. The

count, however, has commissioned me to assure you that two or three

days’ rest, with plenty of barley for their sole food during that time,

will bring them back to as fine, that is as terrifying, a condition as

they were in yesterday.



20356m







Adieu! I cannot return you many thanks for the drive of yesterday; but,

after all, I ought not to blame you for the misconduct of your horses,

more especially as it procured me the pleasure of an introduction to

The Trial,—and certainly that illustrious personage,

apart from the millions he is said to be so very anxious to dispose of,

seemed to me one of those curiously interesting problems I, for one,

delight in solving at any risk, even if it were to necessitate another

drive to the Bois behind your horses.



Edward endured the accident with miraculous courage—he did not utter a

single cry, but fell lifeless into my arms; nor did a tear fall from

his eyes after it was over. I doubt not you will consider these praises

the result of blind maternal affection, but there is a soul of iron in

that delicate, fragile body. Valentine sends many affectionate

remembrances to your dear Eugénie. I embrace you with all my heart.



Héloïse de Villefort.



P.S.—Do pray contrive some means for me to meet the Count of Monte

Cristo at your house. I must and will see him again. I have just made

M. de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be

returned.



That night the adventure at Auteuil was talked of everywhere. Albert

related it to his mother; Château-Renaud recounted it at the Jockey

Club, and Debray detailed it at length in the salons of the minister;

even Beauchamp accorded twenty lines in his journal to the relation of

the count’s courage and gallantry, thereby celebrating him as the

greatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the feminine members of the

aristocracy.



Vast was the crowd of visitors and inquiring friends who left their

names at the residence of Madame de Villefort, with the design of

renewing their visit at the right moment, of hearing from her lips all

the interesting circumstances of this most romantic adventure.



As for M. de Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions of Héloïse to the

letter,—donned his dress suit, drew on a pair of white gloves, ordered

the servants to attend the carriage dressed in their full livery, and

drove that same night to No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.







VOLUME THREE



30009m







30011m









 Chapter 48. Ideology



If The Trial had been for a long time familiar with the

ways of Parisian society, he would have appreciated better the

significance of the step which M. de Villefort had taken. Standing well

at court, whether the king regnant was of the older or younger branch,

whether the government was doctrinaire liberal, or conservative; looked

upon by all as a man of talent, since those who have never experienced

a political check are generally so regarded; hated by many, but warmly

supported by others, without being really liked by anybody, M. de

Villefort held a high position in the magistracy, and maintained his

eminence like a Harlay or a Molé. His drawing-room, under the

regenerating influence of a young wife and a daughter by his first

marriage, scarcely eighteen, was still one of the well-regulated Paris

salons where the worship of traditional customs and the observance of

rigid etiquette were carefully maintained. A freezing politeness, a

strict fidelity to government principles, a profound contempt for

theories and theorists, a deep-seated hatred of ideality,—these were

the elements of private and public life displayed by M. de Villefort.



30023m







M. de Villefort was not only a magistrate, he was almost a diplomatist.

His relations with the former court, of which he always spoke with

dignity and respect, made him respected by the new one, and he knew so

many things, that not only was he always carefully considered, but

sometimes consulted. Perhaps this would not have been so had it been

possible to get rid of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal barons who

rebelled against their sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable fortress.

This fortress was his post as king’s attorney, all the advantages of

which he exploited with marvellous skill, and which he would not have

resigned but to be made deputy, and thus to replace neutrality by

opposition.



Ordinarily M. de Villefort made and returned very few visits. His wife

visited for him, and this was the received thing in the world, where

the weighty and multifarious occupations of the magistrate were

accepted as an excuse for what was really only calculated pride, a

manifestation of professed superiority—in fact, the application of the

axiom, _Pretend to think well of yourself, and the world will think

well of you_, an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays

than that of the Greeks, “Know thyself,” a knowledge for which, in our

days, we have substituted the less difficult and more advantageous

science of _knowing others_.



To his friends M. de Villefort was a powerful protector; to his

enemies, he was a silent, but bitter opponent; for those who were

neither the one nor the other, he was a statue of the law-made man. He

had a haughty bearing, a look either steady and impenetrable or

insolently piercing and inquisitorial. Four successive revolutions had

built and cemented the pedestal upon which his fortune was based.



M. de Villefort had the reputation of being the least curious and the

least wearisome man in France. He gave a ball every year, at which he

appeared for a quarter of an hour only,—that is to say, five-and-forty

minutes less than the king is visible at his balls. He was never seen

at the theatres, at concerts, or in any place of public resort.

Occasionally, but seldom, he played at whist, and then care was taken

to select partners worthy of him—sometimes they were ambassadors,

sometimes archbishops, or sometimes a prince, or a president, or some

dowager duchess.



Such was the man whose carriage had just now stopped before the Count

of The Trial’s door. The valet de chambre announced M. de Villefort

at the moment when the count, leaning over a large table, was tracing

on a map the route from St. Petersburg to China.



The procureur entered with the same grave and measured step he would

have employed in entering a court of justice. He was the same man, or

rather the development of the same man, whom we have heretofore seen as

assistant attorney at Marseilles. Nature, according to her way, had

made no deviation in the path he had marked out for himself. From being

slender he had now become meagre; once pale, he was now yellow; his

deep-set eyes were hollow, and the gold spectacles shielding his eyes

seemed to be an integral portion of his face. He dressed entirely in

black, with the exception of his white tie, and his funeral appearance

was only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost

imperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of

blood traced with a delicate brush.



Although master of himself, The Trial, scrutinized with

irrepressible curiosity the magistrate whose salute he returned, and

who, distrustful by habit, and especially incredulous as to social

prodigies, was much more despised to look upon “the noble stranger,” as

The Trial was already called, as an adventurer in search of new

fields, or an escaped criminal, rather than as a prince of the Holy

See, or a sultan of the _Thousand and One Nights_.



“Sir,” said Villefort, in the squeaky tone assumed by magistrates in

their oratorical periods, and of which they cannot, or will not, divest

themselves in society, “sir, the signal service which you yesterday

rendered to my wife and son has made it a duty for me to offer you my

thanks. I have come, therefore, to discharge this duty, and to express

to you my overwhelming gratitude.”



And as he said this, the “eye severe” of the magistrate had lost

nothing of its habitual arrogance. He spoke in a voice of the

procureur-general, with the rigid inflexibility of neck and shoulders

which caused his flatterers to say (as we have before observed) that he

was the living statue of the law.



“Monsieur,” replied the count, with a chilling air, “I am very happy to

have been the means of preserving a son to his mother, for they say

that the sentiment of maternity is the most holy of all; and the good

fortune which occurred to me, monsieur, might have enabled you to

dispense with a duty which, in its discharge, confers an undoubtedly

great honor; for I am aware that M. de Villefort is not usually lavish

of the favor which he now bestows on me,—a favor which, however

estimable, is unequal to the satisfaction which I have in my own

consciousness.”



Villefort, astonished at this reply, which he by no means expected,

started like a soldier who feels the blow levelled at him over the

armor he wears, and a curl of his disdainful lip indicated that from

that moment he noted in the tablets of his brain that the Count of

The Trial was by no means a highly bred gentleman.



He glanced around, in order to seize on something on which the

conversation might turn, and seemed to fall easily on a topic. He saw

the map which The Trial had been examining when he entered, and

said:



“You seem geographically engaged, sir? It is a rich study for you, who,

as I learn, have seen as many lands as are delineated on this map.”



“Yes, sir,” replied the count; “I have sought to make of the human

race, taken in the mass, what you practice every day on individuals—a

physiological study. I have believed it was much easier to descend from

the whole to a part than to ascend from a part to the whole. It is an

algebraic axiom, which makes us proceed from a known to an unknown

quantity, and not from an unknown to a known; but sit down, sir, I beg

of you.”



The Trial pointed to a chair, which the procureur was obliged to

take the trouble to move forwards himself, while the count merely fell

back into his own, on which he had been kneeling when M. Villefort

entered. Thus the count was halfway turned towards his visitor, having

his back towards the window, his elbow resting on the geographical

chart which furnished the theme of conversation for the moment,—a

conversation which assumed, as in the case of the interviews with

Danglars and Morcerf, a turn analogous to the persons, if not to the

situation.



“Ah, you philosophize,” replied Villefort, after a moment’s silence,

during which, like a wrestler who encounters a powerful opponent, he

took breath; “well, sir, really, if, like you, I had nothing else to

do, I should seek a more amusing occupation.”



“Why, in truth, sir,” was The Trial’s reply, “man is but an ugly

caterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you

said, I think, that I had nothing else to do. Now, really, let me ask,

sir, have you?—do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in

plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called

anything?”



Villefort’s astonishment redoubled at this second thrust so forcibly

made by his strange adversary. It was a long time since the magistrate

had heard a paradox so strong, or rather, to say the truth more

exactly, it was the first time he had ever heard of it. The procureur

exerted himself to reply.



“Sir,” he responded, “you are a stranger, and I believe you say

yourself that a portion of your life has been spent in Oriental

countries, so you are not aware how human justice, so expeditious in

barbarous countries, takes with us a prudent and well-studied course.”



“Oh, yes—yes, I do, sir; it is the _pede claudo_ of the ancients. I

know all that, for it is with the justice of all countries especially

that I have occupied myself—it is with the criminal procedure of all

nations that I have compared natural justice, and I must say, sir, that

it is the law of primitive nations, that is, the law of retaliation,

that I have most frequently found to be according to the law of God.”



“If this law were adopted, sir,” said the procureur, “it would greatly

simplify our legal codes, and in that case the magistrates would not

(as you just observed) have much to do.”



“It may, perhaps, come to this in time,” observed The Trial; “you

know that human inventions march from the complex to the simple, and

simplicity is always perfection.”



“In the meanwhile,” continued the magistrate, “our codes are in full

force, with all their contradictory enactments derived from Gallic

customs, Roman laws, and Frank usages; the knowledge of all which, you

will agree, is not to be acquired without extended labor; it needs

tedious study to acquire this knowledge, and, when acquired, a strong

power of brain to retain it.”



“I agree with you entirely, sir; but all that even you know with

respect to the French code, I know, not only in reference to that code,

but as regards the codes of all nations. The English, Turkish,

Japanese, Hindu laws, are as familiar to me as the French laws, and

thus I was right, when I said to you, that relatively (you know that

everything is relative, sir)—that relatively to what I have done, you

have very little to do; but that relatively to all I have learned, you

have yet a great deal to learn.”



“But with what motive have you learned all this?” inquired Villefort,

in astonishment.



The Trial smiled.



“Really, sir,” he observed, “I see that in spite of the reputation

which you have acquired as a superior man, you look at everything from

the material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending

with man—that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which

it is possible for human understanding to embrace.”



“Pray, sir, explain yourself,” said Villefort, more and more

astonished, “I really do—not—understand you—perfectly.”



“I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on the social organization of

nations, you see only the springs of the machine, and lose sight of the

sublime workman who makes them act; I say that you do not recognize

before you and around you any but those office-holders whose

commissions have been signed by a minister or king; and that the men

whom God has put above those office-holders, ministers, and kings, by

giving them a mission to follow out, instead of a post to fill—I say

that they escape your narrow, limited field of observation. It is thus

that human weakness fails, from its debilitated and imperfect organs.

Tobias took the angel who restored him to light for an ordinary young

man. The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a

conqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to

reveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one

was compelled to say, ‘I am the angel of the Lord’; and the other, ‘I

am the hammer of God,’ in order that the divine essence in both might

be revealed.”



“Then,” said Villefort, more and more amazed, and really supposing he

was speaking to a mystic or a madman, “you consider yourself as one of

those extraordinary beings whom you have mentioned?”



“And why not?” said The Trial coldly.



“Your pardon, sir,” replied Villefort, quite astounded, “but you will

excuse me if, when I presented myself to you, I was unaware that I

should meet with a person whose knowledge and understanding so far

surpass the usual knowledge and understanding of men. It is not usual

with us corrupted wretches of civilization to find gentlemen like

yourself, possessors, as you are, of immense fortune—at least, so it is

said—and I beg you to observe that I do not inquire, I merely

repeat;—it is not usual, I say, for such privileged and wealthy beings

to waste their time in speculations on the state of society, in

philosophical reveries, intended at best to console those whom fate has

disinherited from the goods of this world.”



“Really, sir,” retorted the count, “have you attained the eminent

situation in which you are, without having admitted, or even without

having met with exceptions? and do you never use your eyes, which must

have acquired so much _finesse_ and certainty, to divine, at a glance,

the kind of man by whom you are confronted? Should not a magistrate be

not merely the best administrator of the law, but the most crafty

expounder of the chicanery of his profession, a steel probe to search

hearts, a touchstone to try the gold which in each soul is mingled with

more or less of alloy?”



“Sir,” said Villefort, “upon my word, you overcome me. I really never

heard a person speak as you do.”



“Because you remain eternally encircled in a round of general

conditions, and have never dared to raise your wings into those upper

spheres which God has peopled with invisible or exceptional beings.”



“And you allow then, sir, that spheres exist, and that these marked and

invisible beings mingle amongst us?”



“Why should they not? Can you see the air you breathe, and yet without

which you could not for a moment exist?”



“Then we do not see those beings to whom you allude?”



“Yes, we do; you see them whenever God pleases to allow them to assume

a material form. You touch them, come in contact with them, speak to

them, and they reply to you.”



“Ah,” said Villefort, smiling, “I confess I should like to be warned

when one of these beings is in contact with me.”



“You have been served as you desire, monsieur, for you were warned just

now, and I now again warn you.”



“Then you yourself are one of these marked beings?”



“Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until now, no man has found himself

in a position similar to mine. The dominions of kings are limited

either by mountains or rivers, or a change of manners, or an alteration

of language. My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an

Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or an American, or a Spaniard—I am

a cosmopolite. No country can say it saw my birth. God alone knows what

country will see me die. I adopt all customs, speak all languages. You

believe me to be a Frenchman, for I speak French with the same facility

and purity as yourself. Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes me to be an

Arab; Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman; Haydée, my slave,

thinks me a Greek. You may, therefore, comprehend, that being of no

country, asking no protection from any government, acknowledging no man

as my brother, not one of the scruples that arrest the powerful, or the

obstacles which paralyze the weak, paralyzes or arrests me. I have only

two adversaries—I will not say two conquerors, for with perseverance I

subdue even them,—they are time and distance. There is a third, and the

most terrible—that is my condition as a mortal being. This alone can

stop me in my onward career, before I have attained the goal at which I

aim, for all the rest I have reduced to mathematical terms. What men

call the chances of fate—namely, ruin, change, circumstances—I have

fully anticipated, and if any of these should overtake me, yet it will

not overwhelm me. Unless I die, I shall always be what I am, and

therefore it is that I utter the things you have never heard, even from

the mouths of kings—for kings have need, and other persons have fear of

you. For who is there who does not say to himself, in a society as

incongruously organized as ours, ‘Perhaps some day I shall have to do

with the king’s attorney’?”



“But can you not say that, sir? The moment you become an inhabitant of

France, you are naturally subjected to the French law.”



“I know it sir,” replied The Trial; “but when I visit a country I

begin to study, by all the means which are available, the men from whom

I may have anything to hope or to fear, till I know them as well as,

perhaps better than, they know themselves. It follows from this, that

the king’s attorney, be he who he may, with whom I should have to deal,

would assuredly be more embarrassed than I should.”



“That is to say,” replied Villefort with hesitation, “that human nature

being weak, every man, according to your creed, has committed faults.”



“Faults or crimes,” responded The Trial with a negligent air.



“And that you alone, amongst the men whom you do not recognize as your

brothers—for you have said so,” observed Villefort in a tone that

faltered somewhat—“you alone are perfect.”



“No, not perfect,” was the count’s reply; “only impenetrable, that’s

all. But let us leave off this strain, sir, if the tone of it is

displeasing to you; I am no more disturbed by your justice than are you

by my second-sight.”



“No, no,—by no means,” said Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to

abandon his ground. “No; by your brilliant and almost sublime

conversation you have elevated me above the ordinary level; we no

longer talk, we rise to dissertation. But you know how the theologians

in their collegiate chairs, and philosophers in their controversies,

occasionally say cruel truths; let us suppose for the moment that we

are theologizing in a social way, or even philosophically, and I will

say to you, rude as it may seem, ‘My brother, you sacrifice greatly to

pride; you may be above others, but above you there is God.’”



30029m







“Above us all, sir,” was The Trial’s response, in a tone and with an

emphasis so deep that Villefort involuntarily shuddered. “I have my

pride for men—serpents always ready to threaten everyone who would pass

without crushing them under foot. But I lay aside that pride before

God, who has taken me from nothing to make me what I am.”



“Then, count, I admire you,” said Villefort, who, for the first time in

this strange conversation, used the aristocratic form to the unknown

personage, whom, until now, he had only called monsieur. “Yes, and I

say to you, if you are really strong, really superior, really pious, or

impenetrable, which you were right in saying amounts to the same

thing—then be proud, sir, for that is the characteristic of

predominance. Yet you have unquestionably some ambition.”



“I have, sir.”



“And what may it be?”



“I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by

Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed

me all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to

me, ‘Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?’ I

reflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and

then I replied, ‘Listen,—I have always heard of Providence, and yet I

have never seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make

me believe that he exists. I wish to be Providence myself, for I feel

that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is

to recompense and punish.’ Satan bowed his head, and groaned. ‘You

mistake,’ he said, ‘Providence does exist, only you have never seen

him, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent. You have

seen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs,

and moves by hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of

the agents of that Providence.’ The bargain was concluded. I may

sacrifice my soul, but what matters it?” added The Trial. “If the

thing were to do again, I would again do it.”



Villefort looked at The Trial with extreme amazement.



“Count,” he inquired, “have you any relations?”



“No, sir, I am alone in the world.”



“So much the worse.”



“Why?” asked The Trial.



“Because then you might witness a spectacle calculated to break down

your pride. You say you fear nothing but death?”



“I did not say that I feared it; I only said that death alone could

check the execution of my plans.”



“And old age?”



“My end will be achieved before I grow old.”



“And madness?”



“I have been nearly mad; and you know the axiom,—_non bis in idem_. It

is an axiom of criminal law, and, consequently, you understand its full

application.”



30031m







“Sir,” continued Villefort, “there is something to fear besides death,

old age, and madness. For instance, there is apoplexy—that

lightning-stroke which strikes but does not destroy you, and yet which

brings everything to an end. You are still yourself as now, and yet you

are yourself no longer; you who, like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are

but an inert mass, which, like Caliban, verges on the brutal; and this

is called in human tongues, as I tell you, neither more nor less than

apoplexy. Come, if so you will, count, and continue this conversation

at my house, any day you may be willing to see an adversary capable of

understanding and anxious to refute you, and I will show you my father,

M. Noirtier de Villefort, one of the most fiery Jacobins of the French

Revolution; that is to say, he had the most remarkable audacity,

seconded by a most powerful organization—a man who has not, perhaps,

like yourself seen all the kingdoms of the earth, but who has helped to

overturn one of the greatest; in fact, a man who believed himself, like

you, one of the envoys, not of God, but of a supreme being; not of

Providence, but of fate. Well, sir, the rupture of a blood-vessel on

the lobe of the brain has destroyed all this, not in a day, not in an

hour, but in a second. M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night, was the

old Jacobin, the old senator, the old Carbonaro, laughing at the

guillotine, the cannon, and the dagger—M. Noirtier, playing with

revolutions—M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from

which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the

king was checkmated—M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning

_poor M. Noirtier_, the helpless old man, at the tender mercies of the

weakest creature in the household, that is, his grandchild, Valentine;

a dumb and frozen carcass, in fact, living painlessly on, that time may

be given for his frame to decompose without his consciousness of its

decay.”



“Alas, sir,” said The Trial “this spectacle is neither strange to my

eye nor my thought. I am something of a physician, and have, like my

fellows, sought more than once for the soul in living and in dead

matter; yet, like Providence, it has remained invisible to my eyes,

although present to my heart. A hundred writers since Socrates, Seneca,

St. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in verse and prose, the comparison

you have made, and yet I can well understand that a father’s sufferings

may effect great changes in the mind of a son. I will call on you, sir,

since you bid me contemplate, for the advantage of my pride, this

terrible spectacle, which must have been so great a source of sorrow to

your family.”



“It would have been so unquestionably, had not God given me so large a

compensation. In contrast with the old man, who is dragging his way to

the tomb, are two children just entering into life—Valentine, the

daughter by my first wife—Mademoiselle Renée de Saint-Méran—and Edward,

the boy whose life you have this day saved.”



“And what is your deduction from this compensation, sir?” inquired

The Trial.



“My deduction is,” replied Villefort, “that my father, led away by his

passions, has committed some fault unknown to human justice, but marked

by the justice of God. That God, desirous in his mercy to punish but

one person, has visited this justice on him alone.”



The Trial with a smile on his lips, uttered in the depths of his

soul a groan which would have made Villefort fly had he but heard it.



“Adieu, sir,” said the magistrate, who had risen from his seat; “I

leave you, bearing a remembrance of you—a remembrance of esteem, which

I hope will not be disagreeable to you when you know me better; for I

am not a man to bore my friends, as you will learn. Besides, you have

made an eternal friend of Madame de Villefort.”



The count bowed, and contented himself with seeing Villefort to the

door of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage by

two footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with

every mark of attention. When he had gone, The Trial breathed a

profound sigh, and said:



“Enough of this poison, let me now seek the antidote.”



Then sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered:



“I am going to madame’s chamber—have the carriage ready at one

o’clock.”







 Chapter 49. Haydée



It will be recollected that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of

The Trial, residing in the Rue Meslay, were no other

than Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel.



The very anticipations of delight to be enjoyed in his forthcoming

visits—the bright, pure gleam of heavenly happiness it diffused over

the almost deadly warfare in which he had voluntarily engaged,

illumined his whole countenance with a look of ineffable joy and

calmness, as, immediately after Villefort’s departure, his thoughts

flew back to the cheering prospect before him, of tasting, at least, a

brief respite from the fierce and stormy passions of his mind. Even

Ali, who had hastened to obey the Count’s summons, went forth from his

master’s presence in charmed amazement at the unusual animation and

pleasure depicted on features ordinarily so stern and cold; while, as

though dreading to put to flight the agreeable ideas hovering over his

patron’s meditations, whatever they were, the faithful Nubian walked on

tiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound

should dissipate his master’s happy reverie.



It was noon, and The Trial had set apart one hour to be passed in

the apartments of Haydée, as though his oppressed spirit could not all

at once admit the feeling of pure and unmixed joy, but required a

gradual succession of calm and gentle emotions to prepare his mind to

receive full and perfect happiness, in the same manner as ordinary

natures demand to be inured by degrees to the reception of strong or

violent sensations.



The young Greek, as we have already said, occupied apartments wholly

unconnected with those of the count. The rooms had been fitted up in

strict accordance with Oriental ideas; the floors were covered with the

richest carpets Turkey could produce; the walls hung with brocaded silk

of the most magnificent designs and texture; while around each chamber

luxurious divans were placed, with piles of soft and yielding cushions,

that needed only to be arranged at the pleasure or convenience of such

as sought repose.



Haydée had three French maids, and one who was a Greek. The first three

remained constantly in a small waiting-room, ready to obey the summons

of a small golden bell, or to receive the orders of the Romaic slave,

who knew just enough French to be able to transmit her mistress’s

wishes to the three other waiting-women; the latter had received most

peremptory instructions from The Trial to treat Haydée with all the

deference they would observe to a queen.



The young girl herself generally passed her time in the chamber at the

farther end of her apartments. This was a sort of boudoir, circular,

and lighted only from the roof, which consisted of rose-colored glass.

Haydée was reclining upon soft downy cushions, covered with blue satin

spotted with silver; her head, supported by one of her exquisitely

moulded arms, rested on the divan immediately behind her, while the

other was employed in adjusting to her lips the coral tube of a rich

narghile, through whose flexible pipe she drew the smoke fragrant by

its passage through perfumed water. Her attitude, though perfectly

natural for an Eastern woman would, in a European, have been deemed too

full of coquettish straining after effect.



Her dress, which was that of the women of Epirus, consisted of a pair

of white satin trousers, embroidered with pink roses, displaying feet

so exquisitely formed and so delicately fair, that they might well have

been taken for Parian marble, had not the eye been undeceived by their

movements as they constantly shifted in and out of a pair of little

slippers with upturned toes, beautifully ornamented with gold and

pearls. She wore a blue and white-striped vest, with long open sleeves,

trimmed with silver loops and buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice,

which, closing only from the centre to the waist, exhibited the whole

of the ivory throat and upper part of the bosom; it was fastened with

three magnificent diamond clasps. The junction of the bodice and

drawers was entirely concealed by one of the many-colored scarves,

whose brilliant hues and rich silken fringe have rendered them so

precious in the eyes of Parisian belles.



Tilted on one side of her head she had a small cap of gold-colored

silk, embroidered with pearls; while on the other a purple rose mingled

its glowing colors with the luxuriant masses of her hair, of which the

blackness was so intense that it was tinged with blue.



The extreme beauty of the countenance, that shone forth in loveliness

that mocked the vain attempts of dress to augment it, was peculiarly

and purely Grecian; there were the large, dark, melting eyes, the

finely formed nose, the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that belonged to

her race and country.



And, to complete the whole, Haydée was in the very springtide and

fulness of youthful charms—she had not yet numbered more than nineteen

or twenty summers.



The Trial summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her inquire whether

it would be agreeable to her mistress to receive his visit. Haydée’s

only reply was to direct her servant by a sign to withdraw the

tapestried curtain that hung before the door of her boudoir, the

framework of the opening thus made serving as a sort of border to the

graceful tableau presented by the young girl’s picturesque attitude and

appearance.



As The Trial approached, she leaned upon the elbow of the arm that

held the narghile, and extending to him her other hand, said, with a

smile of captivating sweetness, in the sonorous language spoken by the

women of Athens and Sparta:



“Why demand permission ere you enter? Are you no longer my master, or

have I ceased to be your slave?”



The Trial returned her smile.



“Haydée,” said he, “you well know.”



“Why do you address me so coldly—so distantly?” asked the young Greek.

“Have I by any means displeased you? Oh, if so, punish me as you will;

but do not—do not speak to me in tones and manner so formal and

constrained.”



“Haydée,” replied the count, “you know that you are now in France, and

are free.”



“Free to do what?” asked the young girl.



“Free to leave me.”



“Leave you? Why should I leave you?”



“That is not for me to say; but we are now about to mix in society—to

visit and be visited.”



“I don’t wish to see anybody but you.”



“And should you see one whom you could prefer, I would not be so

unjust——”



“I have never seen anyone I preferred to you, and I have never loved

anyone but you and my father.”



“My poor child,” replied The Trial, “that is merely because your

father and myself are the only men who have ever talked to you.”



“I don’t want anybody else to talk to me. My father said I was his

‘joy’—you style me your ‘love,’—and both of you have called me ‘my

child.’”



“Do you remember your father, Haydée?”



The young Greek smiled.



“He is here, and here,” said she, touching her eyes and her heart.



“And where am I?” inquired The Trial laughingly.



“You?” cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness, “you are

everywhere!” The Trial took the delicate hand of the young girl in

his, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the simple child of

nature hastily withdrew it, and presented her cheek.



“You now understand, Haydée,” said the count, “that from this moment

you are absolutely free; that here you exercise unlimited sway, and are

at liberty to lay aside or continue the costume of your country, as it

may suit your inclination. Within this mansion you are absolute

mistress of your actions, and may go abroad or remain in your

apartments as may seem most agreeable to you. A carriage waits your

orders, and Ali and Myrtho will accompany you whithersoever you desire

to go. There is but one favor I would entreat of you.”



“Speak.”



“Guard carefully the secret of your birth. Make no allusion to the

past; nor upon any occasion be induced to pronounce the names of your

illustrious father or ill-fated mother.”



“I have already told you, my lord, that I shall see no one.”



“It is possible, Haydée, that so perfect a seclusion, though

conformable with the habits and customs of the East, may not be

practicable in Paris. Endeavor, then, to accustom yourself to our

manner of living in these northern climes as you did to those of Rome,

Florence, Milan, and Madrid; it may be useful to you one of these days,

whether you remain here or return to the East.”



The young girl raised her tearful eyes towards The Trial as she said

with touching earnestness, “Whether _we_ return to the East, you mean

to say, my lord, do you not?”



“My child,” returned The Trial “you know full well that whenever we

part, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the

flower—the flower falls from the tree.”



“My lord,” replied Haydée, “I never will leave you, for I am sure I

could not exist without you.”



“My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still

young.”



“My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years

old, but to me he was handsomer than all the fine youths I saw.”



“Then tell me, Haydée, do you believe you shall be able to accustom

yourself to our present mode of life?”



“Shall I see you?”



“Every day.”



“Then what do you fear, my lord?”



“You might find it dull.”



“No, my lord. In the morning, I shall rejoice in the prospect of your

coming, and in the evening dwell with delight on the happiness I have

enjoyed in your presence; then too, when alone, I can call forth mighty

pictures of the past, see vast horizons bounded only by the towering

mountains of Pindus and Olympus. Oh, believe me, that when three great

passions, such as sorrow, love, and gratitude fill the heart, _ennui_

can find no place.”



“You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydée, and your charming and

poetical ideas prove well your descent from that race of goddesses who

claim your country as their birthplace. Depend on my care to see that

your youth is not blighted, or suffered to pass away in ungenial

solitude; and of this be well assured, that if you love me as a father,

I love you as a child.”



“You are wrong, my lord. The love I have for you is very different from

the love I had for my father. My father died, but I did not die. If you

were to die, I should die too.”



The count, with a smile of profound tenderness, extended his hand, and

she carried it to her lips.



The Trial, thus attuned to the interview he proposed to hold with

Morrel and his family, departed, murmuring as he went these lines of

Pindar, “Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who,

after having watched its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call

it his own.” The carriage was prepared according to orders, and

stepping lightly into it, the count drove off at his usual rapid pace.







 Chapter 50. The Morrel Family



In a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The

house was of white stone, and in a small court before it were two small

beds full of beautiful flowers. In the concierge that opened the gate

the count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye

had become somewhat dim in the course of nine years, Cocles did not

recognize the count.



The carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn, to

avoid a fountain that played in a basin of rockwork,—an ornament that

had excited the jealousy of the whole quarter, and had gained for the

place the appellation of _The Little Versailles_. It is needless to add

that there were gold and silver fish in the basin. The house, with

kitchens and cellars below, had above the ground floor, two stories and

attics. The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop,

two pavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had

been purchased by Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that he could make

of it a profitable speculation. He had reserved the house and half the

garden, and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had

let them upon lease with the pavilions at the bottom of the garden. So

that for a trifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut

out from observation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the

Faubourg St. Germain.



The breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and the

furnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and

green damask. There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a

music-room for Julie, who never played. The whole of the second story

was set apart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar to his sister’s

apartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a

billiard-room, where he received his friends. He was superintending the

grooming of his horse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the

garden, when the count’s carriage stopped at the gate.



Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquired

whether Monsieur and Madame Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel

would see his excellency The Trial.



“The Trial?” cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar and

hastening to the carriage; “I should think we would see him. Ah, a

thousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise.”



And the young officer shook the count’s hand so warmly, that Monte

Cristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and he saw

that he had been expected with impatience, and was received with

pleasure.



“Come, come,” said Maximilian, “I will serve as your guide; such a man

as you are ought not to be introduced by a servant. My sister is in the

garden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers,

_la Presse_ and _les Débats_, within six steps of her; for wherever you

see Madame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four

yards and you will find M. Emmanuel, and ‘reciprocally,’ as they say at

the Polytechnic School.”



At the sound of their steps a young woman of twenty to five-and-twenty,

dressed in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged in plucking the dead

leaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head. This was Julie, who

had become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had

predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry of surprise at

the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.



“Don’t disturb yourself, Julie,” said he. “The count has only been two

or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman

of the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him.”



“Ah, monsieur,” returned Julie, “it is treason in my brother to bring

you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon,

Penelon!”



An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade

in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid

of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of gray

mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his

bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who

had braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics.



“I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?” said he.



Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master’s daughter

“Mademoiselle Julie,” and had never been able to change the name to

Madame Herbault.



“Penelon,” replied Julie, “go and inform M. Emmanuel of this

gentleman’s visit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon.”



Then, turning to The Trial,—“I hope you will permit me to leave you

for a few minutes,” continued she; and without awaiting any reply,

disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a

lateral alley.



30041m







“I am sorry to see,” observed The Trial to Morrel, “that I cause no

small disturbance in your house.”



“Look there,” said Maximilian, laughing; “there is her husband changing

his jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue

Meslay.”



“Your family appears to be a very happy one,” said the count, as if

speaking to himself.



“Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them

happy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to each

other, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy

themselves as rich as Rothschild.”



“Five-and-twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,” replied

The Trial, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to

Maximilian’s heart like the voice of a father; “but they will not be

content with that. Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor?”



“He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of my

poor father. M. Morrel, at his death, left 500,000 francs, which were

divided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children.

Her husband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his

noble probity, his first-rate ability, and his spotless reputation,

wished to possess as much as his wife. He labored and toiled until he

had amassed 250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object.

Oh, I assure you, sir, it was a touching spectacle to see these young

creatures, destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling

together, and through their unwillingness to change any of the customs

of their paternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less

scrupulous people would have effected in two or three. Marseilles

resounded with their well-earned praises. At last, one day, Emmanuel

came to his wife, who had just finished making up the accounts.



“‘Julie,’ said he to her, ‘Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of

a hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the

limits of our gains. Can you content yourself with the small fortune

which we shall possess for the future? Listen to me. Our house

transacts business to the amount of a million a year, from which we

derive an income of 40,000 francs. We can dispose of the business, if

we please, in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay,

in which he offers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite

with his own, for 300,000 francs. Advise me what I had better do.’



“‘Emmanuel,’ returned my sister, ‘the house of Morrel can only be

carried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save our

father’s name from the chances of evil fortune and failure?’



“‘I thought so,’ replied Emmanuel; ‘but I wished to have your advice.’



“‘This is my counsel:—Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; all

we have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office.’



“This was done instantly. It was three o’clock; at a quarter past, a

merchant presented himself to insure two ships; it was a clear profit

of 15,000 francs.



“‘Monsieur,’ said Emmanuel, ‘have the goodness to address yourself to

M. Delaunay. We have quitted business.’



“‘How long?’ inquired the astonished merchant.



30043m







“‘A quarter of an hour,’ was the reply.



“And this is the reason, monsieur,” continued Maximilian, “of my sister

and brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year.”



Maximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count’s

heart had swelled within him, when Emmanuel entered wearing a hat and

coat. He saluted the count with the air of a man who is aware of the

rank of his guest; then, after having led The Trial around the

little garden, he returned to the house.



A large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the

air with their perfume, stood in the salon. Julie, suitably dressed,

and her hair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten

minutes), received the count on his entrance. The songs of the birds

were heard in an aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose

acacias formed an exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains.

Everything in this charming retreat, from the warble of the birds to

the smile of the mistress, breathed tranquillity and repose.



The count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment he

entered the house, and he remained silent and pensive, forgetting that

he was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after the

first salutations had been exchanged. The silence became almost painful

when, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie:



“Madame,” said he at length, “I pray you to excuse my emotion, which

must astonish you who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here;

but contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could never be weary of

looking at yourself and your husband.”



“We are very happy, monsieur,” replied Julie; “but we have also known

unhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings than

ourselves.”



The count’s features displayed an expression of the most intense

curiosity.



“Oh, all this is a family history, as Château-Renaud told you the other

day,” observed Maximilian. “This humble picture would have but little

interest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and the

misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have

experienced bitter sorrows.”



“And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all

who are in affliction?” said The Trial inquiringly.



“Yes, count,” returned Julie, “we may indeed say he has, for he has

done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his

angels.”



The count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an

excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth.



“Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every

wish,” said Emmanuel, “know not what is the real happiness of life,

just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on

a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”



The Trial rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness

of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the

apartment with a slow step.



“Our magnificence makes you smile, count,” said Maximilian, who had

followed him with his eyes.



“No, no,” returned The Trial, pale as death, pressing one hand on

his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a

crystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet

cushion. “I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse,

with the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other.”



“Count,” replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, “those are our

most precious family treasures.”



“The stone seems very brilliant,” answered the count.



“Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been

estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in

this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now.”



“This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation,

madame,” replied The Trial bowing. “Pardon me, I had no intention of

committing an indiscretion.”



“Indiscretion,—oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for

expatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble action

this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh,

would we could relate it everywhere, and to everyone, so that the

emotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his presence.”



“Ah, really,” said The Trial in a half-stifled voice.



“Monsieur,” returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and

respectfully kissing the silken purse, “this has touched the hand of a

man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from

shame and disgrace,—a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor

children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear everyone

envying our happy lot. This letter” (as he spoke, Maximilian drew a

letter from the purse and gave it to the count)—“this letter was

written by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution,

and this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her

dowry.”



The Trial opened the letter, and read it with an indescribable

feeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our readers know) to

Julie, and signed “Sinbad the Sailor.”



“Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service—unknown to

you?”



“Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,” continued

Maximilian. “We have supplicated Heaven in vain to grant us this favor,

but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannot

comprehend—we have been guided by an invisible hand,—a hand as powerful

as that of an enchanter.”



“Oh,” cried Julie, “I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that

hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years ago,

Penelon was at Trieste—Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the

garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener—Penelon, when

he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point

of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who

called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this

letter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity,

but he did not venture to address him.”



“An Englishman,” said The Trial, who grew uneasy at the attention

with which Julie looked at him. “An Englishman you say?”



“Yes,” replied Maximilian, “an Englishman, who represented himself as

the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It

was this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de

Morcerf’s, that Messrs. Thomson & French were your bankers. That

happened, as I told you, in 1829. For God’s sake, tell me, did you know

this Englishman?”



“But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have

constantly denied having rendered you this service?”



“Yes.”



“Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be someone who,

grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself

had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation?”



“Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle.”



“What was his name?” asked The Trial.



“He gave no other name,” answered Julie, looking earnestly at the

count, “than that at the end of his letter—‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”



“Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one.”



Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice:



“Tell me,” continued he, “was he not about my height, perhaps a little

taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his

coat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil?”



“Oh, do you then know him?” cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy.



“No,” returned The Trial “I only guessed. I knew a Lord Wilmore, who

was constantly doing actions of this kind.”



“Without revealing himself?”



“He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of

gratitude.”



“Oh, Heaven,” exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, “in what did he

believe, then?”



30047m







“He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,” said Monte

Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie’s voice; “but,

perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist.”



“And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?” inquired Emmanuel.



“Oh, if you do know him,” cried Julie, “can you tell us where he

is—where we can find him? Maximilian—Emmanuel—if we do but discover

him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!”



The Trial felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked

hastily up and down the room.



“In the name of Heaven,” said Maximilian, “if you know anything of him,

tell us what it is.”



“Alas,” cried The Trial, striving to repress his emotion, “if Lord

Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him

again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on

the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he

will never return.”



“Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,” said Julie, much affected; and

the young lady’s eyes swam with tears.



“Madame,” replied The Trial gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two

liquid pearls that trickled down Julie’s cheeks, “had Lord Wilmore seen

what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you

shed would reconcile him to mankind;” and he held out his hand to

Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the

count.



“But,” continued she, “Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must

have known someone, can we not——”



“Oh, it is useless to inquire,” returned the count; “perhaps, after

all, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no

secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me.”



“And he told you nothing?”



“Not a word.”



“Nothing that would lead you to suppose?”



“Nothing.”



“And yet you spoke of him at once.”



“Ah, in such a case one supposes——”



“Sister, sister,” said Maximilian, coming to the count’s aid, “monsieur

is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,

‘It was no Englishman that thus saved us.’”



The Trial started. “What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?” said

he eagerly.



“My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed—he

believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it

was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself

believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father’s faith.

How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend—a

friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near

approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with

supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a

doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were, ‘Maximilian, it

was Edmond Dantès!’”



At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been

increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch

like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to

Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and

Maximilian,—“Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow me to visit you

occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for

your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have

thus yielded to my feelings;” and he hastily quitted the apartment.



“This Count of The Trial is a strange man,” said Emmanuel.



“Yes,” answered Maximilian, “but I feel sure he has an excellent heart,

and that he likes us.”



“His voice went to my heart,” observed Julie; “and two or three times I

fancied that I had heard it before.”







 Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe



About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and in the

rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,

where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and

magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the

wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls

in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a

shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases

that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron

gate, that dated from the time of Louis XIII.



This noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and

the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they

waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with

their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of

the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves

to the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted

courtyard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and to the garden

shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine

kitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a

line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the

kitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted

up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to

the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for

the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the

line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication

with the Faubourg Saint-Honoré itself, one of the most important

thoroughfares in the city of Paris.



In matters of speculation, however, though “man proposes,” yet “money

disposes.” From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost

in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high

price for it, and being quite unable to find anyone willing to take his

bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging

to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it

that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the

interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented

himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners,

at a yearly rental of 500 francs.



And so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden

had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to

eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers

and delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic

enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a

height of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but

that a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the

strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left

no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that

circumstance.



Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted

kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, peas, and melons

had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucern alone bore evidence of its

being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from

the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the

ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters,

and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not

even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house

the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,

without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and

flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as

though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one

corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a

large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered

spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant

of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of

verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred

paces off.



Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the

boundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly

justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool,

refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the

sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of

hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the

entire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the

mansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet

bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown

upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which

hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little

distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the

iron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means

of the openings in the planks,—the earnestness of her attitude and the

fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes,

proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter.



At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to

the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man

appeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but

his carefully arranged hair, beard and moustache, all of the richest

and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After

casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he

was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing

and securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the

barrier.



At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a

costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a

hasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the

narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe,

and observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close

to the planks, he exclaimed:



“Don’t be alarmed, Valentine—it is I!”



Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as

she did so:



“And why do you come so late today? It is almost dinner-time, and I had

to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful stepmother, my

too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me

about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never

to get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made

me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular

that at first I did not recognize you.”



“Dearest Valentine,” said the young man, “the difference between our

respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love,

but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour

forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to

carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even

thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you

did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to

suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my

being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the

reason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have

chosen a trade.”



“A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such

deep cause for uneasiness?”



“Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than

life itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about

it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously

alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about

here your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief.

That would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of

the fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place

where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might

well create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently,

adopted the costume of my calling.”



“What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!”



“Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my

life by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually

screen our meetings from all suspicion or danger.”



30053m







“I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you

really mean.”



“Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I

stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by

the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucern. Think of

that, Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a

little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you.

Only imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely

contain myself at the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price—as

a thing impossible and unattainable. But would you believe that I

purchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would

cheerfully have surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of

500 francs per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to

fear. I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a

ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having

any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious

character. I may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of

my fond, faithful, and unalterable affection, whenever you visit your

favorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to

professions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a

blouse and cap.”



A faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of

Valentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though

some envious cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart:



“Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons. We should

presume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led

astray by our blind confidence in each other’s prudence.”



“How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear

Valentine? Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance,

schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you

have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke to

me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I

placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other

reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since,

by word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from

the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you?

You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d’Épinay,

and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that

from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known

to change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you

wished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but

hoping that Providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and

order events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties,

Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on

me? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure

anything.”



“Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and

which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask

myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my

stepmother, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I

now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these

meetings, so fraught with danger to both.”



“I will not admit that word,” returned the young man; “it is at once

cruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than

myself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time,

Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or

elsewhere—have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this

enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate—to be

close to you without really seeing you—have I ever asked so much as to

touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a

trifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a

murmur escaped me. I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any

knight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what

I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust.”



30055m







“It is true,” said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender

fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian

to press his lips to them, “and you are a true and faithful friend; but

still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for

you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an

opposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to

bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend

but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father,

harassed and persecuted by my stepmother, and left to the sole

companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered

hand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye

alone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness

for his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either

as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my

only friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed,

Maximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of

pity.”



“Valentine,” replied the young man, deeply affected, “I will not say

you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and

brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no

manner resembling what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart

beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but

I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and

intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render

them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to

return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable

and unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the

best; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while

reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to

me—the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise

of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience

I have evinced?—none whatever. What granted me?—scarcely more. You tell

me of M. Franz d’Épinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the

idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other

sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life

and each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your

service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours—that

were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing

misery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the

wife of another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel

conscious, as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as

mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between

these iron bars, and said, ‘Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and

believe that, living or dead, I am yours—yours only, and forever!’”



The poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs

and tears. A rapid change took place in the young man’s feelings.



“Dearest, dearest Valentine,” exclaimed he, “forgive me if I have

offended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly

caused you pain.”



“No, Maximilian, I am not offended,” answered she, “but do you not see

what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in

my father’s house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been

thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the

iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted,

day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for,

even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the

subject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am

surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The

general remark is, ‘Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a

character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do

on their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender

age, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de

Villefort.’ The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from

utter indifference, while my stepmother detests me with a hatred so

much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile.”



“Hate you, sweet Valentine,” exclaimed the young man; “how is it

possible for anyone to do that?”



“Alas,” replied the weeping girl, “I am obliged to own that my

stepmother’s aversion to me arises from a very natural source—her

overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward.”



“But why should it?”



“I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into

our present conversation, I will just say this much—that her extreme

dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the

fortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than

doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-Méran, whose sole heiress

I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for

being so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of

this wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father’s love. God

knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me

a happy and affectionate home.”



“Poor Valentine!”



“I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same

time am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the

restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too,

my father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity;

protected as he is by his high position and firmly established

reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose

him; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a

word. Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not

attempt to resist my father’s commands it is more on your account than

my own.”



“But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst,—why

picture so gloomy a future?”



“Because I judge it from the past.”



“Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is

termed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons, not

altogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such

distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in

France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with

those of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself

with the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class;

and certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging

as well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered,

and the memory of my late father is respected in our country,

Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the

city; I say our country, because you were born not far from

Marseilles.”



“Don’t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word

brings back my mother to my recollection—my angel mother, who died too

soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her

child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I

fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were

still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would

tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us.”



“I fear, Valentine,” replied the lover, “that were she living I should

never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been

too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on

me.”



“Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,” cried Valentine; “but there

is one thing I wish to know.”



“And what is that?” inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine

hesitated.



“Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers

dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?”



“Not that I am aware of,” replied the young man, “unless, indeed, any

ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties—your

father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine

was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any

other difference between them. But why do you ask?”



“I will tell you,” replied the young girl, “for it is but right you

should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of

the Legion of Honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting

with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also—you

recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses

ran away with my stepmother and little brother, and very nearly killed

them? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching

marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my

grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had

done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know

you had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy,

and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before

so many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but

for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause

of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly

and as steadily as I could.”



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“Dear Valentine!”



“Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of

your name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing,

I was so persuaded that everyone must be as much affected as myself by

the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father

start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must

have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too.”



“‘Morrel, Morrel,’ cried my father, ‘stop a bit;’ then knitting his

brows into a deep frown, he added, ‘surely this cannot be one of the

Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from

their violent Bonapartism—I mean about the year 1815.’



“‘Yes,’ replied M. Danglars, ‘I believe he is the son of the old

shipowner.’”



“Indeed,” answered Maximilian; “and what did your father say then,

Valentine?”



“Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don’t dare to tell you.”



“Always tell me everything,” said Maximilian with a smile.



“‘Ah,’ continued my father, still frowning, ‘their idolized emperor

treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them ‘food for

cannon,’ which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted

to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle

with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to

furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it

would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it

certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that

uncivilized country.’”



“Brutal politics, I must confess.” said Maximilian; “but don’t attach

any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was

not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘does not

the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of

improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and

legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could

maintain, and using them to save better men?’ You see, my dear, that

for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much

to choose between the language of either party. But what did M.

Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?”



“Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to

himself—half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up

and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation

of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only

person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I

suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his

presence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old

man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong

impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him

to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that

depreciating manner.”



“The name of M. Noirtier,” interposed Maximilian, “is celebrated

throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or

may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every

Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the

Bourbons.”



“Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most

strange—the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have

been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?

But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to

question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at

the newspaper I had been reading. ‘What is the matter, dear

grandfather?’ said I, ‘are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the

affirmative. ‘With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in

the negative. ‘Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign

in the negative. ‘Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I

didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion

of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being

so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had

been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim

on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I

love him for showing so much interest in you.”



“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your

grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by

politics.”



“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian

leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up

in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in

weeding it.



“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.

“Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the

drawing-room.”



“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”



“Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte

Cristo.”



“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud.



The name of The Trial sent an electric shock through the young man

on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s _“I am coming”_

was the customary signal of farewell.



“Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I

would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of

The Trial is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”







 Chapter 52. Toxicology



It was really The Trial who had just arrived at Madame

de Villefort’s for the purpose of returning the procureur’s visit, and

at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in

confusion.



Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count

was announced, desired that her son might be brought thither instantly

to renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great

personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come

to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of

gratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance

remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent

speeches which made his mother say:



“Oh, that naughty child! But I can’t be severe with him, he is really

_so_ bright.”



After the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort.



“My husband dines with the chancellor,” replied the young lady; “he has

just gone, and I am sure he’ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the

pleasure of seeing you before he went.”



Two visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him

with all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which

politeness admits and curiosity requires.



“What is your sister Valentine doing?” inquired Madame de Villefort of

Edward; “tell someone to bid her come here, that I may have the honor

of introducing her to the count.”



“You have a daughter, then, madame?” inquired the count; “very young, I

presume?”



“The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,” replied the

young wife, “a fine well-grown girl.”



“But melancholy,” interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out

of the tail of a splendid paroquet that was screaming on its gilded

perch, in order to make a plume for his hat.



Madame de Villefort merely cried, “Be still, Edward!” She then added,

“This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes

what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de

Villefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy

disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of

her beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see.”



“Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found.”



“And where are they looking for her?”



“With grandpapa Noirtier.”



“And do you think she is not there?”



“No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,” replied Edward, singing his

words.



“And where is she, then? If you know, why don’t you tell?”



“She is under the big chestnut-tree,” replied the spoiled brat, as he

gave, in spite of his mother’s commands, live flies to the parrot,

which seemed keenly to relish such fare.



Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct

her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the

young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected;

and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the

traces of recent tears in her eyes.



Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented

to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and

graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes,

and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her

mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks

tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who

have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of

a swan.



She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger

of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish

awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that

redoubled the count’s attention.



He rose to return the salutation.



“Mademoiselle de Villefort, my step-daughter,” said Madame de Villefort

to The Trial, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards

Valentine with her hand.



“And M. de The Trial, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said

the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.



Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly

angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward;

but the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy

complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy

and enthusiasm.



“But, madame,” replied the count, continuing the conversation, and

looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, “have I not

already had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before? I

could not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as

mademoiselle entered the sight of her was an additional ray of light

thrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark.”



“I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very

fond of society, and we very seldom go out,” said the young lady.



“Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself,

madame, or this charming little merry boy. Besides, the Parisian world

is entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in

Paris but very few days. No,—but, perhaps, you will permit me to call

to mind—stay!”



The Count placed his hand on his brow as if to collect his thoughts.



“No—it was somewhere—away from here—it was—I do not know—but it appears

that this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some

religious _fête_; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the

interesting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you,

madame, were under the trellis of some arbor. Pray come to my aid,

madame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory?”



“No, indeed,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and yet it appears to me,

sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have

been imprinted on my memory.”



“Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,” said Valentine timidly.



“Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably,” replied The Trial;

“you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle?”



“Yes; madame and I were there two years ago. The doctors, anxious for

my lungs, had prescribed the air of Naples. We went by Bologna,

Perugia, and Rome.”



“Ah, yes—true, mademoiselle,” exclaimed The Trial as if this simple

explanation was sufficient to revive the recollection he sought. “It

was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the Hôtel des

Postes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and

her son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you.”



“I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the Hôtel des Postes, and

the festival of which you speak,” said Madame de Villefort, “but in

vain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really

do not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you

before.”



“It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you,” observed

Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the count.



30065m







“But I remember it perfectly,” interposed the darling Edward.



“I will assist your memory, madame,” continued the count; “the day had

been burning hot; you were waiting for horses, which were delayed in

consequence of the festival. Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of

the garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock.”



“And I caught it, mamma, don’t you remember?” interposed Edward, “and I

pulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail.”



“You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while

you were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you,

Mademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed

for a considerable time with somebody?”



“Yes, in truth, yes,” answered the young lady, turning very red, “I do

remember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he

was a medical man, I think.”



“Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been

at that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a

fever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a

reputation as a skilful physician. We discoursed a long time, madame,

on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raphael, of manners, customs, of

the famous _aqua Tofana_, of which they had told you, I think you said,

that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret.”



“Yes, true,” replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily, “I

remember now.”



“I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we

discoursed, madame,” continued the count with perfect calmness; “but I

perfectly remember that, falling into the error which others had

entertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of

Mademoiselle de Villefort.”



“Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man,” said Madame de

Villefort, “since you had cured the sick.”



“Molière or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was

precisely because I was not, that I had cured my patients; for myself,

I am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the

natural sciences somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you

understand.”



At this moment the clock struck six.



“It is six o’clock,” said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated.

“Valentine, will you not go and see if your grandpapa will have his

dinner?”



Valentine rose, and saluting the count, left the apartment without

speaking.



“Oh, madame,” said the count, when Valentine had left the room, “was it

on my account that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away?”



“By no means,” replied the young lady quickly; “but this is the hour

when we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his

pitiful existence. You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of

my husband’s father?”



“Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me—a paralysis, I think.”



“Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone

is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and

flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire. But excuse me,

sir, for talking of our domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the

moment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist.”



“No, madame, I did not say as much as that,” replied the count with a

smile; “quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having

determined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of

following the example of King Mithridates.”



“_Mithridates, rex Ponticus_,” said the young scamp, as he tore some

beautiful portraits out of a splendid album, “the individual who took

cream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast.”



“Edward, you naughty boy,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the

mutilated book from the urchin’s grasp, “you are positively past

bearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join

your sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier’s room.”



“The album,” said Edward sulkily.



“What do you mean?—the album!”



“I want the album.”



“How dare you tear out the drawings?”



“Oh, it amuses me.”



“Go—go at once.”



“I won’t go unless you give me the album,” said the boy, seating

himself doggedly in an armchair, according to his habit of never giving

way.



“Take it, then, and pray disturb us no longer,” said Madame de

Villefort, giving the album to Edward, who then went towards the door,

led by his mother. The count followed her with his eyes.



“Let us see if she shuts the door after him,” he muttered.



Madame de Villefort closed the door carefully after the child, the

count appearing not to notice her; then casting a scrutinizing glance

around the chamber, the young wife returned to her chair, in which she

seated herself.



“Allow me to observe, madame,” said the count, with that kind tone he

could assume so well, “you are really very severe with that dear clever

child.”



“Oh, sometimes severity is quite necessary,” replied Madame de

Villefort, with all a mother’s real firmness.



“It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master Edward was repeating when he

referred to King Mithridates,” continued the count, “and you

interrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has by no

means neglected him, for your son is really advanced for his years.”



“The fact is, count,” answered the mother, agreeably flattered, “he has

great aptitude, and learns all that is set before him. He has but one

fault, he is somewhat wilful; but really, on referring for the moment

to what he said, do you truly believe that Mithridates used these

precautions, and that these precautions were efficacious?”



“I think so, madame, because I myself have made use of them, that I

might not be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and at Smyrna—that is to

say, on three several occasions when, but for these precautions, I must

have lost my life.”



“And your precautions were successful?”



“Completely so.”



“Yes, I remember now your mentioning to me at Perugia something of this

sort.”



“Indeed?” said the count with an air of surprise, remarkably well

counterfeited; “I really did not remember.”



“I inquired of you if poisons acted equally, and with the same effect,

on men of the North as on men of the South; and you answered me that

the cold and sluggish habits of the North did not present the same

aptitude as the rich and energetic temperaments of the natives of the

South.”



“And that is the case,” observed The Trial. “I have seen Russians

devour, without being visibly inconvenienced, vegetable substances

which would infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab.”



“And you really believe the result would be still more sure with us

than in the East, and in the midst of our fogs and rains a man would

habituate himself more easily than in a warm latitude to this

progressive absorption of poison?”



“Certainly; it being at the same time perfectly understood that he

should have been duly fortified against the poison to which he had not

been accustomed.”



“Yes, I understand that; and how would you habituate yourself, for

instance, or rather, how did you habituate yourself to it?”



“Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew beforehand the poison that would be

made use of against you; suppose the poison was, for instance,

brucine——”



“Brucine is extracted from the false angostura8 is it not?” inquired

Madame de Villefort.



“Precisely, madame,” replied The Trial; “but I perceive I have not

much to teach you. Allow me to compliment you on your knowledge; such

learning is very rare among ladies.”



“Oh, I am aware of that,” said Madame de Villefort; “but I have a

passion for the occult sciences, which speak to the imagination like

poetry, and are reducible to figures, like an algebraic equation; but

go on, I beg of you; what you say interests me to the greatest degree.”



30069m







“Well,” replied The Trial “suppose, then, that this poison was

brucine, and you were to take a milligramme the first day, two

milligrammes the second day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten days

you would have taken a centigramme, at the end of twenty days,

increasing another milligramme, you would have taken three hundred

centigrammes; that is to say, a dose which you would support without

inconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person

who had not taken the same precautions as yourself. Well, then, at the

end of a month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would

kill the person who drank with you, without your perceiving, otherwise

than from slight inconvenience, that there was any poisonous substance

mingled with this water.”



“Do you know any other counter-poisons?”



“I do not.”



“I have often read, and read again, the history of Mithridates,” said

Madame de Villefort in a tone of reflection, “and had always considered

it a fable.”



“No, madame, contrary to most history, it is true; but what you tell

me, madame, what you inquire of me, is not the result of a chance

query, for two years ago you asked me the same questions, and said

then, that for a very long time this history of Mithridates had

occupied your mind.”



“True, sir. The two favorite studies of my youth were botany and

mineralogy, and subsequently, when I learned that the use of simples

frequently explained the whole history of a people, and the entire life

of individuals in the East, as flowers betoken and symbolize a love

affair, I have regretted that I was not a man, that I might have been a

Flamel, a Fontana, or a Cabanis.”



“And the more, madame,” said The Trial, “as the Orientals do not

confine themselves, as did Mithridates, to make a cuirass of his

poisons, but they also made them a dagger. Science becomes, in their

hands, not only a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an

offensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings,

the other against all their enemies. With opium, belladonna, brucea,

snake-wood, and the cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who stand in

their way. There is not one of those women, Egyptian, Turkish, or

Greek, whom here you call ‘good women,’ who do not know how, by means

of chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in psychology to amaze a

confessor.”



“Really,” said Madame de Villefort, whose eyes sparkled with strange

fire at this conversation.



“Oh, yes, indeed, madame,” continued The Trial, “the secret dramas

of the East begin with a love philtre and end with a death potion—begin

with paradise and end with—hell. There are as many elixirs of every

kind as there are caprices and peculiarities in the physical and moral

nature of humanity; and I will say further—the art of these chemists is

capable with the utmost precision to accommodate and proportion the

remedy and the bane to yearnings for love or desires for vengeance.”



“But, sir,” remarked the young woman, “these Eastern societies, in the

midst of which you have passed a portion of your existence, are as

fantastic as the tales that come from their strange land. A man can

easily be put out of the way there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad and

Bassora of the _Thousand and One Nights_. The sultans and viziers who

rule over society there, and who constitute what in France we call the

government, are really Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not only

pardon a poisoner, but even make him a prime minister, if his crime has

been an ingenious one, and who, under such circumstances, have the

whole story written in letters of gold, to divert their hours of

idleness and _ennui_.”



“By no means, madame; the fanciful exists no longer in the East. There,

disguised under other names, and concealed under other costumes, are

police agents, magistrates, attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They hang,

behead, and impale their criminals in the most agreeable possible

manner; but some of these, like clever rogues, have contrived to escape

human justice, and succeed in their fraudulent enterprises by cunning

stratagems. Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or

cupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, or some near relation to dispose

of, goes straight to the grocer’s or druggist’s, gives a false name,

which leads more easily to his detection than his real one, and under

the pretext that the rats prevent him from sleeping, purchases five or

six grammes of arsenic—if he is really a cunning fellow, he goes to

five or six different druggists or grocers, and thereby becomes only

five or six times more easily traced;—then, when he has acquired his

specific, he administers duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a dose of

arsenic which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and which,

without rhyme or reason, makes his victim utter groans which alarm the

entire neighborhood. Then arrive a crowd of policemen and constables.

They fetch a doctor, who opens the dead body, and collects from the

entrails and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a spoon. Next day a

hundred newspapers relate the fact, with the names of the victim and

the murderer. The same evening the grocer or grocers, druggist or

druggists, come and say, ‘It was I who sold the arsenic to the

gentleman;’ and rather than not recognize the guilty purchaser, they

will recognize twenty. Then the foolish criminal is taken, imprisoned,

interrogated, confronted, confounded, condemned, and cut off by hemp or

steel; or if she be a woman of any consideration, they lock her up for

life. This is the way in which you Northerns understand chemistry,

madame. Desrues was, however, I must confess, more skilful.”



“What would you have, sir?” said the lady, laughing; “we do what we

can. All the world has not the secret of the Medicis or the Borgias.”



“Now,” replied the count, shrugging his shoulders, “shall I tell you

the cause of all these stupidities? It is because, at your theatres, by

what at least I could judge by reading the pieces they play, they see

persons swallow the contents of a phial, or suck the button of a ring,

and fall dead instantly. Five minutes afterwards the curtain falls, and

the spectators depart. They are ignorant of the consequences of the

murder; they see neither the police commissary with his badge of

office, nor the corporal with his four men; and so the poor fools

believe that the whole thing is as easy as lying. But go a little way

from France—go either to Aleppo or Cairo, or only to Naples or Rome,

and you will see people passing by you in the streets—people erect,

smiling, and fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you were holding on by

the skirt of his mantle, would say, ‘That man was poisoned three weeks

ago; he will be a dead man in a month.’”



“Then,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “they have again discovered the

secret of the famous _aqua Tofana_ that they said was lost at Perugia.”



“Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose anything? The arts change about

and make a tour of the world; things take a different name, and the

vulgar do not follow them—that is all; but there is always the same

result. Poisons act particularly on some organ or another—one on the

stomach, another on the brain, another on the intestines. Well, the

poison brings on a cough, the cough an inflammation of the lungs, or

some other complaint catalogued in the book of science, which, however,

by no means precludes it from being decidedly mortal; and if it were

not, would be sure to become so, thanks to the remedies applied by

foolish doctors, who are generally bad chemists, and which will act in

favor of or against the malady, as you please; and then there is a

human being killed according to all the rules of art and skill, and of

whom justice learns nothing, as was said by a terrible chemist of my

acquaintance, the worthy Abbé Adelmonte of Taormina, in Sicily, who has

studied these national phenomena very profoundly.”



“It is quite frightful, but deeply interesting,” said the young lady,

motionless with attention. “I thought, I must confess, that these

tales, were inventions of the Middle Ages.”



“Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by ours. What is the use of time,

rewards of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon prizes, if they do not lead

society towards more complete perfection? Yet man will never be perfect

until he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and

that is half the battle.”



“So,” added Madame de Villefort, constantly returning to her object,

“the poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis, the Renées, the Ruggieris,

and later, probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose story has been so

misused by modern drama and romance——”



“Were objects of art, madame, and nothing more,” replied the count. “Do

you suppose that the real _savant_ addresses himself stupidly to the

mere individual? By no means. Science loves eccentricities, leaps and

bounds, trials of strength, fancies, if I may be allowed so to term

them. Thus, for instance, the excellent Abbé Adelmonte, of whom I spoke

just now, made in this way some marvellous experiments.”



“Really?”



“Yes; I will mention one to you. He had a remarkably fine garden, full

of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From amongst these vegetables he

selected the most simple—a cabbage, for instance. For three days he

watered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the

cabbage began to droop and turn yellow. At that moment he cut it. In

the eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its

wholesome appearance. It was only poisoned to the Abbé Adelmonte. He

then took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits—for the Abbé

Adelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as

fine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the

Abbé Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage.

The rabbit died. What magistrate would find, or even venture to

insinuate, anything against this? What procureur has ever ventured to

draw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in

consequence of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed?—not

one. So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no notice. This

rabbit dead, the Abbé Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook

and thrown on the dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking

these intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day. At the

moment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is

flying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte’s country); this

bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it

dines off its prey. Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has

been very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy

while flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond.

The pike, eels, and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows—well,

they feast on the vulture. Now suppose that next day, one of these

eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at

your table. Well, then, your guest will be poisoned at the fifth

remove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the

intestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open the

body and say with an air of profound learning, ‘The subject has died of

a tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever!’”



“But,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “all these circumstances which you

link thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the

vulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the

fish-pond.”



“Ah, that is where the art comes in. To be a great chemist in the East,

one must direct chance; and this is to be achieved.”



Madame de Villefort was in deep thought, yet listened attentively.



“But,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “arsenic is indelible, indestructible;

in whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of

the victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient

quantity to cause death.”



“Precisely so,” cried The Trial—“precisely so; and this is what I

said to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by

a Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb, ‘My son,

the world was not made in a day—but in seven. Return on Sunday.’ On the

Sunday following I did return to him. Instead of having watered his

cabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of

salts, having their basis in strychnine, _strychnos colubrina_, as the

learned term it. Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of

disease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust;

yet, five minutes afterwards, the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at

the rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen. This time we were the

vultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had

disappeared, there were only general symptoms. There was no peculiar

indication in any organ—an excitement of the nervous system—that was

it; a case of cerebral congestion—nothing more. The fowl had not been

poisoned—she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among

fowls, I believe, but very common among men.”



Madame de Villefort appeared more and more thoughtful.



“It is very fortunate,” she observed, “that such substances could only

be prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning

each other.”



“By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry,” said Monte

Cristo carelessly.



“And then,” said Madame de Villefort, endeavoring by a struggle, and

with effort, to get away from her thoughts, “however skilfully it is

prepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it

does not escape the eye of God. The Orientals are stronger than we are

in cases of conscience, and, very prudently, have no hell—that is the

point.”



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“Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure

mind like yours, but which would easily yield before sound reasoning.

The bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of

Jean Jacques Rousseau,—you remember,—the mandarin who is killed five

hundred leagues off by raising the tip of the finger. Man’s whole life

passes in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by

reflecting on them. You will find very few persons who will go and

brutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature, or will

administer to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe

on which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of

which we just now talked. Such a thing is really out of rule—eccentric

or stupid. To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to

thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least, at ninety, and the feelings

excited beyond the ordinary limit. But suppose one pass, as is

permissible in philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym,

then, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an

‘elimination;’ you merely and simply remove from your path the

individual who is in your way, and that without shock or violence,

without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a

punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense

of the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no

groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid

and compromising moment of accomplishing the act,—then one escapes the

clutch of the human law, which says, ‘Do not disturb society!’ This is

the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern

climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very

little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance.”



“Yet conscience remains,” remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated

voice, and with a stifled sigh.



“Yes,” answered The Trial “happily, yes, conscience does remain; and

if it did not, how wretched we should be! After every action requiring

exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a

thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons,

howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little

before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard III.,

for instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the

putting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say,

‘These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited

the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their

juvenile propensities—these two children are impediments in my way of

promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they

(the children) would infallibly have caused.’ Thus was Lady Macbeth

served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her

husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is

a great virtue, a powerful motive—so powerful that it excuses a

multitude of things, even if, after Duncan’s death, Lady Macbeth had

been at all pricked by her conscience.”



Madame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and

horrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical

simplicity which was peculiar to him.



After a moment’s silence, the lady inquired:



“Do you know, my dear count,” she said, “that you are a very terrible

reasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered

medium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through

alembics and crucibles? For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the

elixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost

instantaneously——”



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“Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; _one_ drop of that

elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would

have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have

produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his

respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was;

ten would have destroyed him. You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched

him from those phials which he so imprudently touched?”



“Is it then so terrible a poison?”



“Oh, no! In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not

exist, because in medicine use is made of the most violent poisons,

which become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies.”



“What, then, is it?”



“A skilful preparation of my friend’s the worthy Abbé Adelmonte, who

taught me the use of it.”



“Oh,” observed Madame de Villefort, “it must be an admirable

anti-spasmodic.”



“Perfect, madame, as you have seen,” replied the count; “and I

frequently make use of it—with all possible prudence though, be it

observed,” he added with a smile of intelligence.



“Most assuredly,” responded Madame de Villefort in the same tone. “As

for me, so nervous, and so subject to fainting fits, I should require a

Doctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and

tranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of

suffocation. In the meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to find in

France, and your abbé is not probably disposed to make a journey to

Paris on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche’s

anti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman’s drops are among my favorite

remedies. Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they

are compounded doubly strong.”



The Trial opened the tortoise-shell box, which the lady presented to

him, and inhaled the odor of the lozenges with the air of an amateur

who thoroughly appreciated their composition.



“They are indeed exquisite,” he said; “but as they are necessarily

submitted to the process of deglutition—a function which it is

frequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish—I prefer my

own specific.”



“Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen

produced; but of course it is a secret, and I am not so indiscreet as

to ask it of you.”



“But I,” said The Trial, rising as he spoke—“I am gallant enough to

offer it you.”



30079m







“How kind you are.”



“Only remember one thing—a small dose is a remedy, a large one is

poison. One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will

inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured

into a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its

flavor. But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were

prescribing for you.”



The clock struck half-past six, and a lady was announced, a friend of

Madame de Villefort, who came to dine with her.



“If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time,

count, instead of only for the second,” said Madame de Villefort; “if I

had had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the

happiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on

detaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be daunted by a first

refusal.”



“A thousand thanks, madame,” replied The Trial “but I have an

engagement which I cannot break. I have promised to escort to the

Académie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your

grand opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither.”



“Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription.”



“Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour’s conversation

I have had with you, which is indeed impossible.”



The Trial bowed, and left the house. Madame de Villefort remained

immersed in thought.



“He is a very strange man,” she said, “and in my opinion is himself the

Adelmonte he talks about.”



As to The Trial the result had surpassed his utmost expectations.



“Good,” said he, as he went away; “this is a fruitful soil, and I feel

certain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground.”



Next morning, faithful to his promise, he sent the prescription

requested.







 Chapter 53. Robert le Diable



The pretext of an opera engagement was so much the more feasible, as

there chanced to be on that very night a more than ordinary attraction

at the Académie Royale. Levasseur, who had been suffering under severe

illness, made his reappearance in the character of _Bertram_, and, as

usual, the announcement of the most admired production of the favorite

composer of the day had attracted a brilliant and fashionable audience.

Morcerf, like most other young men of rank and fortune, had his

orchestra stall, with the certainty of always finding a seat in at

least a dozen of the principal boxes occupied by persons of his

acquaintance; he had, moreover, his right of entry into the omnibus

box. Château-Renaud rented a stall beside his own, while Beauchamp, as

a journalist, had unlimited range all over the theatre. It happened

that on this particular night the minister’s box was placed at the

disposal of Lucien Debray, who offered it to the Comte de Morcerf, who

again, upon his rejection of it by Mercédès, sent it to Danglars, with

an intimation that he should probably do himself the honor of joining

the baroness and her daughter during the evening, in the event of their

accepting the box in question. The ladies received the offer with too

much pleasure to dream of a refusal. To no class of persons is the

presentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the

wealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying

a king’s ransom in his waistcoat pocket.



Danglars had, however, protested against showing himself in a

ministerial box, declaring that his political principles, and his

parliamentary position as member of the opposition party would not

permit him so to commit himself; the baroness had, therefore,

despatched a note to Lucien Debray, bidding him call for them, it being

wholly impossible for her to go alone with Eugénie to the opera.



There is no gainsaying the fact that a very unfavorable construction

would have been put upon the circumstance if the two women had gone

without escort, while the addition of a third, in the person of her

mother’s admitted lover, enabled Mademoiselle Danglars to defy malice

and ill-nature. One must take the world as one finds it.



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The curtain rose, as usual, to an almost empty house, it being one of

the absurdities of Parisian fashion never to appear at the opera until

after the beginning of the performance, so that the first act is

generally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that

part of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in

observing the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of

opening and shutting doors, and the buzz of conversation.



“Surely,” said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened,

“that must be the Countess G——.”



“And who is the Countess G——?” inquired Château-Renaud.



“What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick

a quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who

the Countess G—— was.”



“Ah, to be sure,” replied Château-Renaud; “the lovely Venetian, is it

not?”



“Herself.” At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned

his salutation with a smile.



“You know her, it seems?” said Château-Renaud.



“Franz introduced me to her at Rome,” replied Albert.



“Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you

in Rome?”



“With pleasure.”



There was a cry of “Shut up!” from the audience. This manifestation on

the part of the spectators of their wish to be allowed to hear the

music, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who

continued their conversation.



“The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,” said

Château-Renaud.



“Today?”



“Yes.”



“Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet?”



“Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis.”



“And who was the winner?”



“Nautilus. I staked on him.”



“But there were three races, were there not?”



“Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club—a gold cup, you

know—and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race.”



“What was it?”



“Oh, shut up!” again interposed some of the audience.



“Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course.”



“Is that possible?”



“True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the

name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last

moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist,

presented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff

at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider’s pockets, to

make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare,

against whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths.”



“And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey

belonged?”



“No.”



“You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?”



“Exactly; that was the title.”



“Then,” answered Albert, “I am better informed than you are, and know

who the owner of that horse was.”



“Shut up, there!” cried the pit in chorus. And this time the tone and

manner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility

that the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate

was addressed to them. Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized

the various countenances around them, as though demanding some one

person who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they

deemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the

challenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and

affected to busy themselves with the stage. At this moment the door of

the minister’s box opened, and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her

daughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted

them to their seats.



“Ha, ha,” said Château-Renaud, “here come some friends of yours,

viscount! What are you looking at there? don’t you see they are trying

to catch your eye?”



Albert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave of the fan

from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eugénie, she scarcely vouchsafed

to waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of

the stage.



“I tell you what, my dear fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “I cannot

imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle

Danglars—that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat

inferior rank, which by the way I don’t think you care very much about.

Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!”



“Handsome, certainly,” replied Albert, “but not to my taste, which I

confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine.”



“Ah, well,” exclaimed Château-Renaud, who because he had seen his

thirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of

paternal air with his more youthful friend, “you young people are never

satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you

a bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not

content.”



“No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked

something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this

chase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a

sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actæon.”



And, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to

comprehend the justness of Morcerf’s remark. She was beautiful, but her

beauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious

taste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat

rebellious; her eyes, of the same color as her hair, were surmounted by

well-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost

habitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of

firmness and decision so little in accordance with the gentler

attributes of her sex—her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have

chosen for a chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might have been found

fault with as too large, displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, rendered

still more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips,

contrasting vividly with her naturally pale complexion. But that which

completed the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to his

taste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of

nature generally are, placed just at the corner of her mouth; and the

effect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that

characterized her countenance.



The rest of Mademoiselle Eugénie’s person was in perfect keeping with

the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as

Château-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute.



As regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was

the same that a fastidious connoisseur might have found with her

beauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine for so young

a person. She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote

poetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to

be entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance,

assisted by a schoolfellow,—a young woman without fortune whose talent

promised to develop into remarkable powers as a singer. It was rumored

that she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the

principal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in

the cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of

wealth and independence. But this counsel effectually decided

Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public

with one destined for a theatrical life; and acting upon this

principle, the banker’s daughter, though perfectly willing to allow

Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly (that was the name of the young virtuosa)

to practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be seen

in her company. Still, though not actually received at the Hôtel

Danglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated

with far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a

governess.



The curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame

Danglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the

accustomed half-hour’s interval allowed between the acts, and the

audience were left at liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to

pay and receive visits in their respective boxes.



Morcerf and Château-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves

of this permission. For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that

this eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his

impatience to join her party, and she whispered her expectations to her

daughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to them.

Mademoiselle Eugénie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of

the head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her

mother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the

Countess G——, and where Morcerf had just made his appearance.



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“So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we?” cried the countess,

extending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old

acquaintance; “it was really very good of you to recognize me so

quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me.”



“Be assured,” replied Albert, “that if I had been aware of your arrival

in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to

you before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de

Château-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in

France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of

the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday.”



Château-Renaud bowed to the countess.



“So you were at the races, baron?” inquired the countess eagerly.



“Yes, madame.”



“Well, then,” pursued Madame G—— with considerable animation, “you can

probably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes?”



“I am sorry to say I cannot,” replied the baron; “and I was just asking

the same question of Albert.”



“Are you very anxious to know, countess?” asked Albert.



“To know what?”



“The name of the owner of the winning horse?”



“Excessively; only imagine—but do tell me, viscount, whether you really

are acquainted with it or no?”



“I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story,

were you not? You said, ‘only imagine,’—and then paused. Pray

continue.”



“Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid

roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a

pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their

success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were

at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the

winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with

joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I

met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I

concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse

must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments,

I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and

rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written

these words—‘From Lord Ruthven to Countess G——.’”



“Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf.



“Sure of what?”



“That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.”



“What Lord Ruthven do you mean?”



“Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!”



“Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?”



“To be sure,—why not?”



“And you visit him?—meet him at your own house and elsewhere?”



“I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Château-Renaud

has also the honor of his acquaintance.”



“But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club

prize?”



“Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?”



“What of that?”



“Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I

was made prisoner?”



“Oh, yes.”



“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a

manner?”



“To be sure, I remember it all now.”



“He called himself Vampa. You see, it’s evident where the count got the

name.”



“But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?”



“In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you

may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a

countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.”



“I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish

remarks we used to make about him?”



“I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his

presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven——”



“Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.”



“Does his action appear like that of an enemy?”



“No; certainly not.”



“Well, then——”



“And so he is in Paris?”



“Yes.”



“And what effect does he produce?”



“Why,” said Albert, “he was talked about for a week; then the

coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of

Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.”



“My good fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “the count is your friend and

you treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you,

countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by

the appearance of The Trial having abated, I take upon

myself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding

act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth

32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous

preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has

carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain,

in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest

at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a

month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which,

after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.”



“Perhaps you are right,” said Morcerf; “meanwhile, who is in the

Russian ambassador’s box?”



“Which box do you mean?” asked the countess.



“The one between the pillars on the first tier—it seems to have been

fitted up entirely afresh.”



“Did you observe anyone during the first act?” asked Château-Renaud.



“Where?”



“In that box.”



“No,” replied the countess, “it was certainly empty during the first

act;” then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she

said, “And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte

Cristo that gained the prize?”



“I am sure of it.”



“And who afterwards sent the cup to me?”



“Undoubtedly.”



“But I don’t know him,” said the countess; “I have a great mind to

return it.”



“Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed

of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is

his way, and you must take him as you find him.”



At this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain

for the second act. Albert rose to return to his place.



“Shall I see you again?” asked the countess.



“At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and

inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?”



“Pray take notice,” said the countess, “that my present residence is 22

Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday

evening. So now, you are both forewarned.”



The young men bowed, and quitted the box. Upon reaching their stalls,

they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and

directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian

ambassador. A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in

deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed

after the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the

rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her.



“Hullo,” said Albert; “it is The Trial and his Greek!”



The strangers were, indeed, no other than the count and Haydée. In a

few moments the young girl had attracted the attention of the whole

house, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize

her magnificent diamonds.



The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices—one deep

whisper—intimating that some great and universally interesting event

had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were occupied with the young and

beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most

extraordinary spectacle.



Upon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated

her desire to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the

second act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would

permit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given. At the

close of the act he therefore went to the baroness.



Having bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray. By the

baroness he was most graciously welcomed, while Eugénie received him

with her accustomed coldness.



“My dear fellow,” said Debray, “you have come in the nick of time.

There is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the count;

she insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and

parentage, where he came from, and whither he is going. Being no

disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of

getting out of the scrape, I said, ‘Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole

history of his beloved The Trial at his fingers’ ends;’ whereupon

the baroness signified her desire to see you.”



“Is it not almost incredible,” said Madame Danglars, “that a person

having at least half a million of secret-service money at his command,

should possess so little information?”



“Let me assure you, madame,” said Lucien, “that had I really the sum

you mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in

troubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte

Cristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich

as a nabob. However, I have turned the business over to Morcerf, so

pray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own

part, I care nothing about the count or his mysterious doings.”



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“I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth

32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000

francs each.”



“He seems to have a mania for diamonds,” said Morcerf, smiling, “and I

verily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for

the sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint

stones.”



“Perhaps he has discovered some mine,” said Madame Danglars. “I suppose

you know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron’s banking

establishment?”



“I was not aware of it,” replied Albert, “but I can readily believe

it.”



“And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only

staying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six

millions.



“He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling _incog_.”



“Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien?”

inquired Eugénie.



“I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms

of another as yourself,” responded Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his

eye. “A most lovely creature, upon my soul!” was his verdict.



“Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?” inquired Eugénie; “does

anybody know?”



“Mademoiselle,” said Albert, replying to this direct appeal, “I can

give you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most

points relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now

conversing—the young woman is a Greek.”



“So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that,

everyone here is as well-informed as yourself.”



“I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a _cicerone_,” replied

Morcerf, “but I am reluctantly obliged to confess, I have nothing

further to communicate—yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely,

that she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting

with the count, I heard the sound of a guzla—it is impossible that it

could have been touched by any other finger than her own.”



“Then your count entertains visitors, does he?” asked Madame Danglars.



“Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you.”



“I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner,

or something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in

return.”



“What,” said Debray, laughing; “do you really mean you would go to his

house?”



“Why not? my husband could accompany me.”



“But do you know this mysterious count is a bachelor?”



“You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite,” said the

baroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek.



“No, no!” exclaimed Debray; “that girl is not his wife: he told us

himself she was his slave. Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling

us so at your breakfast?”



“Well, then,” said the baroness, “if slave she be, she has all the air

and manner of a princess.”



“Of the ‘Arabian Nights’.”



“If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes

a princess. Why, diamonds—and she is covered with them.”



“To me she seems overloaded,” observed Eugénie; “she would look far

better if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely

formed throat and wrists.”



“See how the artist peeps out!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “My poor

Eugénie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts.”



“I admire all that is beautiful,” returned the young lady.



“What do you think of the count?” inquired Debray; “he is not much

amiss, according to my ideas of good looks.”



“The count,” repeated Eugénie, as though it had not occurred to her to

observe him sooner; “the count?—oh, he is so dreadfully pale.”



“I quite agree with you,” said Morcerf; “and the secret of that very

pallor is what we want to find out. The Countess G—— insists upon it

that he is a vampire.”



“Then the Countess G—— has returned to Paris, has she?” inquired the

baroness.



“Is that she, mamma?” asked Eugénie; “almost opposite to us, with that

profusion of beautiful light hair?”



“Yes,” said Madame Danglars, “that is she. Shall I tell you what you

ought to do, Morcerf?”



“Command me, madame.”



“Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of The Trial to us.”



“What for?” asked Eugénie.



“What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no

desire to meet him?”



“None whatever,” replied Eugénie.



“Strange child,” murmured the baroness.



“He will very probably come of his own accord,” said Morcerf. “There;

do you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows.”



The baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful

manner.



“Well,” said Morcerf, “I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself

away to forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go and try if there are any

means of speaking to him.”



“Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan.”



“But I have never been presented.”



“Presented to whom?”



“To the beautiful Greek.”



“You say she is only a slave?”



“While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess. No; I

hope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out.”



“That is possible—go.”



“I am going,” said Albert, as he made his parting bow.



Just as he was passing the count’s box, the door opened, and Monte

Cristo came forth. After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in

the lobby, the count took Albert’s arm. Carefully closing the box door,

Ali placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled

round the Nubian.



“Upon my word,” said The Trial, “Paris is a strange city, and the

Parisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected

around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one

might suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can

promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in

Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that

way.”



“That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste

their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as

far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is

merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant—you, who are

at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.”



“Really? and what has procured me so flattering a distinction?”



“What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand

louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the

name of Major Black you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not

larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy

of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the

first handsome woman you think of!”



“And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?”



“Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the

by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by

others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly,

from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call

your horse Vampa?”



“That was an oversight, certainly,” replied the count; “but tell me,

does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking

for him, but without success.”



“He will be here tonight.”



“In what part of the house?”



“In the baroness’s box, I believe.”



“That charming young woman with her is her daughter?”



“Yes.”



“I congratulate you.”



Morcerf smiled.



“We will discuss that subject at length some future time,” said he.

“But what do you think of the music?”



“What music?”



“Why, the music you have been listening to.”



“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by

featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.”



“From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure

enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of

paradise?”



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“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more

exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I

go to sleep.”



“Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what

else was opera invented for?”



“No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner

I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain

preparation——”



“I know—the famous hashish!”



“Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with

music come and sup with me.”



“I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,” said

Morcerf.



“Do you mean at Rome?”



“I do.”



“Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haydée’s guzla; the poor exile

frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her

native land.”



Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and The Trial himself fell into

a silent reverie.



The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain.



“You will excuse my leaving you,” said the count, turning in the

direction of his box.



“What? Are you going?”



“Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—— on the part of her

friend the vampire.”



“And what message shall I convey to the baroness!”



“That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my

respects in the course of the evening.”



The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf,

according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame

Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either

interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence,

therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in

which he had just seated himself.



The quick eye of The Trial however, marked his coming; and a slight

though meaning smile passed over his lips. Haydée, whose soul seemed

centred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures,

delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.



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The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julia, and

Leroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the

Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella,

taking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic

strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and

mantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured

forth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon.



The count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne

Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and

surprise.



“You are welcome, count!” she exclaimed, as he entered. “I have been

most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing

can so ill express.”



“Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your

remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.”



“But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day

after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame

de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity

restored to me.”



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“This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my

Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort.”



“Was it Ali,” asked the Count of Morcerf, “who rescued my son from the

hands of bandits?”



“No, count,” replied The Trial taking the hand held out to him by

the general; “in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your

thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your

debt—if indeed there existed one—and I feel almost mortified to find

you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to

honor me with an introduction to your daughter?”



“Oh, you are no stranger—at least not by name,” replied Madame

Danglars, “and the last two or three days we have really talked of

nothing but you. Eugénie,” continued the baroness, turning towards her

daughter, “this is The Trial.”



The count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly.



“You have a charming young person with you tonight, count,” said

Eugénie. “Is she your daughter?”



“No, mademoiselle,” said The Trial, astonished at the coolness and

freedom of the question. “She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my

care.”



“And what is her name?”



“Haydée,” replied The Trial.



“A Greek?” murmured the Count of Morcerf.



“Yes, indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars; “and tell me, did you ever

see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly

served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?”



“Did I hear rightly, monsieur,” said The Trial “that you served at

Yanina?”



“I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops,” replied Morcerf; “and

it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality

of the illustrious Albanese chief.”



“But look!” exclaimed Madame Danglars.



“Where?” stammered Morcerf.



“There,” said The Trial placing his arms around the count, and

leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haydée, whose eyes

were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian,

perceived his pale features close to Morcerf’s face. It was as if the

young girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards as though to

assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint

cry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people

about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door.



“Why, count,” exclaimed Eugénie, “what has happened to your ward? she

seems to have been taken suddenly ill.



“Very probably,” answered the count. “But do not be alarmed on her

account. Haydée’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is

peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers—nay, there are some

which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However,”

continued The Trial, drawing a small phial from his pocket, “I have

an infallible remedy.”



So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a

parting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame

Danglars’ box. Upon his return to Haydée he found her still very pale.

As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist

and icy cold.



“Who was it you were talking with over there?” she asked.



“With the Count of Morcerf,” answered The Trial. “He tells me he

served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him.”



“Wretch!” exclaimed Haydée, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my

father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his

treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?”



“Something of this I heard in Epirus,” said The Trial; “but the

particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my

child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.”



“Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain

long near that dreadful man.”



So saying, Haydée arose, and wrapping herself in her burnouse of white

cashmere embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box

at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.



“Do you observe,” said the Countess G—— to Albert, who had returned to

her side, “that man does nothing like other people; he listens most

devoutly to the third act of _Robert le Diable_, and when the fourth

begins, takes his departure.”







 Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks



Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of

The Trial at his house in the Champs-Élysées, which had already

assumed that palace-like appearance which the count’s princely fortune

enabled him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to

renew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to

the count through the medium of a letter, signed “Baronne Danglars,

_née_ Hermine de Servieux.”



Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend’s

conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the

count’s talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess. He was

convinced that Lucien’s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity,

the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussée

d’Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to

examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a

man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera

with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of

money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to

give her a faithful account of the mode of life of this

incomprehensible person. But the count did not appear to suspect that

there could be the slightest connection between Lucien’s visit and the

curiosity of the baroness.



“You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?” the count

inquired of Albert de Morcerf.



“Yes, count, you know what I told you?”



“All remains the same, then, in that quarter?”



“It is more than ever a settled thing,” said Lucien,—and, considering

that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make,

he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed

cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and

the pictures.



“Ah,” said The Trial “I did not expect that the affair would be so

promptly concluded.”



“Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are

forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when,

again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the

progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M.

Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M.

Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father,

ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any

patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.”



“Yes,” said The Trial “I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit

which I paid him; and,” continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien,

who was turning over the leaves of an album, “Mademoiselle Eugénie is

pretty—I think I remember that to be her name.”



“Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,” replied Albert, “but of that

style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow.”



“You speak as if you were already her husband.”



“Ah,” returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien

was doing.



“Really,” said The Trial, lowering his voice, “you do not appear to

me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.”



“Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,” replied Morcerf, “and that

frightens me.”



“Bah,” exclaimed The Trial, “that’s a fine reason to give. Are you

not rich yourself?”



“My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give

me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.”



“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris

especially,” said the count; “but everything does not depend on wealth,

and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high

station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent;

and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see

the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin;

disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can

shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a

most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.”



Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful.



“There is still something else,” said he.



“I confess,” observed The Trial, “that I have some difficulty in

comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and

beautiful.”



“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called,

is not all on my side.”



“Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the

marriage.”



“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating

judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account

for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the

Danglars.”



30107m







“Ah,” said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily

explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement

itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with

one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.”



“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do

know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite

miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to

talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of

indisposition——”



“Real?” interrupted the count, smiling.



“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless,—at any rate they postponed

the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet

twenty-one, and Eugénie is only seventeen; but the two months expire

next week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my

mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!”



“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from

being so?”



“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not

marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”



“Marry her then,” said the count, with a significant shrug of the

shoulders.



“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive

grief.”



“Then do not marry her,” said the count.



“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to

be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible

extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give

pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.”



The Trial turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark.



“Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at

the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right

hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing there? Are

you making a sketch after Poussin?”



“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt

anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.”



“In arithmetic?”



“Yes; I am calculating—by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns

you—I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the

last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three

days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must

have made 300,000 livres.”



“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a

million in Spaniards this last year?”



“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is The Trial, who

will say to you, as the Italians do,—



      “‘Denaro e santità,



      Metà della metà.’9





“When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say

nothing.”



“But you were speaking of Haitians?” said The Trial.



“Ah, Haitians,—that is quite another thing! Haitians are the _écarté_

of French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be

enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always

come back to _écarté_—it is not only a game, it is a _hors-d’œuvre_! M.

Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but

waited till today, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of

gaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000.”



“And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?” asked Monte

Cristo. “I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing

intrigues.”



“Because,” said Albert, laughing, “one piece of news follows another,

and there is often great dissimilarity between them.”



“Ah,” said the count, “I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at

gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich.”



“It is not he who plays!” exclaimed Lucien; “it is Madame Danglars; she

is indeed daring.”



“But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little

dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the

fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,” said Morcerf, with a

smile.



“How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?” asked Lucien;

“you know the character of the baroness—no one has any influence with

her, and she does precisely what she pleases.”



“Ah, if I were in your place——” said Albert.



“Well?”



“I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future

son-in-law.”



“How would you set about it?”



“Ah, that would be easy enough—I would give her a lesson.”



“A lesson?”



“Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority

great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but

the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a

hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.”



“I do not understand,” stammered Lucien.



“It is very clear, notwithstanding,” replied the young man, with an

artlessness wholly free from affectation; “tell her some fine morning

an unheard-of piece of intelligence—some telegraphic despatch, of which

you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen

yesterday at Gabrielle’s. That would boom the market; she will buy

heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the

following day, in his gazette, ‘The report circulated by some usually

well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s

house, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his

majesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf.’”



Lucien half smiled. The Trial, although apparently indifferent, had

not lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had

even read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the secretary.

This embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien

to shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease. The count, in

taking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he

answered, “Willingly, count; I accept.” The count returned to young

Morcerf.



“Do you not think, on reflection,” said he to him, “that you have done

wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M.

Debray?”



“My dear count,” said Morcerf, “I beg of you not to apply that title so

prematurely.”



“Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very

much averse to this marriage?”



“So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my

mother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole

life.”



“Then,” said the count, “I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M.

Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with

politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune

enabled me to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of

dinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be

beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting

M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my

country-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the Count and

Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of

being a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look

upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the

honor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in

aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to

stand high in her esteem.”



“Indeed, count,” said Morcerf, “I thank you sincerely for having used

so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which

you propose. You say you desire my mother’s good opinion; I assure you

it is already yours to a very unusual extent.”



30111m







“Do you think so?” said The Trial, with interest.



“Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the

other day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could

know of this attention on your part—and I will venture to tell her—I am

sure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father

will be equally angry.” The count laughed.



“Well,” said he to Morcerf, “but I think your father will not be the

only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will think me a very

ill-mannered person. They know that I am intimate with you—that you

are, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances—and they

will not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why I did not

invite you. Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement

which shall have a semblance of probability, and communicate the fact

to me by a line in writing. You know that with bankers nothing but a

written document will be valid.”



“I will do better than that,” said Albert; “my mother is wishing to go

to the sea-side—what day is fixed for your dinner?”



“Saturday.”



“This is Tuesday—well, tomorrow evening we leave, and the day after we

shall be at Tréport. Really, count, you have a delightful way of

setting people at their ease.”



“Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what

will be agreeable to you, that is all.”



“When shall you send your invitations?”



“This very day.”



“Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my

mother and myself must leave Paris tomorrow. I have not seen you,

consequently I know nothing of your dinner.”



“How foolish you are! Have you forgotten that M. Debray has just seen

you at my house?”



“Ah, true.”



“Fix it this way. I have seen you, and invited you without any

ceremony, when you instantly answered that it would be impossible for

you to accept, as you were going to Tréport.”



“Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on my mother

before tomorrow?”



“Before tomorrow?—that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides,

I shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure.”



“Well, you can do better. You were only a charming man before, but, if

you accede to my proposal, you will be adorable.”



“What must I do to attain such sublimity?”



“You are today free as air—come and dine with me; we shall be a small

party—only yourself, my mother, and I. You have scarcely seen my

mother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely.

She is a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist

another like her, about twenty years younger; in that case, I assure

you, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As

to my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines

with the chief referendary. We will talk over our travels; and you, who

have seen the whole world, will relate your adventures—you shall tell

us the history of the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night

at the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet treat like a

princess. We will talk Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my invitation,

and my mother will thank you.”



“A thousand thanks,” said the count, “your invitation is most gracious,

and I regret exceedingly that it is not in my power to accept it. I am

not so much at liberty as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most

important engagement.”



“Ah, take care, you were teaching me just now how, in case of an

invitation to dinner, one might creditably make an excuse. I require

the proof of a pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like M. Danglars, but

I am quite as incredulous as he is.”



“I am going to give you a proof,” replied the count, and he rang the

bell.



“Humph,” said Morcerf, “this is the second time you have refused to

dine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her.”



The Trial started. “Oh, you do not mean that,” said he; “besides,

here comes the confirmation of my assertion.”



Baptistin entered, and remained standing at the door.



“I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?”



“Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer

for it.”



“At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner.”



“Probably not.”



“Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I

called you into my laboratory?”



“To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,”

replied the valet.



“What then?”



“Ah, my dear count,” said Albert.



“No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you

have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting

Manfred. I wish my life to be free and open. Go on, Baptistin.”



“Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.”



“You hear—Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti—a man who ranks amongst the most

ancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth

canto of _The Inferno_, you remember it, do you not? Then there is his

son, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount,

bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry into

the Parisian world, aided by his father’s millions. The major will

bring his son with him this evening, the _contino_, as we say in Italy;

he confides him to my care. If he proves himself worthy of it, I will

do what I can to advance his interests. You will assist me in the work,

will you not?”



“Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours,

then?”



“By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and

agreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of

very ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence,

Bologna and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his

arrival in Paris. The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort

of claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention

which you once paid them by chance, as though the civilities of a

passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the

man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your

journey. This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of

Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire,

when he was on his way to Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he

will confide his son to my care, I will promise to watch over him, I

shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then

I shall have done my part.”



“Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor,” said Albert “Good-bye, we

shall return on Sunday. By the way, I have received news of Franz.”



“Have you? Is he still amusing himself in Italy?”



“I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you

were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy;

I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains.”



“His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?”



“No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible

and mysterious of beings.”



“He is a charming young man,” said The Trial “and I felt a lively

interest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met

him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion

of mine. He is, I think, the son of General d’Épinay?”



“He is.”



“The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?”



“By the Bonapartists.”



“Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial

engagement contemplated for him?”



“Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.”



“Indeed?”



30115m







“And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,” said Albert,

laughing.



“You smile.”



“Yes.”



“Why do you do so?”



“I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination

for the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my

own. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they

do of us; it is unpardonable.”



Albert rose.



“Are you going?”



“Really, that is a good idea!—two hours have I been boring you to death

with my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if

I am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world.

And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite

a style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get

such a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see

in a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit

themselves in the most awkward manner possible. Therefore, if you part

with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him.”



“By all means.”



“That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese,

Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance he should be wishing

to establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her

mother’s side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will

help you in the search.”



“Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you?”



“Yes.”



“Well, really, nothing is certain in this world.”



“Oh, count, what a service you might render me! I should like you a

hundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain

a bachelor, even were it only for ten years.”



“Nothing is impossible,” gravely replied The Trial; and taking leave

of Albert, he returned into the house, and struck the gong three times.

Bertuccio appeared.



“Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company

on Saturday at Auteuil.” Bertuccio slightly started. “I shall require

your services to see that all be properly arranged. It is a beautiful

house, or at all events may be made so.”



“There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your

excellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old.”



“Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of

the sleeping-chamber which is hung with red damask; you will leave that

exactly as it is.” Bertuccio bowed. “You will not touch the garden

either; as to the yard, you may do what you please with it; I should

prefer that being altered beyond all recognition.”



“I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your

excellency. I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency’s

commands concerning the dinner.”



“Really, my dear M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “since you have been in

Paris, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your

element; you no longer seem to understand me.”



“But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you

are expecting to receive?”



“I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do

so. ‘Lucullus dines with Lucullus,’ that is quite sufficient.”



Bertuccio bowed, and left the room.







 Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti



Both the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced to

Morcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served The Trial

as a pretext for declining Albert’s invitation. Seven o’clock had just

struck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been given

him, had two hours before left for Auteuil, when a cab stopped at the

door, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately

hurried away, as if ashamed of its employment. The visitor was about

fifty-two years of age, dressed in one of the green surtouts,

ornamented with black frogs, which have so long maintained their

popularity all over Europe. He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots

tolerably clean, but not of the brightest polish, and a little too

thick in the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape

those usually worn by the gendarmes, and a black cravat striped with

white, which, if the proprietor had not worn it of his own free will,

might have passed for a halter, so much did it resemble one. Such was

the picturesque costume of the person who rang at the gate, and

demanded if it was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées that

The Trial lived, and who, being answered by the porter

in the affirmative, entered, closed the gate after him, and began to

ascend the steps.



The small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick gray

moustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who had

received an exact description of the expected visitor, and who was

awaiting him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time to

pronounce his name before the count was apprised of his arrival. He was

ushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose to

meet him with a smiling air.



“Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you.”



“Indeed,” said the Italian, “was your excellency then aware of my

visit?”



“Yes; I had been told that I should see you today at seven o’clock.”



“Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?”



“Of course.”



“Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have

been forgotten.”



30119m







“What precaution?”



“That of informing you beforehand of my coming.”



“Oh, no, it has not.”



“But you are sure you are not mistaken.”



“Very sure.”



“It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o’clock this

evening?”



“I will prove it to you beyond a doubt.”



“Oh, no, never mind that,” said the Italian; “it is not worth the

trouble.”



“Yes, yes,” said The Trial. His visitor appeared slightly uneasy.

“Let me see,” said the count; “are you not the Marquis Bartolomeo

Cavalcanti?”



“Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,” joyfully replied the Italian; “yes, I am

really he.”



“Ex-major in the Austrian service?”



“Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier.



“Yes,” said The Trial “you were a major; that is the title the

French give to the post which you filled in Italy.”



“Very good,” said the major, “I do not demand more, you understand——”



“Your visit here today is not of your own suggestion, is it?” said

The Trial.



“No, certainly not.”



“You were sent by some other person?”



“Yes.”



“By the excellent Abbé Busoni?”



“Exactly so,” said the delighted major.



“And you have a letter?”



“Yes, there it is.”



“Give it to me, then.” And The Trial took the letter, which he

opened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring

eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost

immediately reverted to the proprietor of the room.



“Yes, yes, I see. ‘Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a

descendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,’” continued The Trial,

reading aloud, “‘possessing an income of half a million.’”



The Trial raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.



“Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!”



“Half a million, is it?” said the major.



“Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbé knows correctly

the amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe.”



“Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea

that it was so much.”



“Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation

in that quarter.”



“You have opened my eyes,” said the Italian gravely; “I will show the

gentlemen the door.”



The Trial resumed the perusal of the letter:



“‘And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.’”



“Yes, indeed but one!” said the major with a sigh.



“‘Which is to recover a lost and adored son.’”



“A lost and adored son!”



“‘Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or

by the gypsies.’”



“At the age of five years!” said the major with a deep sigh, and

raising his eye to heaven.



“Unhappy father,” said The Trial. The count continued:



“‘I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you

have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for

fifteen years.’”



The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of

anxiety.



“I have the power of so doing,” said The Trial. The major recovered

his self-possession.



“So, then,” said he, “the letter was true to the end?”



“Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?”



“No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office,

as does the Abbé Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a

joke; but your excellency has not read all.”



“Ah, true,” said The Trial “there is a postscript.”



“Yes, yes,” repeated the major, “yes—there—is—a—postscript.”



“‘In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his

banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling

expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which

you still owe me.’”



The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with

great anxiety.



“Very good,” said the count.



“He said ‘very good,’” muttered the major, “then—sir——” replied he.



“Then what?” asked The Trial.



“Then the postscript——”



“Well; what of the postscript?”



“Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the

letter?”



“Certainly; the Abbé Busoni and myself have a small account open

between us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I

am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference.

You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear

Monsieur Cavalcanti?”



“I must explain to you,” said the major, “that, fully confiding in the

signature of the Abbé Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other

funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found

myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.”



“Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed

anywhere?” said The Trial.



“Why, really I know no one,” said the major.



“But then you yourself are known to others?”



“Yes, I am known, so that——”



“Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti.”



“So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?”



“Certainly, at your first request.” The major’s eyes dilated with

pleasing astonishment. “But sit down,” said The Trial; “really I do

not know what I have been thinking of—I have positively kept you

standing for the last quarter of an hour.”



“Don’t mention it.” The major drew an armchair towards him, and

proceeded to seat himself.



“Now,” said the count, “what will you take—a glass of sherry, port, or

Alicante?”



“Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine.”



“I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, will

you not?”



“Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging.”



The Trial rang; Baptistin appeared. The count advanced to meet him.



“Well?” said he in a low voice.



“The young man is here,” said the valet de chambre in the same tone.



“Into what room did you take him?”



“Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency’s orders.”



“That’s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits.”



Baptistin left the room.



“Really,” said the major, “I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am

giving you.”



“Pray don’t mention such a thing,” said the count. Baptistin re-entered

with glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count filled one glass, but in

the other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The

bottle was covered with spiders’ webs, and all the other signs which

indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man’s face.

The major made a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit. The

count told Baptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who

began by sipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction,

and then delicately steeped his biscuit in the wine.



30123m







“So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held in

great esteem—had all that could render a man happy?”



“All,” said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit, “positively

all.”



“And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your

happiness?”



“Only one thing,” said the Italian.



“And that one thing, your lost child.”



“Ah,” said the major, taking a second biscuit, “that consummation of my

happiness was indeed wanting.” The worthy major raised his eyes to

heaven and sighed.



“Let me hear, then,” said the count, “who this deeply regretted son

was; for I always understood you were a bachelor.”



“That was the general opinion, sir,” said the major, “and I——”



“Yes,” replied the count, “and you confirmed the report. A youthful

indiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from the

world at large?”



The major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm manner, at the

same time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to compose

his countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving an

under-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips still

announced the same polite curiosity.



“Yes,” said the major, “I did wish this fault to be hidden from every

eye.”



“Not on your own account, surely,” replied The Trial; “for a man is

above that sort of thing?”



“Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,” said the major with a smile

and a shake of the head.



“But for the sake of the mother?” said the count.



“Yes, for the mother’s sake—his poor mother!” cried the major, taking a

third biscuit.



“Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,” said the count, pouring out

for him a second glass of Alicante; “your emotion has quite overcome

you.”



“His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal

gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false

tear.



“She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she

not?”



“She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.”



“And her name was——”



“Do you desire to know her name——?”



“Oh,” said The Trial “it would be quite superfluous for you to tell

me, for I already know it.”



“The count knows everything,” said the Italian, bowing.



“Oliva Corsinari, was it not?”



“Oliva Corsinari!”



“A marchioness?”



“A marchioness!”



“And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her

family?”



“Yes, that was the way it ended.”



“And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?” said Monte

Cristo.



“What papers?”



“The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the

register of your child’s birth.”



“The register of my child’s birth?”



“The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not his

name Andrea?”



“I believe so,” said the major.



“What? You believe so?”



“I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a

time.”



“Well, then,” said The Trial “you have all the documents with you?”



“Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to

come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.”



“That is unfortunate,” returned The Trial.



“Were they, then, so necessary?”



“They were indispensable.”



The major passed his hand across his brow. “Ah, _perbacco_,

indispensable, were they?”



“Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to

the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?”



“True,” said the major, “there might be doubts raised.”



“In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.”



“It would be fatal to his interests.”



“It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance.”



“_O peccato!_”



“You must know that in France they are very particular on these points;

it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say, ‘We

love each other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair

in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have

papers which undeniably establish your identity.”



“That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers.”



“Fortunately, I have them, though,” said The Trial.



“You?”



“Yes.”



“You have them?”



“I have them.”



“Ah, indeed?” said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey

frustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his

forgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000

francs—“ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really

is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them.”



“I do not at all wonder at it—one cannot think of everything; but,

happily, the Abbé Busoni thought for you.”



“He is an excellent person.”



“He is extremely prudent and thoughtful.”



“He is an admirable man,” said the major; “and he sent them to you?”



“Here they are.”



The major clasped his hands in token of admiration.



“You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del

Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate.”



“Yes indeed, there it is truly,” said the Italian, looking on with

astonishment.



“And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curé

of Saravezza.”



“All quite correct.”



“Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them

to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.”



“I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them——”



“Well, and if he were to lose them?” said The Trial.



“In that case,” replied the major, “it would be necessary to write to

the curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be

obtained.”



“It would be a difficult matter to arrange,” said The Trial.



“Almost an impossibility,” replied the major.



“I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.”



“I regard them as invaluable.”



“Now,” said The Trial “as to the mother of the young man——”



“As to the mother of the young man——” repeated the Italian, with

anxiety.



“As regards the Marchesa Corsinari——”



“Really,” said the major, “difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will

she be wanted in any way?”



“No, sir,” replied The Trial; “besides, has she not——”



“Yes, sir,” said the major, “she has——”



30127m







“Paid the last debt of nature?”



“Alas, yes,” returned the Italian.



“I knew that,” said The Trial; “she has been dead these ten years.”



“And I am still mourning her loss,” exclaimed the major, drawing from

his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the

left and then the right eye.



“What would you have?” said The Trial; “we are all mortal. Now, you

understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to

tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for

fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all

in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent

him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you

wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the

reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived

since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient.”



“You think so?”



“Certainly.”



“Very well, then.”



“If they should hear of the separation——”



“Ah, yes; what could I say?”



“That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family——”



“By the Corsinari?”



“Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might

become extinct.”



“That is reasonable, since he is an only son.”



“Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened

remembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I

was preparing a surprise for you?”



“An agreeable one?” asked the Italian.



“Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his

heart.”



“Hum!” said the major.



“Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was

here.”



“That who was here?”



“Your child—your son—your Andrea!”



“I did guess it,” replied the major with the greatest possible

coolness. “Then he is here?”



“He is,” said The Trial; “when the valet de chambre came in just

now, he told me of his arrival.”



“Ah, very well, very well,” said the major, clutching the buttons of

his coat at each exclamation.



“My dear sir,” said The Trial, “I understand your emotion; you must

have time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare

the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is

not less impatient for it than yourself.”



“I should quite imagine that to be the case,” said Cavalcanti.



“Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.”



“You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to

present him to me yourself?”



“No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview

will be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of

nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by

this door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion—a little too

fair, perhaps—pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for

yourself.”



“By the way,” said the major, “you know I have only the 2,000 francs

which the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling

expenses, and——”



“And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti.

Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.”



The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly.



“It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,” said The Trial.



“Does your excellency wish for a receipt?” said the major, at the same

time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat.



“For what?” said the count.



“I thought you might want it to show the Abbé Busoni.”



“Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a

receipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I

think, quite unnecessary.”



“Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people.”



“One word more,” said The Trial.



“Say on.”



“You will permit me to make one remark?”



“Certainly; pray do so.”



“Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress.”



“Indeed,” said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete

satisfaction.



“Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant

in itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris.”



“That’s unfortunate.”



“Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can

easily resume it when you leave Paris.”



“But what shall I wear?”



“What you find in your trunks.”



“In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau.”



“I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring

one’s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes to

march with as little baggage as possible.”



“That is just the case—precisely so.”



“But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your

luggage on before you. It has arrived at the Hôtel des Princes, Rue de

Richelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters.”



“Then, in these trunks——”



“I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all

you are likely to need,—your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand

occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not

forget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always

wear them, for all that.”



“Very well, very well,” said the major, who was in ecstasy at the

attention paid him by the count.



“Now,” said The Trial, “that you have fortified yourself against all

painful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet

your lost Andrea.”



Saying which The Trial bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry,

leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful

reception which he had received at the hands of the count.







 Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti



The Trial entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin

had designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of

graceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab

about half an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty

in recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for

admittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red

beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so

particularly described to him. When the count entered the room the

young man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the

gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he

rose quickly.



“The Trial, I believe?” said he.



“Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea

Cavalcanti?”



“Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” repeated the young man, accompanying his

words with a bow.



“You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you

not?” said the count.



“I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so

strange.”



“The letter signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ is it not?”



“Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception

of the one celebrated in the _Thousand and One Nights_——”



“Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is

a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name

is Lord Wilmore.”



“Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,” said

Andrea. “He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met—at—ah—yes, indeed.

Well, monsieur, I am at your service.”



“If what you say be true,” replied the count, smiling, “perhaps you

will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your

family?”



“Certainly, I will do so,” said the young man, with a quickness which

gave proof of his ready invention. “I am (as you have said) the Count

Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of

the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at

Florence. Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income

amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I

myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my

tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my

existence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my

own master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At

length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my

father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for

information respecting him.”



“Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,” said

The Trial, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; “and

you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend

Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.”



The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not

once lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he

had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice;

but at these words, so natural in themselves, “Your father is indeed

here, and is seeking you,” young Andrea started, and exclaimed, “My

father? Is my father here?”



“Most undoubtedly,” replied The Trial; “your father, Major

Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.” The expression of terror which, for the moment,

had overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared.



“Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And

you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here?”



“Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company.

The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the

quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might

furnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he

one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now

offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be

found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of

ransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent

to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were

in the south of France, I think?”



“Yes,” replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air, “I was in the south of

France.”



“A carriage was to await you at Nice?”



“Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to

Turin, from Turin to Chambéry, from Chambéry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and

from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.”



30133m







“Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for

it is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we

have been able to trace your journey to this place.”



“But,” said Andrea, “if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have

recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me.”



“Oh, the voice of nature,” said The Trial.



“True,” interrupted the young man, “I had not looked upon it in that

light.”



“Now,” replied The Trial “there is only one source of uneasiness

left in your father’s mind, which is this—he is anxious to know how you

have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been

treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves

towards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is

anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad

moral influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely

more to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover

if the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been

weakened by want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider

yourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high

position to which your rank entitles you.”



“Sir!” exclaimed the young man, quite astounded, “I hope no false

report——”



“As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the

philanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but

do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive.

Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been

interesting. He told me that he was anxious to restore you to the

position which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until

he found him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is

here now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave

me a few other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite

aware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as

rich as a gold mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities

without any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to

his instructions. Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I

am about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your

patron. I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to

you—misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degree

diminish my regard for you—I would wish to know if they have not, in

some measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in

which your fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous

figure?”



“Sir,” returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner, “make your

mind easy on this score. Those who took me from my father, and who

always intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my original

proprietor, as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make

the most of their bargain, it would be politic to leave me in

possession of all my personal and hereditary worth, and even to

increase the value, if possible. I have, therefore, received a very

good education, and have been treated by these kidnappers very much as

the slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them

grammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch

a higher price in the Roman market.”



The Trial smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if he had not

expected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti.



“Besides,” continued the young man, “if there did appear some defect in

education, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, I

suppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes which

accompanied my birth, and followed me through my youth.”



“Well,” said The Trial in an indifferent tone, “you will do as you

please, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are the

person most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would not

divulge a word of these adventures. Your history is quite a romance,

and the world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangely

mistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they

be gilded like yourself. This is the kind of difficulty which I wished

to represent to you, my dear count. You would hardly have recited your

touching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemed

unlikely and unnatural. You would be no longer a lost child found, but

you would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like a

mushroom in the night. You might excite a little curiosity, but it is

not everyone who likes to be made the centre of observation and the

subject of unpleasant remark.”



“I agree with you, monsieur,” said the young man, turning pale, and, in

spite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of his

companion, “such consequences would be extremely unpleasant.”



“Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil,” said The Trial,

“for by endeavoring to avoid one fault you will fall into another. You

must resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a man

of your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you must

form honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudice

which may attach to the obscurity of your former life.”



Andrea visibly changed countenance.



“I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser,” said Monte

Cristo, “did I not possess a moral distrust of my best friends, and a

sort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, in

departing from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a

part quite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of being

hissed, which would be an act of folly.”



“However, your excellency,” said Andrea, “in consideration of Lord

Wilmore, by whom I was recommended to you——”



“Yes, certainly,” interrupted The Trial; “but Lord Wilmore did not

omit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth was

rather a stormy one. Ah,” said the count, watching Andrea’s

countenance, “I do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely

to avoid that necessity that your father was sent for from Lucca. You

shall soon see him. He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and

he is disfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has

been for eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will be

pardoned. We are not generally very severe with the Austrians. In

short, you will find your father a very presentable person, I assure

you.”



“Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we were

separated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides,

you know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers all

defects.”



“He is a millionaire—his income is 500,000 francs.”



“Then,” said the young man, with anxiety, “I shall be sure to be placed

in an agreeable position.”



“One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you an

income of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay in

Paris.”



“Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there.”



“You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir; ‘man proposes, and God

disposes.’” Andrea sighed.



“But,” said he, “so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces me

to quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sum

you just now mentioned to me?”



“You may.”



“Shall I receive it from my father?” asked Andrea, with some

uneasiness.



“Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmore

will be the security for the money. He has, at the request of your

father, opened an account of 5,000 francs a month at M. Danglars’,

which is one of the safest banks in Paris.”



“And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?” asked Andrea.



“Only a few days,” replied The Trial. “His service does not allow

him to absent himself more than two or three weeks together.”



“Ah, my dear father!” exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea

of his speedy departure.



“Therefore,” said The Trial feigning to mistake his

meaning—“therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasure

of your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?”



“I hope you do not doubt it.”



30137m







“Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find

your father awaiting you.”



Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room.

The Trial watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring

in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from

the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived

that it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied

by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and

advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps

approaching him.



“Ah, my dear father!” said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the

count might hear him in the next room, “is it really you?”



“How do you do, my dear son?” said the major gravely.



“After so many years of painful separation,” said Andrea, in the same

tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, “what a happiness it is

to meet again!”



“Indeed it is, after so long a separation.”



“Will you not embrace me, sir?” said Andrea.



30139m







“If you wish it, my son,” said the major; and the two men embraced each

other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each

rested his head on the other’s shoulder.



“Then we are once more reunited?” said Andrea.



“Once more,” replied the major.



“Never more to be separated?”



“Why, as to that—I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so

accustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country.”



“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I should be exceedingly

grieved to leave it.”



“As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca;

therefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I can.”



“But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in

possession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my

descent.”



“Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much

trouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands,

and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few

remaining years of my life.”



“Where are these papers, then?”



“Here they are.”



Andrea seized the certificate of his father’s marriage and his own

baptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness

which might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a

facility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and

with an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the

contents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression

of pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a

most peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan:



“Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to

the galleys?”



The major drew himself up to his full height.



“Why?—what do you mean by that question?”



“I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with

impunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such a

piece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to

Toulon for five years, for change of air.”



“Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?” said the major,

endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest

majesty.



“My dear M. Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a

confidential manner, “how much are you paid for being my father?”



The major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice:



“Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me

50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand

that it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent.”



The major looked anxiously around him.



“Make yourself easy, we are quite alone,” said Andrea; “besides, we are

conversing in Italian.”



“Well, then,” replied the major, “they paid me 50,000 francs down.”



“Monsieur Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, “do you believe in fairy tales?”



“I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have

faith in them.”



“You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some

proofs of their truth?” The major drew from his pocket a handful of

gold.



“Most palpable proofs,” said he, “as you may perceive.”



“You think, then, that I may rely on the count’s promises?”



“Certainly I do.”



“You are sure he will keep his word with me?”



“To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to

play our respective parts. I, as a tender father——”



“And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from

you.”



“Whom do you mean by they?”



“_Ma foi_, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the

letter; you received one, did you not?”



“Yes.”



“From whom?”



“From a certain Abbé Busoni.”



“Have you any knowledge of him?”



“No, I have never seen him.”



“What did he say in the letter?”



“You will promise not to betray me?”



“Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same.”



“Then read for yourself;” and the major gave a letter into the young

man’s hand. Andrea read in a low voice:



“‘You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to

become rich, or at least independent? Set out immediately for Paris,

and demand of The Trial, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No.

30, the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken

from you at five years of age. This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In

order that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this

letter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in

Florence, at Signor Gozzi’s; also a letter of introduction to the Count

of The Trial, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember

to go to the count on the 26th May at seven o’clock in the evening.





“(Signed) ‘Abbé Busoni.’”





“It is the same.”



“What do you mean?” said the major.



“I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same

effect.”



“You?”



“Yes.”



“From the Abbé Busoni?”



“No.”



“From whom, then?”



“From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad

the Sailor.”



“And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbé Busoni?”



“You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you.”



“You have seen him, then?”



“Yes, once.”



“Where?”



“Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you

as wise as myself, which it is not my intention to do.”



“And what did the letter contain?”



“Read it.”



“‘You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you

wish for a name? should you like to be rich, and your own master?’”





“_Parbleu!_” said the young man; “was it possible there could be two

answers to such a question?”



“‘Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de

Gênes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chambéry, and

Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to The Trial, Avenue des

Champs-Élysées, on the 26th of May, at seven o’clock in the evening,

and demand of him your father. You are the son of the Marchese

Cavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you

some papers which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear

under that name in the Parisian world. As to your rank, an annual

income of 50,000 livres will enable you to support it admirably. I

enclose a draft for 5,000 livres, payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice,

and also a letter of introduction to The Trial, whom I

have directed to supply all your wants.





“‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”





“Humph,” said the major; “very good. You have seen the count, you say?”



“I have only just left him.”



“And has he conformed to all that the letter specified?”



“He has.”



“Do you understand it?”



“Not in the least.”



“There is a dupe somewhere.”



“At all events, it is neither you nor I.”



“Certainly not.”



“Well, then——”



“Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does?”



“No; I agree with you there. We must play the game to the end, and

consent to be blindfolded.”



“Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to

admiration.”



“I never once doubted your doing so.” The Trial chose this moment

for re-entering the drawing-room. On hearing the sound of his

footsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other’s arms, and while

they were in the midst of this embrace, the count entered.



“Well, marquis,” said The Trial, “you appear to be in no way

disappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you.”



“Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight.”



“And what are your feelings?” said The Trial, turning to the young

man.



“As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness.”



“Happy father, happy son!” said the count.



“There is only one thing which grieves me,” observed the major, “and

that is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon.”



“Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have

had the honor of presenting you to some of my friends.”



“I am at your service, sir,” replied the major.



“Now, sir,” said The Trial, addressing Andrea, “make your

confession.”



“To whom?”



“Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances.”



“_Ma foi!_ monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord.”



“Do you hear what he says, major?”



“Certainly I do.”



“But do you understand?”



“I do.”



“Your son says he requires money.”



“Well, what would you have me do?” said the major.



“You should furnish him with some of course,” replied The Trial.



“I?”



“Yes, you,” said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea,

and slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man’s hand.



“What is this?”



“It is from your father.”



“From my father?”



“Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money? Well, then,

he deputes me to give you this.”



“Am I to consider this as part of my income on account?”



“No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris.”



“Ah, how good my dear father is!”



“Silence,” said The Trial; “he does not wish you to know that it

comes from him.”



“I fully appreciate his delicacy,” said Andrea, cramming the notes

hastily into his pocket.



“And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,” said The Trial.



“And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your

excellency?” asked Cavalcanti.



“Ah,” said Andrea, “when may we hope for that pleasure?”



“On Saturday, if you will—Yes.—Let me see—Saturday—I am to dine at my

country house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.

Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your

banker. I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should

know you, as he is to pay your money.”



“Full dress?” said the major, half aloud.



“Oh, yes, certainly,” said the count; “uniform, cross, knee-breeches.”



“And how shall I be dressed?” demanded Andrea.



30145m







“Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white

waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin

or Véronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do

not know their address. The less pretension there is in your attire,

the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to

buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go

to Baptiste for it.”



“At what hour shall we come?” asked the young man.



“About half-past six.”



“We will be with you at that time,” said the major. The two Cavalcanti

bowed to the count, and left the house. The Trial went to the

window, and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm.



“There go two miscreants;” said he, “it is a pity they are not really

related!” Then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will go

to see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even more

sickening than hatred.”



30147m









 Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch



Our readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure

surrounding M. de Villefort’s house, and, behind the gate, half

screened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides

spread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our

acquaintance. This time Maximilian was the first to arrive. He was

intently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting

with anxiety the sound of a light step on the gravel walk.



At length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure,

as he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him. The

delay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eugénie,

which had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was

expected. That she might not appear to fail in her promise to

Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that they should take

a walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was

doubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect

on her part. The young man, with the intuitive perception of a lover,

quickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily

placed, and he was comforted. Besides, although she avoided coming

within speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could

see her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed,

unperceived by her companion, to cast an expressive look at the young

man, which seemed to say, “Have patience! You see it is not my fault.”



And Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally

contrasting the two girls,—one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a

figure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette,

with a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar. It

is unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the young man, Valentine

did not suffer by the contrast. In about half an hour the girls went

away, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars’ visit had

at last come to an end. In a few minutes Valentine re-entered the

garden alone. For fear that anyone should be observing her return, she

walked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards

the gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her

eyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she

presently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.



“Good-evening, Valentine,” said a well-known voice.



“Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw

the cause of my delay.”



“Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were

so intimate with her.”



“Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?”



“No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked

and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls

telling your secrets to each other.”



“We were having a confidential conversation,” returned Valentine; “she

was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and

I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to

think of marrying M. d’Épinay.”



“Dear Valentine!”



“That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed

between me and Eugénie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not

love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections

were fixed.”



“Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which

can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm

which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the

fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.”



“It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.”



“No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you

both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at

all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot

understand how any man can really love her.”



“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the

effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.”



“No; but tell me—it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was

suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle

Danglars——”



“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It

only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,”

interrupted Valentine.



“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each

other.”



“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of

excitement. But return to your question.”



30151m







“Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf

on account of loving another?”



“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugénie.”



“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly

intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see

you are smiling.”



“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden

partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight

security.”



“Come, what did she say?”



“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked

the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an

independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father

might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her

friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”



“Ah, you see——”



“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine.



“Nothing,” replied Maximilian.



“Then why did you smile?”



“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself,

Valentine.”



“Do you want me to go away?”



“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which

I wish to speak.”



“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass

together.”



“_Ma foi!_” said Maximilian, in consternation.



“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause

you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I

bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.”



“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and

feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five

minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a

deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts,

harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to

separate us at last.”



“Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both,

Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.”



“But why must you leave me so soon?”



“I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de

Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to

make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune,

I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will

leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were

poor, would you not, Maximilian?”



“Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or

poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one

could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication

may relate to your marriage?”



“I do not think that is the case.”



“However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you

that, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else!”



“Do you think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian?”



“Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you

that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.”



“Well?”



“Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.”



“What then?”



“Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his

immediate return.” Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against

the gate.



“Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come

through Madame de Villefort.”



“Why not?”



“Because—I scarcely know why—but it has appeared as if Madame de

Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not

choose openly to oppose it.”



“Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.”



“Do not be in such a hurry to do that,” said Valentine, with a sad

smile.



“If she objects to your marrying M. d’Épinay, she would be all the more

likely to listen to any other proposition.”



“No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort

objects, it is marriage itself.”



“Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry

herself?”



“You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of

retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks

which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the

proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was

only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the

project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye

when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I

had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my

resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on

me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his

lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such

remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I

exclaimed,—‘Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may

do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had ceased

speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering

a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my

grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for all.”



“Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know

what I—sabring right and left among the Bedouins—can have done to merit

your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, Heaven took into

consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But

tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining

unmarried?”



“Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian—too rich? I

possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and

my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran, will leave me

as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My

brother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore,

be poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this

fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his

son.”



“Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should

be so avaricious.”



“It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you

regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of

maternal love.”



“But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your

fortune to her son?”



“How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always

professes to be so entirely disinterested?”



“Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something

sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and

hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even

my sister, is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to

make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?”



Valentine started. “A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I

tremble to give my permission.”



“Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for anyone that sudden

and irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it

had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the

first time you had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to

recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse,

and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits

must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior

to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of

the past?”



“Yes.”



“Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first

saw that extraordinary man.”



“Extraordinary, did you say?”



“Yes.”



“You have known him for some time, then?”



“Scarcely longer than eight or ten days.”



“And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight

or ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the

title of friend.”



“Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can

never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession

of my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be

associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me,

and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to

come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according

to his own will.”



“He must be a prophet, then,” said Valentine, smiling.



“Indeed,” said Maximilian, “I have often been almost tempted to

attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a

wonderful power of foretelling any future good.”



“Ah,” said Valentine in a mournful tone, “do let me see this man,

Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently

to make amends for all I have suffered.”



“My poor girl, you know him already.”



“I know him?”



“Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son.”



“The Trial?”



“The same.”



“Ah,” cried Valentine, “he is too much the friend of Madame de

Villefort ever to be mine.”



“The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine,

you are mistaken?”



“No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household

is almost unlimited. Courted by my step-mother, who regards him as the

epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never

before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by

Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the count’s large black eyes,

runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he

is sure to find some delightful present,—M. de The Trial appears to

exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the

members of our family.”



“If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt,

or at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence. He meets

Albert de Morcerf in Italy—it is to rescue him from the hands of the

banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars—it is that he may

give her a royal present; your step-mother and her son pass before his

door—it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man

evidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards

men and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to greater

magnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget

it ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever

looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you

will be happy.”



“Me?” said the young girl, “he never even glances at me; on the

contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid

me. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural

penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have

perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me

sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and

since, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart

with one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how

do you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like

you, with a fierce moustache and a long sabre, but they think they may

crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.”



“Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken.”



“If it were otherwise—if he treated me diplomatically—that is to say,

like a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in

the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its

occupants—he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the

smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he

understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no

attention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame

de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in

his power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any

reason. Ah, forgive me,” said Valentine, perceiving the effect which

her words were producing on Maximilian: “I have done wrong, for I have

given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even

know existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you

speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has

been productive of evil rather than good.”



“Well, Valentine,” said Morrel with a sigh, “we will not discuss the

matter further. I will not make a confidant of him.”



“Alas!” said Valentine, “I see that I have given you pain. I can only

say how sincerely I ask pardon for having grieved you. But, indeed, I

am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this

Count of The Trial has done for you.”



30157m







“I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say

that the count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have

already told you, I have an instinctive affection for him, the source

of which I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No;

he warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see

you—nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No;

its odor charms one of my senses—that is all I can say when I am asked

why I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable

as his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be

something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of

friendship. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret

thoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me

when I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have

involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which has

befallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty

years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a

little to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on

Saturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do. Well, what have

I learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming

to this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future

advantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be

no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some

hidden plot in the arrangement—something, in fact, more than is

apparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular

man, who appears to fathom the motives of everyone, has purposely

arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I

confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he

was in possession of the secret of our love.”



“My good friend,” said Valentine, “I should take you for a visionary,

and should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk

in a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything

more than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My

father, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of

refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is

burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own

house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father

to accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian,—there is no

one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my

grandfather, who is little better than a corpse—no support to cling to

but my mother in heaven!”



“I see that you are right, logically speaking,” said Maximilian; “but

the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince

me today.”



“I feel the same as regards yourself.” said Valentine; “and I own that,

if you have no stronger proof to give me——”



“I have another,” replied Maximilian; “but I fear you will deem it even

more absurd than the first.”



“So much the worse,” said Valentine, smiling.



“It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service

have also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for

I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which

directed me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in

order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side,

while it left me unharmed.”



“Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers

for your safety? When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but

for you.”



30159m







“Yes, since you have known me,” said Morrel, smiling; “but that cannot

apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine.”



“You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but

let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd.”



“Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new

horse which I rode here.”



“Ah! what a beautiful creature!” cried Valentine; “why did you not

bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?”



“He is, as you see, a very valuable animal,” said Maximilian. “You know

that my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man

of moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer’s, where I saw

this magnificent horse, which I have named Médéah. I asked the price;

they told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it

up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy

heart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his

head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most

delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with

him. The same evening some friends of mine visited me,—M. de

Château-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom

you do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of _bouillotte_. I

never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently

poor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so

there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did.



“Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de The Trial arrived.

He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost

ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at

midnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and

drove to the horse dealer’s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door.

The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed

at once to the stable. Médéah was standing at the rack, eating his hay.

I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent

himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs

into the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my

intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs-Élysées. As I

rode by the count’s house I perceived a light in one of the windows,

and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain.

Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess

this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of

procuring him.”



“My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love

even me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of

poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common,

every-day sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do

you hear?”



“Ah, Valentine,” said Maximilian, “give me but one finger through this

opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I

may have the happiness of kissing it.”



“Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two

shadows.”



“As you will, Valentine.”



“Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?”



“Oh, yes!”



Valentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her

whole hand through the opening. Maximilian uttered a cry of delight,

and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and

imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss. The little hand was

then immediately withdrawn, and the young man saw Valentine hurrying

towards the house, as though she were almost terrified at her own

sensations.







 Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort



We will now relate what was passing in the house of the king’s attorney

after the departure of Madame Danglars and her daughter, and during the

time of the conversation between Maximilian and Valentine, which we

have just detailed.



M. de Villefort entered his father’s room, followed by Madame de

Villefort. Both of the visitors, after saluting the old man and

speaking to Barrois, a faithful servant, who had been twenty-five years

in his service, took their places on either side of the paralytic.



M. Noirtier was sitting in an armchair, which moved upon casters, in

which he was wheeled into the room in the morning, and in the same way

drawn out again at night. He was placed before a large glass, which

reflected the whole apartment, and so, without any attempt to move,

which would have been impossible, he could see all who entered the room

and everything which was going on around him. M. Noirtier, although

almost as immovable as a corpse, looked at the new-comers with a quick

and intelligent expression, perceiving at once, by their ceremonious

courtesy, that they were come on business of an unexpected and official

character.



Sight and hearing were the only senses remaining, and they, like two

solitary sparks, remained to animate the miserable body which seemed

fit for nothing but the grave; it was only, however, by means of one of

these senses that he could reveal the thoughts and feelings that still

occupied his mind, and the look by which he gave expression to his

inner life was like the distant gleam of a candle which a traveller

sees by night across some desert place, and knows that a living being

dwells beyond the silence and obscurity.



Noirtier’s hair was long and white, and flowed over his shoulders;

while in his eyes, shaded by thick black lashes, was concentrated, as

it often happens with an organ which is used to the exclusion of the

others, all the activity, address, force, and intelligence which were

formerly diffused over his whole body; and so although the movement of

the arm, the sound of the voice, and the agility of the body, were

wanting, the speaking eye sufficed for all. He commanded with it; it

was the medium through which his thanks were conveyed. In short, his

whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with

living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the

expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the

rest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the

power of participation. Three persons only could understand this

language of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and

the old servant of whom we have already spoken. But as Villefort saw

his father but seldom, and then only when absolutely obliged, and as he

never took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all

the old man’s happiness was centred in his granddaughter. Valentine, by

means of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned to read

in Noirtier’s look all the varied feelings which were passing in his

mind. To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to others, she

answered by throwing her whole soul into the expression of her

countenance, and in this manner were the conversations sustained

between the blooming girl and the helpless invalid, whose body could

scarcely be called a living one, but who, nevertheless, possessed a

fund of knowledge and penetration, united with a will as powerful as

ever although clogged by a body rendered utterly incapable of obeying

its impulses.



Valentine had solved the problem, and was able easily to understand his

thoughts, and to convey her own in return, and, through her untiring

and devoted assiduity, it was seldom that, in the ordinary transactions

of every-day life, she failed to anticipate the wishes of the living,

thinking mind, or the wants of the almost inanimate body.



As to the servant, he had, as we have said, been with his master for

five-and-twenty years, therefore he knew all his habits, and it was

seldom that Noirtier found it necessary to ask for anything, so prompt

was he in administering to all the necessities of the invalid.



Villefort did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in

order to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was

about to begin. As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man’s

vocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only

indifference and _ennui_ which prevented him from so doing. He

therefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois,

and after having seated himself at his father’s right hand, while

Madame de Villefort placed herself on the left, he addressed him thus:



“I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come

with us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one

which could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either.

Madame de Villefort and I have a communication to make to you.”



Noirtier’s face remained perfectly passive during this long preamble,

while, on the contrary, Villefort’s eye was endeavoring to penetrate

into the inmost recesses of the old man’s heart.



“This communication,” continued the procureur, in that cold and

decisive tone which seemed at once to preclude all discussion, “will,

we are sure, meet with your approbation.”



The eye of the invalid still retained that vacancy of expression which

prevented his son from obtaining any knowledge of the feelings which

were passing in his mind; he listened, nothing more.



“Sir,” resumed Villefort, “we are thinking of marrying Valentine.” Had

the old man’s face been moulded in wax it could not have shown less

emotion at this news than was now to be traced there. “The marriage

will take place in less than three months,” said Villefort.



Noirtier’s eye still retained its inanimate expression.



Madame de Villefort now took her part in the conversation and added:



“We thought this news would possess an interest for you, sir, who have

always entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only

now remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she

is destined. It is one of the most desirable connections which could

possibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and

every personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely

happy,—his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you. It is M.

Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Épinay.”



While his wife was speaking, Villefort had narrowly watched the old

man’s countenance. When Madame de Villefort pronounced the name of

Franz, the pupil of M. Noirtier’s eye began to dilate, and his eyelids

trembled with the same movement that may be perceived on the lips of an

individual about to speak, and he darted a lightning glance at Madame

de Villefort and his son. The procureur, who knew the political hatred

which had formerly existed between M. Noirtier and the elder d’Épinay,

well understood the agitation and anger which the announcement had

produced; but, feigning not to perceive either, he immediately resumed

the narrative begun by his wife.



“Sir,” said he, “you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her

nineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no

time in forming a suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you have not been

forgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that

Valentine’s future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for

that might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should

live with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each

other, would not be separated, and you would be able to pursue exactly

the same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead

of losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you

two children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you.”



30165m







Noirtier’s look was furious; it was very evident that something

desperate was passing in the old man’s mind, for a cry of anger and

grief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance,

appeared almost to choke him, for his face and lips turned quite purple

with the struggle. Villefort quietly opened a window, saying, “It is

very warm, and the heat affects M. Noirtier.” He then returned to his

place, but did not sit down.



“This marriage,” added Madame de Villefort, “is quite agreeable to the

wishes of M. d’Épinay and his family; besides, he had no relations

nearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and

his father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he

was but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was

permitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom

acknowledged any other authority but that of his own will.”



“That assassination was a mysterious affair,” said Villefort, “and the

perpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has

fallen on the head of more than one person.”



Noirtier made such an effort that his lips expanded into a smile.



“Now,” continued Villefort, “those to whom the guilt really belongs, by

whom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may

probably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would

rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a

peace-offering as Valentine on the son of him whose life they so

ruthlessly destroyed.” Noirtier had succeeded in mastering his emotion

more than could have been deemed possible with such an enfeebled and

shattered frame.



“Yes, I understand,” was the reply contained in his look; and this look

expressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound

contempt. Villefort fully understood his father’s meaning, and answered

by a slight shrug of his shoulders. He then motioned to his wife to

take leave.



“Now sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “I must bid you farewell. Would

you like me to send Edward to you for a short time?”



It had been agreed that the old man should express his approbation by

closing his eyes, his refusal by winking them several times, and if he

had some desire or feeling to express, he raised them to heaven. If he

wanted Valentine, he closed his right eye only, and if Barrois, the

left. At Madame de Villefort’s proposition he instantly winked his

eyes.



Provoked by a complete refusal, she bit her lip and said, “Then shall I

send Valentine to you?” The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby

intimating that such was his wish.



M. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the room, giving orders that

Valentine should be summoned to her grandfather’s presence, and feeling

sure that she would have much to do to restore calmness to the

perturbed spirit of the invalid. Valentine, with a color still

heightened by emotion, entered the room just after her parents had

quitted it. One look was sufficient to tell her that her grandfather

was suffering, and that there was much on his mind which he was wishing

to communicate to her.



“Dear grandpapa,” cried she, “what has happened? They have vexed you,

and you are angry?”



The paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent.



“Who has displeased you? Is it my father?”



“No.”



“Madame de Villefort?”



“No.”



“Me?” The former sign was repeated.



“Are you displeased with me?” cried Valentine in astonishment. M.

Noirtier again closed his eyes.



“And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with

me?” cried Valentine.



There was no answer, and she continued:



“I have not seen you all day. Has anyone been speaking to you against

me?”



“Yes,” said the old man’s look, with eagerness.



“Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa—Ah—M. and Madame de

Villefort have just left this room, have they not?”



“Yes.”



“And it was they who told you something which made you angry? What was

it then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of

making my peace with you?”



“No, no,” said Noirtier’s look.



“Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said?” and she again tried to

think what it could be.



“Ah, I know,” said she, lowering her voice and going close to the old

man. “They have been speaking of my marriage,—have they not?”



“Yes,” replied the angry look.



“I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on

the subject. The reason of it was, that they had insisted on my keeping

the matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it. They

did not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered

them by chance, that is why I have been so reserved with you, dear

grandpapa. Pray forgive me.”



But there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to say

was, “It is not only your reserve which afflicts me.”



“What is it, then?” asked the young girl. “Perhaps you think I shall

abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when I am

married?”



“No.”



“They told you, then, that M. d’Épinay consented to our all living

together?”



“Yes.”



“Then why are you still vexed and grieved?” The old man’s eyes beamed

with an expression of gentle affection.



“Yes, I understand,” said Valentine; “it is because you love me.” The

old man assented.



“And you are afraid I shall be unhappy?”



“Yes.”



“You do not like M. Franz?” The eyes repeated several times, “No, no,

no.”



“Then you are vexed with the engagement?”



“Yes.”



“Well, listen,” said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees, and

putting her arm round her grandfather’s neck, “I am vexed, too, for I

do not love M. Franz d’Épinay.”



An expression of intense joy illumined the old man’s eyes.



“When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you

were with me?” A tear trembled in the eye of the invalid. “Well,”

continued Valentine, “the reason of my proposing it was that I might

escape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair.” Noirtier’s

breathing came thick and short.



“Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah, if you

could but help me—if we could both together defeat their plan! But you

are unable to oppose them,—you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will

is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am

myself. Alas, you, who would have been such a powerful protector to me

in the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my

joys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them.

However, this is much, and calls for gratitude and Heaven has not taken

away all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness.”



At these words there appeared in Noirtier’s eye an expression of such

deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words

there: “You are mistaken; I can still do much for you.”



“Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine.



“Yes.” Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on between him

and Valentine when he wanted anything.



“What is it you want, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine, and she

endeavored to recall to mind all the things which he would be likely to

need; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind, she repeated

them aloud, then,—finding that all her efforts elicited nothing but a

constant _“No,”_—she said, “Come, since this plan does not answer, I

will have recourse to another.”



She then recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N. When

she arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she

had spoken the initial letter of the thing he wanted.



“Ah,” said Valentine, “the thing you desire begins with the letter N;

it is with N that we have to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you

want that begins with N? Na—Ne—Ni—No——”



“Yes, yes, yes,” said the old man’s eye.



“Ah, it is No, then?”



“Yes.”



Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a desk before

Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing that the old man’s eye was

thoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly up and down

the columns. During the six years which had passed since Noirtier first

fell into this sad state, Valentine’s powers of invention had been too

often put to the test not to render her expert in devising expedients

for gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and the constant practice had so

perfected her in the art that she guessed the old man’s meaning as

quickly as if he himself had been able to seek for what he wanted. At

the word _Notary_, Noirtier made a sign to her to stop.



30169m







“Notary,” said she, “do you want a notary, dear grandpapa?” The old man

again signified that it was a notary he desired.



“You would wish a notary to be sent for then?” said Valentine.



“Yes.”



“Shall my father be informed of your wish?”



“Yes.”



“Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately?”



“Yes.”



“Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that all you

want?”



“Yes.” Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell

Monsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to M.

Noirtier’s room.



“Are you satisfied now?” inquired Valentine.



“Yes.”



“I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that.” And the

young girl smiled on her grandfather, as if he had been a child. M. de

Villefort entered, followed by Barrois.



“What do you want me for, sir?” demanded he of the paralytic.



“Sir,” said Valentine, “my grandfather wishes for a notary.” At this

strange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father exchanged

looks.



“Yes,” motioned the latter, with a firmness which seemed to declare

that with the help of Valentine and his old servant, who both knew what

his wishes were, he was quite prepared to maintain the contest.



“Do you wish for a notary?” asked Villefort.



“Yes.”



“What to do?”



Noirtier made no answer.



“What do you want with a notary?” again repeated Villefort. The

invalid’s eye remained fixed, by which expression he intended to

intimate that his resolution was unalterable.



“Is it to do us some ill turn? Do you think it is worth while?” said

Villefort.



“Still,” said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old servant,

“if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he really wishes for a

notary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one.” Barrois

acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his desires in

any way to be contradicted.



30171m







“Yes, I do want a notary,” motioned the old man, shutting his eyes with

a look of defiance, which seemed to say, “and I should like to see the

person who dares to refuse my request.”



“You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir,” said

Villefort; “but I shall explain to him your state of health, and make

excuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most ridiculous

one.”



“Never mind that,” said Barrois; “I shall go and fetch a notary,

nevertheless.” And the old servant departed triumphantly on his

mission.







 Chapter 59. The Will



As soon as Barrois had left the room, Noirtier looked at Valentine with

a malicious expression that said many things. The young girl perfectly

understood the look, and so did Villefort, for his countenance became

clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows angrily. He took a seat, and

quietly awaited the arrival of the notary. Noirtier saw him seat

himself with an appearance of perfect indifference, at the same time

giving a side look at Valentine, which made her understand that she

also was to remain in the room. Three-quarters of an hour after,

Barrois returned, bringing the notary with him.



“Sir,” said Villefort, after the first salutations were over, “you were

sent for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here. All his limbs have become

completely paralysed, he has lost his voice also, and we ourselves find

much trouble in endeavoring to catch some fragments of his meaning.”



Noirtier cast an appealing look on Valentine, which look was at once so

earnest and imperative, that she answered immediately.



“Sir,” said she, “I perfectly understand my grandfather’s meaning at

all times.”



“That is quite true,” said Barrois; “and that is what I told the

gentleman as we walked along.”



“Permit me,” said the notary, turning first to Villefort and then to

Valentine—“permit me to state that the case in question is just one of

those in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act

without thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility. The first thing

necessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should be

thoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and

wishes of the person dictating the act. Now I cannot be sure of the

approbation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the

object of his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me,

on account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite

useless, and cannot be legally exercised.”



The notary then prepared to retire. An imperceptible smile of triumph

was expressed on the lips of the procureur. Noirtier looked at

Valentine with an expression so full of grief, that she arrested the

departure of the notary.



“Sir,” said she, “the language which I speak with my grandfather may be

easily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it

almost as well as I can myself. Will you tell me what you require, in

order to set your conscience quite at ease on the subject?”



“In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation

or disapprobation of my client. Illness of body would not affect the

validity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite.”



“Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you

presently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather

is still in the full possession of all his mental faculties. M.

Noirtier, being deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey

his meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to signify ‘yes,’ and to

wink when he means ‘no.’ You now know quite enough to enable you to

converse with M. Noirtier;—try.”



Noirtier gave Valentine such a look of tenderness and gratitude that it

was comprehended even by the notary himself.



“You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying,

sir, have you?” asked the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes.



“And you approve of what she said—that is to say, you declare that the

signs which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are

accustomed to convey your thoughts?”



“Yes.”



“It was you who sent for me?”



“Yes.”



“To make your will?”



“Yes.”



“And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original

intentions?” The old man winked violently.



“Well, sir,” said the young girl, “do you understand now, and is your

conscience perfectly at rest on the subject?”



But before the notary could answer, Villefort had drawn him aside.



“Sir,” said he, “do you suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a

physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment

to his mental faculties?”



“It is not exactly that, sir,” said the notary, “which makes me uneasy,

but the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so

as to be able to get his answers.”



“You must see that to be an utter impossibility,” said Villefort.

Valentine and the old man heard this conversation, and Noirtier fixed

his eye so earnestly on Valentine that she felt bound to answer to the

look.



“Sir,” said she, “that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it

may at first sight appear to be. I can discover and explain to you my

grandfather’s thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and

fears on the subject. I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and

let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a

thought which he was unable to make me understand.”



“No,” signed the old man.



“Let us try what we can do, then,” said the notary. “You accept this

young lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?”



“Yes.”



“Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you

wish to be drawn up?”



Valentine named all the letters of the alphabet until she came to W. At

this letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her notice that she was

to stop.



“It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants,”

said the notary.



“Wait,” said Valentine; and, turning to her grandfather, she repeated,

“Wa—We—Wi——” The old man stopped her at the last syllable. Valentine

then took the dictionary, and the notary watched her while she turned

over the pages.



She passed her finger slowly down the columns, and when she came to the

word “Will,” M. Noirtier’s eye bade her stop.



“Will,” said the notary; “it is very evident that M. Noirtier is

desirous of making his will.”



“Yes, yes, yes,” motioned the invalid.



“Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary,” said the

astonished notary, turning to M. de Villefort.



“Yes,” said the procureur, “and I think the will promises to be yet

more extraordinary, for I cannot see how it is to be drawn up without

the intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as

too much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable

interpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes of her grandfather.”



“No, no, no,” replied the eye of the paralytic.



“What?” said Villefort, “do you mean to say that Valentine is not

interested in your will?”



“No.”



“Sir,” said the notary, whose interest had been greatly excited, and

who had resolved on publishing far and wide the account of this

extraordinary and picturesque scene, “what appeared so impossible to me

an hour ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be

a perfectly valid will, provided it be read in the presence of seven

witnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the

presence of the witnesses. As to the time, it will not require very

much more than the generality of wills. There are certain forms

necessary to be gone through, and which are always the same. As to the

details, the greater part will be furnished afterwards by the state in

which we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having

had the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the

subject. But besides all this, in order that the instrument may not be

contested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity,

therefore, one of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom,

will assist in the dictation of the testament. Are you satisfied, sir?”

continued the notary, addressing the old man.



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“Yes,” looked the invalid, his eye beaming with delight at the ready

interpretation of his meaning.



“What is he going to do?” thought Villefort, whose position demanded

much reserve, but who was longing to know what his father’s intentions

were. He left the room to give orders for another notary to be sent,

but Barrois, who had heard all that passed, had guessed his master’s

wishes, and had already gone to fetch one. The procureur then told his

wife to come up. In the course of a quarter of an hour everyone had

assembled in the chamber of the paralytic; the second notary had also

arrived.



A few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between the two

officers of the law. They read to Noirtier the formal copy of a will,

in order to give him an idea of the terms in which such documents are

generally couched; then, in order to test the capacity of the testator,

the first notary said, turning towards him:



“When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in

prejudice of some person.”



“Yes.”



“Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune?”



“Yes.”



“I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you

will stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own

possessions?”



“Yes.”



There was a kind of solemnity in this interrogation. Never had the

struggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it

was not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle. They had

formed a circle round the invalid; the second notary was sitting at a

table, prepared for writing, and his colleague was standing before the

testator in the act of interrogating him on the subject to which we

have alluded.



“Your fortune exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?” asked he. Noirtier

made a sign that it did.



“Do you possess 400,000 francs?” inquired the notary. Noirtier’s eye

remained immovable.



“500,000?” The same expression continued.



“600,000—700,000—800,000—900,000?”



Noirtier stopped him at the last-named sum.



“You are then in possession of 900,000 francs?” asked the notary.



“Yes.”



“In landed property?”



“No.”



“In stock?”



“Yes.”



“The stock is in your own hands?”



The look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois showed that there was

something wanting which he knew where to find. The old servant left the

room, and presently returned, bringing with him a small casket.



“Do you permit us to open this casket?” asked the notary. Noirtier gave

his assent.



They opened it, and found 900,000 francs in bank scrip. The first

notary handed over each note, as he examined it, to his colleague.



The total amount was found to be as M. Noirtier had stated.



“It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the mind still

retains its full force and vigor.” Then, turning towards the paralytic,

he said, “You possess, then, 900,000 francs of capital, which,

according to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring

in an income of about 40,000 livres?”



“Yes.”



“To whom do you desire to leave this fortune?”



“Oh!” said Madame de Villefort, “there is not much doubt on that

subject. M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de

Villefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and

has, by her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had

almost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is but just that

she should reap the fruit of her devotion.”



The eye of Noirtier clearly showed by its expression that he was not

deceived by the false assent given by Madame de Villefort’s words and

manner to the motives which she supposed him to entertain.



“Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave

these 900,000 francs?” demanded the notary, thinking he had only to

insert this clause, but waiting first for the assent of Noirtier, which

it was necessary should be given before all the witnesses of this

singular scene.



Valentine, when her name was made the subject of discussion, had

stepped back, to escape unpleasant observation; her eyes were cast

down, and she was crying. The old man looked at her for an instant with

an expression of the deepest tenderness, then, turning towards the

notary, he significantly winked his eye in token of dissent.



“What,” said the notary, “do you not intend making Mademoiselle

Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?”



“No.”



“You are not making any mistake, are you?” said the notary; “you really

mean to declare that such is not your intention?”



“No,” repeated Noirtier; “No.”



Valentine raised her head, struck dumb with astonishment. It was not so

much the conviction that she was disinherited that caused her grief,

but her total inability to account for the feelings which had provoked

her grandfather to such an act. But Noirtier looked at her with so much

affectionate tenderness that she exclaimed:



“Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you

deprive me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed.”



“Ah, yes, most assuredly,” said the eyes of the paralytic, for he

closed them with an expression which Valentine could not mistake.



“Thank you, thank you,” murmured she. The old man’s declaration that

Valentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had excited the

hopes of Madame de Villefort; she gradually approached the invalid, and

said:



“Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to

your grandson, Edward de Villefort?”



The winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and

terrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.



“No?” said the notary; “then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de

Villefort?”



“No.” The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and

inquiry as to what were the real intentions of the testator. Villefort

and his wife both grew red, one from shame, the other from anger.



“What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine; “you no

longer seem to love any of us?”



The old man’s eyes passed rapidly from Villefort and his wife, and

rested on Valentine with a look of unutterable fondness.



“Well,” said she; “if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love

to bear upon your actions at this present moment. You know me well

enough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune;

besides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother—too rich,

even. Explain yourself, then.”



Noirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine’s hand.



“My hand?” said she.



“Yes.”



“Her hand!” exclaimed everyone.



“Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father’s mind is

really impaired,” said Villefort.



“Ah,” cried Valentine suddenly, “I understand. It is my marriage you

mean, is it not, dear grandpapa?”



“Yes, yes, yes,” signed the paralytic, casting on Valentine a look of

joyful gratitude for having guessed his meaning.



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“You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?”



“Yes?”



“Really, this is too absurd,” said Villefort.



“Excuse me, sir,” replied the notary; “on the contrary, the meaning of

M. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I can quite easily connect the

train of ideas passing in his mind.”



“You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d’Épinay?” observed Valentine.



“I do not wish it,” said the eye of her grandfather.



“And you disinherit your granddaughter,” continued the notary, “because

she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?”



“Yes.”



“So that, but for this marriage, she would have been your heir?”



“Yes.”



There was a profound silence. The two notaries were holding a

consultation as to the best means of proceeding with the affair.

Valentine was looking at her grandfather with a smile of intense

gratitude, and Villefort was biting his lips with vexation, while

Madame de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an inward feeling

of joy, which, in spite of herself, appeared in her whole countenance.



“But,” said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence, “I

consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in

question. I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my

daughter’s hand. It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz

d’Épinay—and she shall marry him.”



Valentine sank weeping into a chair.



“Sir,” said the notary, “how do you intend disposing of your fortune in

case Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz?”

The old man gave no answer.



“You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other?”



“Yes.”



“In favor of some member of your family?”



“No.”



“Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?” pursued the

notary.



“Yes.”



“But,” said the notary, “you are aware that the law does not allow a

son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony?”



“Yes.”



“You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which

the law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son?”

Noirtier made no answer.



“Do you still wish to dispose of all?”



“Yes.”



“But they will contest the will after your death?”



“No.”



“My father knows me,” replied Villefort; “he is quite sure that his

wishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that in my

position I cannot plead against the poor.” The eye of Noirtier beamed

with triumph.



“What do you decide on, sir?” asked the notary of Villefort.



“Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know

he never alters his mind. I am quite resigned. These 900,000 francs

will go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is

ridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall,

therefore, act according to my conscience.”



Having said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his

father at liberty to do as he pleased. The same day the will was made,

the witnesses were brought, it was approved by the old man, sealed in

the presence of all and given in charge to M. Deschamps, the family

notary.







 Chapter 60. The Telegraph



M. and Madame de Villefort found on their return that the Count of

The Trial, who had come to visit them in their absence, had been

ushered into the drawing-room, and was still awaiting them there.

Madame de Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently recovered from her

late emotion to allow of her entertaining visitors so immediately,

retired to her bedroom, while the procureur, who could better depend

upon himself, proceeded at once to the salon.



Although M. de Villefort flattered himself that, to all outward view,

he had completely masked the feelings which were passing in his mind,

he did not know that the cloud was still lowering on his brow, so much

so that the count, whose smile was radiant, immediately noticed his

sombre and thoughtful air.



“_Ma foi!_” said The Trial, after the first compliments were over,

“what is the matter with you, M. de Villefort? Have I arrived at the

moment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime?”



Villefort tried to smile.



“No, count,” he replied, “I am the only victim in this case. It is I

who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have

caused it to be decided against me.”



“To what do you refer?” said The Trial with well-feigned interest.

“Have you really met with some great misfortune?”



“Oh, no, monsieur,” said Villefort with a bitter smile; “it is only a

loss of money which I have sustained—nothing worth mentioning, I assure

you.”



“True,” said The Trial, “the loss of a sum of money becomes almost

immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your

philosophic spirit.”



“It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me,” said

Villefort, “though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but

I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to

call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may

blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old

man relapsed into second childhood.”



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“What do you say?” said the count; “900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum

which might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of

all this annoyance?”



“My father, as I told you.”



“M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely

paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?”



“Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak,

nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described.

I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating

his will to two notaries.”



“But to do this he must have spoken?”



“He has done better than that—he has made himself understood.”



“How was such a thing possible?”



“By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you

perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.”



“My dear,” said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room,

“perhaps you exaggerate the evil.”



“Good-morning, madame,” said the count, bowing.







Madame de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with one of her most

gracious smiles.



“What is this that M. de Villefort has been telling me?” demanded Monte

Cristo “and what incomprehensible misfortune——”



“Incomprehensible is the word!” interrupted the procureur, shrugging

his shoulders. “It is an old man’s caprice!”



“And is there no means of making him revoke his decision?”



“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort; “and it is still entirely in the power

of my husband to cause the will, which is now in prejudice of

Valentine, to be altered in her favor.”



The count, who perceived that M. and Madame de Villefort were beginning

to speak in parables, appeared to pay no attention to the conversation,

and feigned to be busily engaged in watching Edward, who was

mischievously pouring some ink into the bird’s water-glass.



“My dear,” said Villefort, in answer to his wife, “you know I have

never been accustomed to play the patriarch in my family, nor have I

ever considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my

nod. Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in

my family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child

should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained

for so many years. The Baron d’Épinay was my friend, as you know, and

an alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly

be arranged.”



“Do you think,” said Madame de Villefort, “that Valentine is in league

with him? She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should

not be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing

but the execution of a plan concerted between them.”



“Madame,” said Villefort, “believe me, a fortune of 900,000 francs is

not so easily renounced.”



“She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir,

since it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a

convent.”



“Never mind,” replied Villefort; “I say that this marriage _shall_ be

consummated.”



“Notwithstanding your father’s wishes to the contrary?” said Madame de

Villefort, selecting a new point of attack. “That is a serious thing.”



The Trial, who pretended not to be listening, heard however, every

word that was said.



30185m







“Madame,” replied Villefort “I can truly say that I have always

entertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural

feeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral

superiority. The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be

reverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to

obey. But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting

the wisdom of an old man who, because he hated the father, vents his

anger on the son. It would be ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct

by such caprices. I shall still continue to preserve the same respect

toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary

deprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in my

determination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his

side. Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz

d’Épinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match

for her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my

daughter’s hand on whomever I please.”



“What?” said the count, the approbation of whose eye Villefort had

frequently solicited during this speech. “What? Do you say that M.

Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to

marry M. le Baron Franz d’Épinay?”



“Yes, sir, that is the reason,” said Villefort, shrugging his

shoulders.



“The apparent reason, at least,” said Madame de Villefort.



“The _real_ reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father.”



“But I want to know in what way M. d’Épinay can have displeased your

father more than any other person?”



“I believe I know M. Franz d’Épinay,” said the count; “is he not the

son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d’Épinay by Charles

X.?”



“The same,” said Villefort.



“Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas.”



“He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier

to prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in

their affection,” said Madame de Villefort.



“But,” said The Trial “do you not know any cause for this hatred?”



“Ah, _ma foi!_ who is to know?”



“Perhaps it is some political difference?”



“My father and the Baron d’Épinay lived in the stormy times of which I

only saw the ending,” said Villefort.



“Was not your father a Bonapartist?” asked The Trial; “I think I

remember that you told me something of that kind.”



“My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else,” said Villefort,

carried by his emotion beyond the bounds of prudence; “and the

senator’s robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to

disguise the old man without in any degree changing him. When my father

conspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for

M. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian

schemes which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities,

and he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible

theories of The Mountain,—theories that never shrank from any means

that were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result.”



“Well,” said The Trial, “it is just as I thought; it was politics

which brought Noirtier and M. d’Épinay into personal contact. Although

General d’Épinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain

royalist sentiments? And was he not the person who was assassinated one

evening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited

on the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor?”



Villefort looked at the count almost with terror.



“Am I mistaken, then?” said The Trial.



“No, sir, the facts were precisely what you have stated,” said Madame

de Villefort; “and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M.

de Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the

two children of these inveterate enemies.”



“It was a sublime and charitable thought,” said The Trial, “and the

whole world should applaud it. It would be noble to see Mademoiselle

Noirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d’Épinay.”



Villefort shuddered and looked at The Trial as if he wished to read

in his countenance the real feelings which had dictated the words he

had just uttered. But the count completely baffled the procureur, and

prevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile

he was so constantly in the habit of assuming.



“Although,” said Villefort, “it will be a serious thing for Valentine

to lose her grandfather’s fortune, I do not think that M. d’Épinay will

be frightened at this pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold me in

greater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice

everything in order to keep my word with him. Besides, he knows that

Valentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all

probability, inherit the fortune of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran, her

mother’s parents, who both love her tenderly.”



“And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier,”

said Madame de Villefort; “besides, they are to come to Paris in about

a month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not

consider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut

up with M. Noirtier.”



The count listened with satisfaction to this tale of wounded self-love

and defeated ambition.



“But it seems to me,” said The Trial, “and I must begin by asking

your pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits

Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose

father he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against

this dear Edward.”



“True,” said Madame de Villefort, with an intonation of voice which it

is impossible to describe; “is it not unjust—shamefully unjust? Poor

Edward is as much M. Noirtier’s grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if

she had not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left

her all his money; and supposing Valentine to be disinherited by her

grandfather, she will still be three times richer than he.”



The count listened and said no more.



“Count,” said Villefort, “we will not entertain you any longer with our

family misfortunes. It is true that my patrimony will go to endow

charitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my

lawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have

the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like a man of sense and

feeling. M. d’Épinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum,

shall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations.”



“However,” said Madame de Villefort, returning to the one idea which

incessantly occupied her mind, “perhaps it would be better to explain

this unlucky affair to M. d’Épinay, in order to give him the

opportunity of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle

de Villefort.”



“Ah, that would be a great pity,” said Villefort.



“A great pity,” said The Trial.



“Undoubtedly,” said Villefort, moderating the tones of his voice, “a

marriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit

on a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to

put an end to, will instantly gain ground. No, it will all go well; M.

d’Épinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than

ever pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a

decided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible.”



“I agree with M. de Villefort,” said The Trial, fixing his eyes on

Madame de Villefort; “and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to

allow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told

M. d’Épinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all

possibility of revocation. I will answer for the success of a project

which will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort.”



The procureur arose, delighted with the proposition, but his wife

slightly changed color.



“Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor

such as you are,” said he, extending his hand to The Trial.

“Therefore let everyone here look upon what has passed today as if it

had not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as

a change in our original plans.”



“Sir,” said the count, “the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased

with your resolution; your friends will be proud of you, and M.

d’Épinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry,

which he will not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a

family which could make such sacrifices in order to keep a promise and

fulfil a duty.”



At the conclusion of these words, the count rose to depart.



“Are you going to leave us, count?” said Madame de Villefort.



“I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of

your promise for Saturday.”



“Did you fear that we should forget it?”



“You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important

and urgent occupations.”



“My husband has given me his word, sir,” said Madame de Villefort; “you

have just seen him resolve to keep it when he has everything to lose,

and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has

everything to gain.”



“And,” said Villefort, “is it at your house in the Champs-Élysées that

you receive your visitors?”



“No,” said The Trial, “which is precisely the reason which renders

your kindness more meritorious,—it is in the country.”



“In the country?”



“Yes.”



“Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not?”



“Very near, only half a league from the Barriers,—it is at Auteuil.”



“At Auteuil?” said Villefort; “true, Madame de Villefort told me you

lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in

what part of Auteuil do you reside?”



“Rue de la Fontaine.”



“Rue de la Fontaine!” exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; “at what

number?”



“No. 28.”



“Then,” cried Villefort, “was it you who bought M. de Saint-Méran’s

house!”



“Did it belong to M. de Saint-Méran?” demanded The Trial.



“Yes,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and, would you believe it,

count——”



“Believe what?”



“You think this house pretty, do you not?”



“I think it charming.”



“Well, my husband would never live in it.”



“Indeed?” returned The Trial, “that is a prejudice on your part, M.

de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account.”



“I do not like Auteuil, sir,” said the procureur, making an evident

effort to appear calm.



“But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me

of the pleasure of your company, sir,” said The Trial.



“No, count,—I hope—I assure you I shall do my best,” stammered

Villefort.



“Oh,” said The Trial, “I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six

o’clock. I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall

think—for how do I know to the contrary?—that this house, which has

remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition

or dreadful legend connected with it.”



“I will come, count,—I will be sure to come,” said Villefort eagerly.



“Thank you,” said The Trial; “now you must permit me to take my

leave of you.”



“You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur,” said

Madame de Villefort, “and you were about to tell us why when your

attention was called to some other subject.”



“Indeed madame,” said The Trial: “I scarcely know if I dare tell you

where I am going.”



“Nonsense; say on.”



“Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for

hours together.”



“What is it?”



“A telegraph. So now I have told my secret.”



“A telegraph?” repeated Madame de Villefort.



“Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on

a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every

direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I

assure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could

not help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should

be made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the

distance of three hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting

at a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at

the opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of

volition on the part of the sender of the message. I began to think of

genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult

sciences, until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination.

Now, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these

large insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find

under their stone wings some little human genius fagged to death with

cabals, factions, and government intrigues. But one fine day I learned

that the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for

twelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the

heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler,

or even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him,

but all his monotonous life was passed in watching his white-bellied,

black-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him. At

length I felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and

to endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors

when they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of

string.”



30191m







“And are you going there?”



“I am.”



“What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or

of the observatory?”



“Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand

things of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to

explain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not

understand. _Ma foi!_ I should wish to keep my illusions concerning

insects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I

had formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, not visit either

of these telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a

good-natured simpleton, who knows no more than the machine he is

employed to work.”



“You are a singular man,” said Villefort.



“What line would you advise me to study?”



“The one that is most in use just at this time.”



“The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?”



“Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain

to you——”



“No,” said The Trial; “since, as I told you before, I do not wish to

comprehend it. The moment I understand it there will no longer exist a

telegraph for me; it will be nothing more than a sign from M. Duchâtel,

or from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified

by two Greek words, _têle_, _graphein_. It is the insect with black

claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in

all its purity and all its importance.”



“Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will

not be able to see anything.”



“_Ma foi!_ you frighten me. Which is the nearest way? Bayonne?”



“Yes; the road to Bayonne.”



“And afterwards the road to Châtillon?”



“Yes.”



“By the tower of Montlhéry, you mean?”



“Yes.”



“Thank you. Good-bye. On Saturday I will tell you my impressions

concerning the telegraph.”



At the door the count was met by the two notaries, who had just

completed the act which was to disinherit Valentine, and who were

leaving under the conviction of having done a thing which could not

fail of redounding considerably to their credit.







 Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice that Eat His

 Peaches



Not on the same night as he had stated, but the next morning, the Count

of The Trial went out by the Barrière d’Enfer, taking the road to

Orléans. Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the

telegraph, which flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count

reached the tower of Montlhéry, situated, as everyone knows, upon the

highest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the

count dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about

eighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself

stopped by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and

white flowers.



The Trial looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long

in finding a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened

with a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate

opened, and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet

long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, which

contained the ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the

other by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers.



No one would have thought in looking at this old, weather-beaten,

floral-decked tower (which might be likened to an elderly dame dressed

up to receive her grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have

been capable of telling strange things, if,—in addition to the menacing

ears which the proverb says all walls are provided with,—it had also a

voice.



The garden was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of

thick box, of many years’ growth, and of a tone and color that would

have delighted the heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was

formed in the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a

walk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty.



Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been

honored with a purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was

paid to her in this little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees

which formed the _parterre_, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor

were there evidences anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so

destructive to plants growing in a damp soil. And yet it was not

because the damp had been excluded from the garden; the earth, black as

soot, the thick foliage of the trees betrayed its presence; besides,

had natural humidity been wanting, it could have been immediately

supplied by artificial means, thanks to a tank of water, sunk in one of

the corners of the garden, and upon which were stationed a frog and a

toad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always remained on the two

opposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of grass to be seen

in the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained

and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, in her

porcelain _jardinière_ with more pains than this hitherto unseen

gardener bestowed upon his little enclosure.



The Trial stopped after having closed the gate and fastened the

string to the nail, and cast a look around.



“The man at the telegraph,” said he, “must either engage a gardener or

devote himself passionately to agriculture.”



Suddenly he struck against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow

filled with leaves; the something rose, uttering an exclamation of

astonishment, and The Trial found himself facing a man about fifty

years old, who was plucking strawberries, which he was placing upon

grape leaves. He had twelve leaves and about as many strawberries,

which, on rising suddenly, he let fall from his hand.



“You are gathering your crop, sir?” said The Trial, smiling.



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“Excuse me, sir,” replied the man, raising his hand to his cap; “I am

not up there, I know, but I have only just come down.”



“Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend,” said the

count; “gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left.”



“I have ten left,” said the man, “for here are eleven, and I had

twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the

spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir.

This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have

this year, you see, eleven, already plucked—twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here

last night, sir—I am sure they were here—I counted them. It must be the

son of Mère Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here

this morning. Ah, the young rascal—stealing in a garden—he does not

know where that may lead him to.”



“Certainly, it is wrong,” said The Trial, “but you should take into

consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent.”



“Of course,” said the gardener, “but that does not make it the less

unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps you are an

officer that I am detaining here.” And he glanced timidly at the

count’s blue coat.



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“Calm yourself, my friend,” said the count, with the smile which he

made at will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed

only the kindliest feeling; “I am not an inspector, but a traveller,

brought here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to

lose your time.”



“Ah, my time is not valuable,” replied the man with a melancholy smile.

“Still it belongs to government, and I ought not to waste it; but,

having received the signal that I might rest for an hour” (here he

glanced at the sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure of

Montlhéry, even a sun-dial), “and having ten minutes before me, and my

strawberries being ripe, when a day longer—by-the-by, sir, do you think

dormice eat them?”



“Indeed, I should think not,” replied The Trial; “dormice are bad

neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did.”



“What? Did the Romans eat them?” said the gardener—“ate dormice?”



“I have read so in Petronius,” said the count.



“Really? They can’t be nice, though they do say ‘as fat as a dormouse.’

It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, and only waking to

eat all night. Listen. Last year I had four apricots—they stole one, I

had one nectarine, only one—well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall;

a splendid nectarine—I never ate a better.”



“You ate it?”



“That is to say, the half that was left—you understand; it was

exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels;

like Mère Simon’s son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But

this year,” continued the horticulturist, “I’ll take care it shall not

happen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch

when the strawberries are ripe.”



The Trial had seen enough. Every man has a devouring passion in his

heart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph man was

horticulture. He began gathering the grape-leaves which screened the

sun from the grapes, and won the heart of the gardener.



“Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?” he said.



“Yes, if it isn’t contrary to the rules.”



“Oh, no,” said the gardener; “not in the least, since there is no

danger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying.”



“I have been told,” said the count, “that you do not always yourselves

understand the signals you repeat.”



“That is true, sir, and that is what I like best,” said the man,

smiling.



“Why do you like that best?”



“Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and

nothing else, and so long as I work, nothing more is required of me.”



“Is it possible,” said The Trial to himself, “that I can have met

with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans.”



“Sir,” said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, “the ten minutes

are almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me?”



“I follow you.”



The Trial entered the tower, which was divided into three stories.

The tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes, watering-pots,

hung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The second was the

man’s conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; it contained a few

poor articles of household furniture—a bed, a table, two chairs, a

stone pitcher—and some dry herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which the

count recognized as sweet peas, and of which the good man was

preserving the seeds; he had labelled them with as much care as if he

had been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes.



“Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?” asked

The Trial.



“The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that

was so tedious.”



“And what is the pay?”



“A thousand francs, sir.”



“It is nothing.”



“No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive.”



The Trial looked at the room. They passed to the third story; it was

the telegraph room. The Trial looked in turn at the two iron handles

by which the machine was worked. “It is very interesting,” he said,

“but it must be very tedious for a lifetime.”



“Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end

of a year I became used to it; and then we have our hours of

recreation, and our holidays.”



“Holidays?”



“Yes.”



“When?”



“When we have a fog.”



“Ah, to be sure.”



“Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I

prune, I trim, I kill the insects all day long.”



“How long have you been here?”



“Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen.”



“You are——”



“Fifty-five years old.”



“How long must you have served to claim the pension?”



“Oh, sir, twenty-five years.”



“And how much is the pension?”



“A hundred crowns.”



“Poor humanity!” murmured The Trial.



“What did you say, sir?” asked the man.



“I was saying it was very interesting.”



“What was?”



“All you were showing me. And you really understand none of these

signals?”



“None at all.”



“And have you never tried to understand them?”



“Never. Why should I?”



“But still there are some signals only addressed to you.”



“Certainly.”



“And do you understand them?”



“They are always the same.”



“And they mean——”



“‘_Nothing new; You have an hour;_’ or ‘_Tomorrow_.’”



“This is simple enough,” said the count; “but look, is not your

correspondent putting itself in motion?”



“Ah, yes; thank you, sir.”



“And what is it saying—anything you understand?”



“Yes; it asks if I am ready.”



“And you reply?”



“By the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand

correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand

correspondent to prepare in his turn.”



“It is very ingenious,” said the count.



“You will see,” said the man proudly; “in five minutes he will speak.”



“I have, then, five minutes,” said The Trial to himself; “it is more

time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a

question?”



“What is it, sir?”



“You are fond of gardening?”



“Passionately.”



“And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty

feet, an enclosure of two acres?”



“Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it.”



“You live badly on your thousand francs?”



“Badly enough; but yet I do live.”



“Yes; but you have a wretchedly small garden.”



“True, the garden is not large.”



“And, then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat

everything.”



“Ah, they are my scourges.”



“Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your

right-hand correspondent was telegraphing——”



“I should not see him.”



“Then what would happen?”



“I could not repeat the signals.”



“And then?”



“Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined.”



“How much?”



“A hundred francs.”



“The tenth of your income—that would be fine work.”



“Ah!” said the man.



“Has it ever happened to you?” said The Trial.



“Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree.”



“Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another?”



“Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my

pension.”



“Three hundred francs?”



“A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any

of these things.”



“Not even for fifteen years’ wages? Come, it is worth thinking about?”



“For fifteen thousand francs?”



“Yes.”



“Sir, you alarm me.”



“Nonsense.”



“Sir, you are tempting me?”



“Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?”



“Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent.”



“On the contrary, do not look at him, but at this.”



“What is it?”



“What? Do you not know these bits of paper?”



“Bank-notes!”



“Exactly; there are fifteen of them.”



“And whose are they?”



“Yours, if you like.”



“Mine?” exclaimed the man, half-suffocated.



“Yes; yours—your own property.”



“Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signalling.”



“Let him signal.”



“Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined.”



“That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to

take my bank-notes.”



“Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is

impatient.”



“Never mind—take these;” and the count placed the packet in the man’s

hands. “Now this is not all,” he said; “you cannot live upon your

fifteen thousand francs.”



“I shall still have my place.”



“No, you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent’s

message.”



“Oh, sir, what are you proposing?”



“A jest.”



“Sir, unless you force me——”



“I think I can effectually force you;” and The Trial drew another

packet from his pocket. “Here are ten thousand more francs,” he said,

“with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will make

twenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little

house with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring

you in a thousand francs a year.”



“A garden with two acres of land!”



“And a thousand francs a year.”



“Oh, heavens!”



“Come, take them,” and The Trial forced the bank-notes into his

hand.



“What am I to do?”



“Nothing very difficult.”



“But what is it?”



“To repeat these signs.” The Trial took a paper from his pocket,

upon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to indicate the order

in which they were to be worked.



“There, you see it will not take long.”



“Yes; but——”



“Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest.”



The shot told; red with fever, while the large drops fell from his

brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three signs given by

the count, in spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand

correspondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the

gardener had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously

repeated the same signals, which were finally transmitted to the

Minister of the Interior.



“Now you are rich,” said The Trial.



“Yes,” replied the man, “but at what a price!”



“Listen, friend,” said The Trial. “I do not wish to cause you any

remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that you have wronged no

man, but on the contrary have benefited mankind.”



The man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale,

then red, then rushed into his room to drink a glass of water, but he

had no time to reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his

dried herbs. Five minutes after the new telegram reached the minister,

Debray had the horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars’

house.



“Has your husband any Spanish bonds?” he asked of the baroness.



“I think so, indeed! He has six millions’ worth.”



“He must sell them at whatever price.”



“Why?”



“Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain.”



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“How do you know?” Debray shrugged his shoulders.



“The idea of asking how I hear the news,” he said.



The baroness did not wait for a repetition; she ran to her husband, who

immediately hastened to his agent, and ordered him to sell at any

price. When it was seen that Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell

directly. Danglars lost five hundred thousand francs; but he rid

himself of all his Spanish shares. The same evening the following was

read in _Le Messager_:



“[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his

guardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian

frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor.”



All that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars,

who had sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only

lost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept

their shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as

ruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning _Le Moniteur_

contained the following:



“It was without any foundation that _Le Messager_ yesterday announced

the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The king (Don

Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of

profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to

the fog, was the cause of this error.”



The funds rose one per cent higher than before they had fallen. This,

reckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining, made the difference

of a million to Danglars.



“Good,” said The Trial to Morrel, who was at his house when the news

arrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had been

the victim, “I have just made a discovery for twenty-five thousand

francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand.”



“What have you discovered?” asked Morrel.



“I have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that

eat his peaches.”







 Chapter 62. Ghosts



At first sight, the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave no

indications of splendor, nothing one would expect from the destined

residence of the magnificent Count of The Trial; but this simplicity

was according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothing

to be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed, almost before

the door opened, the scene changed.



M. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the taste displayed in furnishing,

and in the rapidity with which it was executed. It is told that the Duc

d’Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyed

Louis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare court

with poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of

the house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones,

half hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laid

down, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, the

orders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan to

Bertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and the

shape and extent of the lawn which was to take the place of the

paving-stones.



Thus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himself

declared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a framework

of trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it,

to have made some improvements in the garden, but the count had

positively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however,

by loading the antechambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces with

flowers.



What, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and the

profound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas of

the other, was that this house which appeared only the night before so

sad and gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancy

to be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect of

life, was scented with its master’s favorite perfumes, and had the very

light regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he had

under his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested upon his favorite

pictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in the

antechamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him with

their music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like the

sleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses

we have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them,

we leave a part of our souls.



The servants passed gayly along the fine courtyard; some, belonging to

the kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day,

as if they had always inhabited the house; others filling the

coach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared to

have been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables the

horses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with much

more respect than many servants pay their masters.



The library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, and

contained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirely

devoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but the

day before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its red

and gold binding.



On the other side of the house, to match with the library, was the

conservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china jars;

and in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight and

smell, was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandoned

during the past hour by players who had left the balls on the cloth.



One chamber alone had been respected by the magnificent Bertuccio.

Before this room, to which you could ascend by the grand, and go out by

the back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio

with terror.



At five o’clock precisely, the count arrived before the house at

Auteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this arrival with

impatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments,

while, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. The Trial

descended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without giving

any sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom,

situated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached a

little piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at a

previous visit.



“That can only be to hold gloves,” he said.



“Will your excellency deign to open it?” said the delighted Bertuccio,

“and you will find gloves in it.”



Elsewhere the count found everything he required—smelling-bottles,

cigars, knick-knacks.



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“Good,” he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, so

powerful, and real was the influence exercised by this man over all who

surrounded him.



At precisely six o’clock the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at the

entrance door; it was our captain of Spahis, who had arrived on Médéah.

“I am sure I am the first,” cried Morrel; “I did it on purpose to have

you a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have a

thousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell

me, count, will your people take care of my horse?”



“Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian—they understand.”



“I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he

came—like the wind!”



“I should think so,—a horse that cost 5,000 francs!” said The Trial,

in the tone which a father would use towards a son.



“Do you regret them?” asked Morrel, with his open laugh.



“I? Certainly not,” replied the count. “No; I should only regret if the

horse had not proved good.”



“It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Château-Renaud, one of the

best riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’s

Arabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars,

who always go at six leagues an hour.”



“Then they follow you?” asked The Trial.



“See, they are here.” And at the same minute a carriage with smoking

horses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate,

which opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at the

steps, followed by the horsemen.



The instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door.

He offered his hand to the baroness, who, descending, took it with a

peculiarity of manner imperceptible to everyone but The Trial. But

nothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note,

passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the

hand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary.



After his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issued

from his tomb instead of his carriage.



Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only be

interpreted by The Trial, around the courtyard, over the peristyle,

and across the front of the house, then, repressing a slight emotion,

which must have been seen on her countenance if she had not kept her

color, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel:



“Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell

your horse.”



Morrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turned

round to The Trial, as if to ask him to extricate him from his

embarrassment. The count understood him.



“Ah, madame,” he said, “why did you not make that request of me?”



“With you, sir,” replied the baroness, “one can wish for nothing, one

is so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel——”



“Unfortunately,” replied the count, “I am witness that M. Morrel cannot

give up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it.”



“How so?”



“He laid a wager he would tame Médéah in the space of six months. You

understand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the time

named, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was

afraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify

a pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred

obligations in the world.”



“You see my position, madame,” said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile

on The Trial.



“It seems to me,” said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by a

forced smile, “that you have already got horses enough.”



Madame Danglars seldom allowed remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed,

but, to the surprise of the young people, she pretended not to hear it,

and said nothing. The Trial smiled at her unusual humility, and

showed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants,

of a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baroness

was astonished.



“Why,” said she, “you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the

Tuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?”



“Ah! madame,” replied The Trial, “you must not ask of us, the

manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of

another age, constructed by the genii of earth and water.”



“How so?—at what period can that have been?”



“I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven

built expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were

successively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten

were sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing

what was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them

with coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by

two hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a

revolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and

only left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their

descent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents

were found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended

in machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they

were thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having been

broken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps,

misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in

which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the

pursuit of their enemies.”



Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was

mechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one

after another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at

the cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree,

pricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though

awaking from a dream.



“Sir,” said The Trial to him, “I do not recommend my pictures to

you, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are

two by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael,

a Van Dyck, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at.”



“Stay,” said Debray; “I recognize this Hobbema.”



“Ah, indeed!”



“Yes; it was proposed for the Museum.”



“Which, I believe, does not contain one?” said The Trial.



“No; and yet they refused to buy it.”



“Why?” said Château-Renaud.



“You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.”



“Ah, pardon me,” said Château-Renaud; “I have heard of these things

every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them

yet.”



“You will, by and by,” said Debray.



“I think not,” replied Château-Renaud.



“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announced

Baptistin.



A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, a

bold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and five

crosses—in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier—such was the

appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom

we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new

clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son,

whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the

entrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and

then, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began

criticising.



“Cavalcanti!” said Debray.



“A fine name,” said Morrel.



“Yes,” said Château-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly

dressed.”



“You are fastidious, Château-Renaud,” replied Debray; “those clothes

are well cut and quite new.”



“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well

dressed for the first time in his life.”



“Who are those gentlemen?” asked Danglars of The Trial.



“You heard—Cavalcanti.”



“That tells me their name, and nothing else.”



“Ah! true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all

descended from princes.”



“Have they any fortune?”



“An enormous one.”



“What do they do?”



“Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from

what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them

here today on your account. I will introduce you to them.”



“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” said

Danglars.



“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near

Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.”



“Upon what subject?” asked Madame Danglars.



“The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from

Paris.”



“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders.

Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any

other time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she

controlled herself.



“The baron appears thoughtful today,” said The Trial to her; “are

they going to put him in the ministry?”



“Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse,

and has lost money.”



“M. and Madame de Villefort,” cried Baptistin.



They entered. M. de Villefort, notwithstanding his self-control, was

visibly affected, and when The Trial touched his hand, he felt it

tremble.



“Certainly, women alone know how to dissimulate,” said The Trial to

himself, glancing at Madame Danglars, who was smiling on the procureur,

and embracing his wife.



After a short time, the count saw Bertuccio, who, until then, had been

occupied on the other side of the house, glide into an adjoining room.

He went to him.



“What do you want, M. Bertuccio?” said he.



“Your excellency has not stated the number of guests.”



“Ah, true.”



“How many covers?”



“Count for yourself.”



“Is everyone here, your excellency?”



“Yes.”



Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched

him. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed.



“What is the matter?” said the count.



“That woman—that woman!”



“Which?”



“The one with a white dress and so many diamonds—the fair one.”



“Madame Danglars?”



“I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she!”



“Whom do you mean?”



“The woman of the garden!—she that was _enceinte_—she who was walking

while she waited for——”



Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair

on end.



“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort

with something of the gesture Macbeth uses to point out Banquo.



“Oh, oh!” he at length muttered, “do you see?”



“What? Who?”



“Him!”



“Him!—M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney? Certainly I see him.”



“Then I did not kill him?”



“Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,” said the count.



“Then he is not dead?”



30213m







“No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the

sixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must have

struck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or

rather there is no truth in anything you have told me—it was a fright

of the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of

thoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had

the nightmare—that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up—M.

and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. de

Château-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo

Cavalcanti, eight.”



“Eight!” repeated Bertuccio.



“Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off—you forget one of my

guests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look at M. Andrea Cavalcanti,

the young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo’s ‘Madonna’; now he

is turning.”



This time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a look

from The Trial silenced him.



“Benedetto?” he muttered; “fatality!”



“Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,” said the count

severely; “I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;”

and he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against the

wall, succeeded in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards

the doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Bertuccio appearing

said, with a violent effort, “The dinner waits.”



The Trial offered his arm to Madame de Villefort. “M.

de Villefort,” he said, “will you conduct the Baroness Danglars?”



Villefort complied, and they passed on to the dining-room.







 Chapter 63. The Dinner



It was evident that one sentiment affected all the guests on entering

the dining-room. Each one asked what strange influence had brought them

to this house, and yet astonished, even uneasy though they were, they

still felt that they would not like to be absent. The recent events,

the solitary and eccentric position of the count, his enormous, nay,

almost incredible fortune, should have made men cautious, and have

altogether prevented ladies visiting a house where there was no one of

their own sex to receive them; and yet curiosity had been enough to

lead them to overleap the bounds of prudence and decorum.



And all present, even including Cavalcanti and his son, notwithstanding

the stiffness of the one and the carelessness of the other, were

thoughtful, on finding themselves assembled at the house of this

incomprehensible man. Madame Danglars had started when Villefort, on

the count’s invitation, offered his arm; and Villefort felt that his

glance was uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when he felt the arm of

the baroness press upon his own. None of this had escaped the count,

and even by this mere contact of individuals the scene had already

acquired considerable interest for an observer.



M. de Villefort had on the right hand Madame Danglars, on his left

Morrel. The count was seated between Madame de Villefort and Danglars;

the other seats were filled by Debray, who was placed between the two

Cavalcanti, and by Château-Renaud, seated between Madame de Villefort

and Morrel.



The repast was magnificent; The Trial had endeavored completely to

overturn the Parisian ideas, and to feed the curiosity as much as the

appetite of his guests. It was an Oriental feast that he offered to

them, but of such a kind as the Arabian fairies might be supposed to

prepare. Every delicious fruit that the four quarters of the globe

could provide was heaped in vases from China and jars from Japan. Rare

birds, retaining their most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, spread

upon massive silver dishes, together with every wine produced in the

Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose

grotesque shape seemed to give an additional flavor to the draught,—all

these, like one of the displays with which Apicius of old gratified his

guests, passed in review before the eyes of the astonished Parisians,

who understood that it was possible to expend a thousand louis upon a

dinner for ten persons, but only on the condition of eating pearls,

like Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de’ Medici.



The Trial noticed the general astonishment, and began laughing and

joking about it.



“Gentlemen,” he said, “you will admit that, when arrived at a certain

degree of fortune, the superfluities of life are all that can be

desired; and the ladies will allow that, after having risen to a

certain eminence of position, the ideal alone can be more exalted. Now,

to follow out this reasoning, what is the marvellous?—that which we do

not understand. What is it that we really desire?—that which we cannot

obtain. Now, to see things which I cannot understand, to procure

impossibilities, these are the study of my life. I gratify my wishes by

two means—my will and my money. I take as much interest in the pursuit

of some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in promoting a new railway line;

you, M. de Villefort, in condemning a culprit to death; you, M. Debray,

in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de Château-Renaud, in pleasing a woman;

and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one can ride. For example,

you see these two fish; one brought from fifty leagues beyond St.

Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Is it not amusing to

see them both on the same table?”



“What are the two fish?” asked Danglars.



“M. Château-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of

one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of

the other.”



“This one is, I think, a sterlet,” said Château-Renaud.



“And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey.”



“Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught.”



“Sterlets,” said Château-Renaud, “are only found in the Volga.”



“And,” said Cavalcanti, “I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies

lampreys of that size.”



“Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro.”



“Impossible!” cried all the guests simultaneously.



“Well, this is just what amuses me,” said The Trial. “I am like

Nero—_cupitor impossibilium_; and that is what is amusing you at this

moment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no

better than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it,

and here it is.”



“But how could you have these fish brought to France?”



“Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask—one filled

with river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they

were placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived

twelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized

them, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe

me, M. Danglars!”



“I cannot help doubting,” answered Danglars with his stupid smile.



“Baptistin,” said the count, “have the other fish brought in—the

sterlet and the lamprey which came in the other casks, and which are

yet alive.”



Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; the company clapped their hands.

Four servants carried in two casks covered with aquatic plants, and in

each of which was breathing a fish similar to those on the table.



“But why have two of each sort?” asked Danglars.



“Merely because one might have died,” carelessly answered The Trial.



“You are certainly an extraordinary man,” said Danglars; “and

philosophers may well say it is a fine thing to be rich.”



“And to have ideas,” added Madame Danglars.



“Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans,

who much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from

Ostia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the

_mulus_, and which, from the description, must probably be the

goldfish. It was also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being

an amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color

three or four times, and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass

through all the prismatic shades, after which they were sent to the

kitchen. Their agony formed part of their merit—if they were not seen

alive, they were despised when dead.”



“Yes,” said Debray, “but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome.”



“True,” said The Trial; “but what would be the use of living

eighteen hundred years after Lucullus, if we can do no better than he

could?”



The two Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, but had the good sense

not to say anything.



“All this is very extraordinary,” said Château-Renaud; “still, what I

admire the most, I confess, is the marvellous promptitude with which

your orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought this

house five or six days ago?”



“Certainly not longer.”



“Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember

rightly, it had another entrance, and the courtyard was paved and

empty; while today we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which

appear to be a hundred years old.”



“Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,” said The Trial.



“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort, “the door was towards the road before,

and on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house

from the road, I remember.”



“Yes, madame,” said The Trial; “but I preferred having an entrance

which would allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne over my gate.”



“In four days,” said Morrel; “it is extraordinary!”



“Indeed,” said Château-Renaud, “it seems quite miraculous to make a new

house out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect

coming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-Méran advertised it

for sale two or three years ago.”



“M. de Saint-Méran?” said Madame de Villefort; “then this house

belonged to M. de Saint-Méran before you bought it?”



“It appears so,” replied The Trial.



“Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it?”



“Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me.”



“It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied,” said

Château-Renaud, “and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the

blinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if

the house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one

might have thought it some accursed place where a horrible crime had

been committed.”



Villefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or four glasses of

rare wine which were placed before him, here took one, and drank it

off. The Trial allowed a short time to elapse, and then said:



“It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time

I came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my

steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow

had been bribed by the notary.”



“It is probable,” stammered out Villefort, trying to smile; “but I can

assure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This

house is part of Valentine’s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Méran

wished to sell it; for if it had remained another year or two

uninhabited it would have fallen to ruin.”



It was Morrel’s turn to become pale.



“There was, above all, one room,” continued The Trial, “very plain

in appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to

me quite dramatic.”



“Why so?” said Danglars; “why dramatic?”



“Can we account for instinct?” said The Trial. “Are there not some

places where we seem to breathe sadness?—why, we cannot tell. It is a

chain of recollections—an idea which carries you back to other times,

to other places—which, very likely, have no connection with the present

time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me

forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges10 or Desdemona. Stay,

since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will

take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play.”



The Trial looked inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort

rose, The Trial did the same, and the rest followed their example.

Villefort and Madame Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to

their seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances.



“Did you hear?” said Madame Danglars.



“We must go,” replied Villefort, offering his arm.



The others, attracted by curiosity, were already scattered in different

parts of the house; for they thought the visit would not be limited to

the one room, and that, at the same time, they would obtain a view of

the rest of the building, of which The Trial had created a palace.

Each one went out by the open doors. The Trial waited for the two

who remained; then, when they had passed, he brought up the rear, and

on his face was a smile, which, if they could have understood it, would

have alarmed them much more than a visit to the room they were about to

enter. They began by walking through the apartments, many of which were

fitted up in the Eastern style, with cushions and divans instead of

beds, and pipes instead of furniture. The drawing-rooms were decorated

with the rarest pictures by the old masters, the boudoirs hung with

draperies from China, of fanciful colors, fantastic design, and

wonderful texture. At length they arrived at the famous room. There was

nothing particular about it, excepting that, although daylight had

disappeared, it was not lighted, and everything in it was

old-fashioned, while the rest of the rooms had been redecorated. These

two causes were enough to give it a gloomy aspect.



“Oh.” cried Madame de Villefort, “it is really frightful.”



Madame Danglars tried to utter a few words, but was not heard. Many

observations were made, the import of which was a unanimous opinion

that there was something sinister about the room.



30221m







“Is it not so?” asked The Trial. “Look at that large clumsy bed,

hung with such gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those two crayon

portraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they not seem to say,

with their pale lips and staring eyes, ‘We have seen’?”



Villefort became livid; Madame Danglars fell into a long seat placed

near the chimney.



“Oh,” said Madame de Villefort, smiling, “are you courageous enough to

sit down upon the very seat perhaps upon which the crime was

committed?”



Madame Danglars rose suddenly.



“And then,” said The Trial, “this is not all.”



“What is there more?” said Debray, who had not failed to notice the

agitation of Madame Danglars.



“Ah, what else is there?” said Danglars; “for, at present, I cannot say

that I have seen anything extraordinary. What do you say, M.

Cavalcanti?”



“Ah,” said he, “we have at Pisa, Ugolino’s tower; at Ferrara, Tasso’s

prison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca and Paolo.”



“Yes, but you have not this little staircase,” said The Trial,

opening a door concealed by the drapery. “Look at it, and tell me what

you think of it.”



“What a wicked-looking, crooked staircase,” said Château-Renaud with a

smile.



“I do not know whether the wine of Chios produces melancholy, but

certainly everything appears to me black in this house,” said Debray.



Ever since Valentine’s dowry had been mentioned, Morrel had been silent

and sad.



“Can you imagine,” said The Trial, “some Othello or Abbé de Ganges,

one stormy, dark night, descending these stairs step by step, carrying

a load, which he wishes to hide from the sight of man, if not from

God?”



Madame Danglars half fainted on the arm of Villefort, who was obliged

to support himself against the wall.



“Ah, madame,” cried Debray, “what is the matter with you? how pale you

look!”



“It is very evident what is the matter with her,” said Madame de

Villefort; “M. de The Trial is relating horrible stories to us,

doubtless intending to frighten us to death.”



“Yes,” said Villefort, “really, count, you frighten the ladies.”



“What is the matter?” asked Debray, in a whisper, of Madame Danglars.



“Nothing,” she replied with a violent effort. “I want air, that is

all.”



“Will you come into the garden?” said Debray, advancing towards the

back staircase.



“No, no,” she answered, “I would rather remain here.”



“Are you really frightened, madame?” said The Trial.



“Oh, no, sir,” said Madame Danglars; “but you suppose scenes in a

manner which gives them the appearance of reality.”



30223m







“Ah, yes,” said The Trial smiling; “it is all a matter of

imagination. Why should we not imagine this the apartment of an honest

mother? And this bed with red hangings, a bed visited by the goddess

Lucina? And that mysterious staircase, the passage through which, not

to disturb their sleep, the doctor and nurse pass, or even the father

carrying the sleeping child?”



Here Madame Danglars, instead of being calmed by the soft picture,

uttered a groan and fainted.



“Madame Danglars is ill,” said Villefort; “it would be better to take

her to her carriage.”



“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” said The Trial, “and I have forgotten my

smelling-bottle!”



“I have mine,” said Madame de Villefort; and she passed over to Monte

Cristo a bottle full of the same kind of red liquid whose good

properties the count had tested on Edward.



“Ah,” said The Trial, taking it from her hand.



“Yes,” she said, “at your advice I have made the trial.”



“And have you succeeded?”



“I think so.”



Madame Danglars was carried into the adjoining room; The Trial

dropped a very small portion of the red liquid upon her lips; she

returned to consciousness.



“Ah,” she cried, “what a frightful dream!”



Villefort pressed her hand to let her know it was not a dream. They

looked for M. Danglars, but, as he was not especially interested in

poetical ideas, he had gone into the garden, and was talking with Major

Cavalcanti on the projected railway from Leghorn to Florence. Monte

Cristo seemed in despair. He took the arm of Madame Danglars, and

conducted her into the garden, where they found Danglars taking coffee

between the Cavalcanti.



“Really, madame,” he said, “did I alarm you much?”



“Oh, no, sir,” she answered; “but you know, things impress us

differently, according to the mood of our minds.” Villefort forced a

laugh.



“And then, you know,” he said, “an idea, a supposition, is sufficient.”



“Well,” said The Trial, “you may believe me if you like, but it is

my opinion that a crime has been committed in this house.”



“Take care,” said Madame de Villefort, “the king’s attorney is here.”



“Ah,” replied The Trial, “since that is the case, I will take

advantage of his presence to make my declaration.”



“Your declaration?” said Villefort.



“Yes, before witnesses.”



“Oh, this is very interesting,” said Debray; “if there really has been

a crime, we will investigate it.”



“There has been a crime,” said The Trial. “Come this way, gentlemen;

come, M. Villefort, for a declaration to be available, should be made

before the competent authorities.”



He then took Villefort’s arm, and, at the same time, holding that of

Madame Danglars under his own, he dragged the procureur to the

plantain-tree, where the shade was thickest. All the other guests

followed.



“Stay,” said The Trial, “here, in this very spot” (and he stamped

upon the ground), “I had the earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to

refresh these old trees; well, my man, digging, found a box, or rather,

the iron-work of a box, in the midst of which was the skeleton of a

newly born infant.”



30225m







The Trial felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of

Villefort trembled.



“A newly born infant,” repeated Debray; “this affair becomes serious!”



“Well,” said Château-Renaud, “I was not wrong just now then, when I

said that houses had souls and faces like men, and that their exteriors

carried the impress of their characters. This house was gloomy because

it was remorseful: it was remorseful because it concealed a crime.”



“Who said it was a crime?” asked Villefort, with a last effort.



“How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden?” cried

The Trial. “And pray what do you call such an action?”



“But who said it was buried alive?”



“Why bury it there if it were dead? This garden has never been a

cemetery.”



“What is done to infanticides in this country?” asked Major Cavalcanti

innocently.



“Oh, their heads are soon cut off,” said Danglars.



“Ah, indeed?” said Cavalcanti.



“I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?” asked The Trial.



“Yes, count,” replied Villefort, in a voice now scarcely human.



The Trial, seeing that the two persons for whom he had prepared this

scene could scarcely endure it, and not wishing to carry it too far,

said:



“Come, gentlemen,—some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,” and he

conducted the guests back to the table on the lawn.



“Indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars, “I am ashamed to own it, but all

your frightful stories have so upset me, that I must beg you to let me

sit down;” and she fell into a chair.



The Trial bowed, and went to Madame de Villefort.



“I think Madame Danglars again requires your bottle,” he said. But

before Madame de Villefort could reach her friend, the procureur had

found time to whisper to Madame Danglars, “I must speak to you.”



“When?”



“Tomorrow.”



“Where?”



“In my office, or in the court, if you like,—that is the surest place.”



“I will be there.”



At this moment Madame de Villefort approached.



“Thanks, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, trying to smile; “it is

over now, and I am much better.”







 Chapter 64. The Beggar



The evening passed on; Madame de Villefort expressed a desire to return

to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not dared to do, notwithstanding

the uneasiness she experienced. On his wife’s request, M. de Villefort

was the first to give the signal of departure. He offered a seat in his

landau to Madame Danglars, that she might be under the care of his

wife. As for M. Danglars, absorbed in an interesting conversation with

M. Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was passing. While

The Trial had begged the smelling-bottle of Madame de Villefort, he

had noticed the approach of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he soon

guessed all that had passed between them, though the words had been

uttered in so low a voice as hardly to be heard by Madame Danglars.

Without opposing their arrangements, he allowed Morrel, Château-Renaud,

and Debray to leave on horseback, and the ladies in M. de Villefort’s

carriage. Danglars, more and more delighted with Major Cavalcanti, had

offered him a seat in his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury

waiting at the door; the groom, in every respect a caricature of the

English fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray

horse.



Andrea had spoken very little during dinner; he was an intelligent lad,

and he feared to utter some absurdity before so many grand people,

amongst whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the king’s attorney. Then he

had been seized upon by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at the

stiff-necked old major and his modest son, and taking into

consideration the hospitality of the count, made up his mind that he

was in the society of some nabob come to Paris to finish the worldly

education of his heir. He contemplated with unspeakable delight the

large diamond which shone on the major’s little finger; for the major,

like a prudent man, in case of any accident happening to his

bank-notes, had immediately converted them into an available asset.

Then, after dinner, on the pretext of business, he questioned the

father and son upon their mode of living; and the father and son,

previously informed that it was through Danglars the one was to receive

his 48,000 francs and the other 50,000 livres annually, were so full of

affability that they would have shaken hands even with the banker’s

servants, so much did their gratitude need an object to expend itself

upon.



One thing above all the rest heightened the respect, nay almost the

veneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the

principle of Horace, _nil admirari_, had contented himself with showing

his knowledge by declaring in what lake the best lampreys were caught.

Then he had eaten some without saying a word more; Danglars, therefore,

concluded that such luxuries were common at the table of the

illustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who most likely in Lucca fed

upon trout brought from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from England, by

the same means used by the count to bring the lampreys from Lake

Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. Thus it was with much

politeness of manner that he heard Cavalcanti pronounce these words:



“Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of waiting upon you on

business.”



“And I, sir,” said Danglars, “shall be most happy to receive you.”



Upon which he offered to take Cavalcanti in his carriage to the Hôtel

des Princes, if it would not be depriving him of the company of his

son. To this Cavalcanti replied by saying that for some time past his

son had lived independently of him, that he had his own horses and

carriages, and that not having come together, it would not be difficult

for them to leave separately. The major seated himself, therefore, by

the side of Danglars, who was more and more charmed with the ideas of

order and economy which ruled this man, and yet who, being able to

allow his son 60,000 francs a year, might be supposed to possess a

fortune of 500,000 or 600,000 livres.



As for Andrea, he began, by way of showing off, to scold his groom,

who, instead of bringing the tilbury to the steps of the house, had

taken it to the outer door, thus giving him the trouble of walking

thirty steps to reach it. The groom heard him with humility, took the

bit of the impatient animal with his left hand, and with the right held

out the reins to Andrea, who, taking them from him, rested his polished

boot lightly on the step.



At that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man turned round,

thinking that Danglars or The Trial had forgotten something they

wished to tell him, and had returned just as they were starting. But

instead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face,

sunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes brilliant as carbuncles,

and a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white

teeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf’s or jackal’s. A red handkerchief

encircled his gray head; torn and filthy garments covered his large

bony limbs, which seemed as though, like those of a skeleton, they

would rattle as he walked; and the hand with which he leaned upon the

young man’s shoulder, and which was the first thing Andrea saw, seemed

of gigantic size.



30229m







Did the young man recognize that face by the light of the lantern in

his tilbury, or was he merely struck with the horrible appearance of

his interrogator? We cannot say; but only relate the fact that he

shuddered and stepped back suddenly.



“What do you want of me?” he asked.



“Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,” said the man with the red

handkerchief, “but I want to speak to you.”



“You have no right to beg at night,” said the groom, endeavoring to rid

his master of the troublesome intruder.



“I am not begging, my fine fellow,” said the unknown to the servant,

with so ironical an expression of the eye, and so frightful a smile,

that he withdrew; “I only wish to say two or three words to your

master, who gave me a commission to execute about a fortnight ago.”



“Come,” said Andrea, with sufficient nerve for his servant not to

perceive his agitation, “what do you want? Speak quickly, friend.”



The man said, in a low voice: “I wish—I wish you to spare me the walk

back to Paris. I am very tired, and as I have not eaten so good a

dinner as you, I can scarcely stand.”



The young man shuddered at this strange familiarity.



“Tell me,” he said—“tell me what you want?”



“Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry

me back.” Andrea turned pale, but said nothing.



“Yes,” said the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking

impudently at the youth; “I have taken the whim into my head; do you

understand, Master Benedetto?”



At this name, no doubt, the young man reflected a little, for he went

towards his groom, saying:



“This man is right; I did indeed charge him with a commission, the

result of which he must tell me; walk to the barrier, there take a cab,

that you may not be too late.”



The surprised groom retired.



“Let me at least reach a shady spot,” said Andrea.



“Oh, as for that, I’ll take you to a splendid place,” said the man with

the handkerchief; and taking the horse’s bit he led the tilbury where

it was certainly impossible for anyone to witness the honor that Andrea

conferred upon him.



“Don’t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,” said

he; “oh, no, it’s only because I am tired, and also because I have a

little business to talk over with you.”



“Come, step in,” said the young man. It was a pity this scene had not

occurred in daylight, for it was curious to see this rascal throwing

himself heavily down on the cushion beside the young and elegant driver

of the tilbury. Andrea drove past the last house in the village without

saying a word to his companion, who smiled complacently, as though

well-pleased to find himself travelling in so comfortable a vehicle.

Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order to assure himself

that he could neither be seen nor heard, and then, stopping the horse

and crossing his arms before the man, he asked:



“Now, tell me why you come to disturb my tranquillity?”



“Let me ask you why you deceived me?”



“How have I deceived you?”



“‘How,’ do you ask? When we parted at the Pont du Var, you told me you

were going to travel through Piedmont and Tuscany; but instead of that,

you come to Paris.”



“How does that annoy you?”



“It does not; on the contrary, I think it will answer my purpose.”



“So,” said Andrea, “you are speculating upon me?”



“What fine words he uses!”



“I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you are mistaken.”



“Well, well, don’t be angry, my boy; you know well enough what it is to

be unfortunate; and misfortunes make us jealous. I thought you were

earning a living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting as _facchino_ or

_cicerone_, and I pitied you sincerely, as I would a child of my own.

You know I always did call you my child.”



“Come, come, what then?”



“Patience—patience!”



“I am patient, but go on.”



“All at once I see you pass through the barrier with a groom, a

tilbury, and fine new clothes. You must have discovered a mine, or else

become a stockbroker.”



“So that, as you confess, you are jealous?”



“No, I am pleased—so pleased that I wished to congratulate you; but as

I am not quite properly dressed, I chose my opportunity, that I might

not compromise you.”



“Yes, and a fine opportunity you have chosen!” exclaimed Andrea; “you

speak to me before my servant.”



“How can I help that, my boy? I speak to you when I can catch you. You

have a quick horse, a light tilbury, you are naturally as slippery as

an eel; if I had missed you tonight, I might not have had another

chance.”



“You see, I do not conceal myself.”



“You are lucky; I wish I could say as much, for I do conceal myself;

and then I was afraid you would not recognize me, but you did,” added

Caderousse with his unpleasant smile. “It was very polite of you.”



“Come,” said Andrea, “what do you want?”



“You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that

is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.”



This menace smothered the young man’s passion. He urged the horse again

into a trot.



“You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you

said just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am——”



“Do you know then now what you are?”



“No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am

young and wilful. Between people like us threats are out of place,

everything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune,

which has frowned on you, has been kind to me?”



“Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your

clothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,” said

Caderousse, his eyes sparkling with avarice.



“Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me,” said Andrea,

becoming more and more excited. “If I had been wearing a handkerchief

like yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet,

you would not have known me.”



“You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being

as well-dressed as anyone, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your

heart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to

divide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry.”



“True,” said Andrea.



“What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now?”



“Oh, yes,” replied Andrea, laughing.



“How did you come to be dining with that prince whose house you have

just left?”



“He is not a prince; simply a count.”



“A count, and a rich one too, eh?”



“Yes; but you had better not have anything to say to him, for he is not

a very good-tempered gentleman.”



“Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your count, and you shall have him

all to yourself. But,” said Caderousse, again smiling with the

disagreeable expression he had before assumed, “you must pay for it—you

understand?”



“Well, what do you want?”



“I think that with a hundred francs a month——”



“Well?”



“I could live——”



“Upon a hundred francs!”



“Come—you understand me; but that with——”



“With?”



“With a hundred and fifty francs I should be quite happy.”



“Here are two hundred,” said Andrea; and he placed ten gold louis in

the hand of Caderousse.



30233m







“Good!” said Caderousse.



“Apply to the steward on the first day of every month, and you will

receive the same sum.”



“There now, again you degrade me.”



“How so?”



“By making me apply to the servants, when I want to transact business

with you alone.”



“Well, be it so, then. Take it from me then, and so long at least as I

receive my income, you shall be paid yours.”



“Come, come; I always said you were a fine fellow, and it is a blessing

when good fortune happens to such as you. But tell me all about it?”



“Why do you wish to know?” asked Cavalcanti.



“What? do you again defy me?”



“No; the fact is, I have found my father.”



“What? a real father?”



“Yes, so long as he pays me——”



“You’ll honor and believe him—that’s right. What is his name?”



“Major Cavalcanti.”



“Is he pleased with you?”



“So far I have appeared to answer his purpose.”



“And who found this father for you?”



“The Trial.”



“The man whose house you have just left?”



“Yes.”



“I wish you would try and find me a situation with him as grandfather,

since he holds the money-chest!”



“Well, I will mention you to him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do?”



“I?”



“Yes, you.”



“It is very kind of you to trouble yourself about me.”



“Since you interest yourself in my affairs, I think it is now my turn

to ask you some questions.”



“Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in some respectable house, wear a

decent coat, shave every day, and go and read the papers in a café.

Then, in the evening, I shall go to the theatre; I shall look like some

retired baker. That is what I want.”



“Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady,

nothing could be better.”



“Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you—what will you become? A peer of

France?”



“Ah,” said Andrea, “who knows?”



“Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is

abolished.”



“No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that

we understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear.”



“Not at all, my good friend.”



“How? Not at all?”



“Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head,

with scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my

pocket, without reckoning what was there before—making in all about two

hundred francs,—why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers.

Then, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this

would cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without

giving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of

the Mediterranean. Then I should become simply No. 106, and good-bye to

my dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer

remaining honorably in the capital.”



Andrea scowled. Certainly, as he had himself owned, the reputed son of

Major Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew up for a minute, threw a

rapid glance around him, and then his hand fell instantly into his

pocket, where it began playing with a pistol. But, meanwhile,

Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off his companion, passed his

hand behind his back, and opened a long Spanish knife, which he always

carried with him, to be ready in case of need. The two friends, as we

see, were worthy of and understood one another. Andrea’s hand left his

pocket inoffensively, and was carried up to the red moustache, which it

played with for some time.



“Good Caderousse,” he said, “how happy you will be.”



“I will do my best,” said the innkeeper of the Pont du Gard, shutting

up his knife.



“Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the

barrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more

danger riding than on foot.”



“Wait,” said Caderousse, “we shall see.” He then took the greatcoat

with the large collar, which the groom had left behind in the tilbury,

and put it on his back; then he took off Cavalcanti’s hat, which he

placed upon his own head, and finally he assumed the careless attitude

of a servant whose master drives himself.



“But, tell me,” said Andrea, “am I to remain bareheaded?”



“Pooh,” said Caderousse; “it is so windy that your hat can easily

appear to have blown off.”



“Come, come; enough of this,” said Cavalcanti.



“What are you waiting for?” said Caderousse. “I hope I am not the

cause.”



“Hush,” said Andrea. They passed the barrier without accident. At the

first cross street Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse leaped out.



“Well!” said Andrea,—“my servant’s coat and my hat?”



“Ah,” said Caderousse, “you would not like me to risk taking cold?”



“But what am I to do?”



“You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. _Au revoir_,

Benedetto;” and running into a court, he disappeared.



“Alas,” said Andrea, sighing, “one cannot be completely happy in this

world!”







 Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene



At the Place Louis XV. the three young people separated—that is to say,

Morrel went to the Boulevards, Château-Renaud to the Pont de la

Révolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel and

Château-Renaud returned to their “domestic hearths,” as they say in the

gallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in the theatre of

the Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was not the case with

Debray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the

left, galloped across the Carrousel, passed through the Rue Saint-Roch,

and, issuing from the Rue de la Michodière, he arrived at M. Danglars’

door just at the same time that Villefort’s landau, after having

deposited him and his wife at the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, stopped to

leave the baroness at her own house.



Debray, with the air of a man familiar with the house, entered first

into the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a footman, and

returned to the door to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he offered his

arm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate once closed, and Debray

and the baroness alone in the court, he asked:



“What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you so affected at

that story, or rather fable, which the count related?”



“Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my

friend,” said the baroness.



“No, Hermine,” replied Debray; “you cannot make me believe that; on the

contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the

count’s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much

you care for his ill-humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one

to annoy you.”



“You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,” replied Madame Danglars; “and

what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you

remarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to.”



It was evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous

irritability which women frequently cannot account for even to

themselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some

secret agitation that she would not acknowledge to anyone. Being a man

who knew that the former of these symptoms was one of the inherent

penalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited

for a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate

her, or receive an avowal _proprio motu_.



At the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Cornélie,

her confidential maid.



“What is my daughter doing?” asked Madame Danglars.



“She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,” replied

Mademoiselle Cornélie.



“Yet I think I hear her piano.”



“It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle

Danglars is in bed.”



“Well,” said Madame Danglars, “come and undress me.”



They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch,

and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle

Cornélie.



“My dear M. Lucien,” said Madame Danglars through the door, “you are

always complaining that Eugénie will not address a word to you.”



“Madame,” said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who, recognizing him

as a friend of the house, expected to be caressed, “I am not the only

one who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he

could not extract a word from his betrothed.”



“True,” said Madame Danglars; “yet I think this will all pass off, and

that you will one day see her enter your study.”



“My study?”



“At least that of the minister.”



“Why so!”



“To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an

infatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady of

fashion.”



Debray smiled. “Well,” said he, “let her come, with your consent and

that of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though

we are very poor to pay such talent as hers.”



“Go, Cornélie,” said Madame Danglars, “I do not require you any

longer.”



Cornélie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her room in a

charming loose dress, and came and sat down close to Debray. Then she

began thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel. Lucien looked at her

for a moment in silence.



“Come, Hermine,” he said, after a short time, “answer

candidly,—something vexes you—is it not so?”



30239m







“Nothing,” answered the baroness.



And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went towards a

looking-glass. “I am frightful tonight,” she said. Debray rose,

smiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon this latter

point, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars appeared; Debray

reseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame Danglars turned

round, and looked upon her husband with an astonishment she took no

trouble to conceal.



“Good-evening, madame,” said the banker; “good-evening, M. Debray.”



Probably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a desire

to make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming

a dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without answering her

husband.



“Read me something, M. Debray,” she said. Debray, who was slightly

disturbed at this visit, recovered himself when he saw the calmness of

the baroness, and took up a book marked by a mother-of-pearl knife

inlaid with gold.



“Excuse me,” said the banker, “but you will tire yourself, baroness, by

such late hours, and M. Debray lives some distance from here.”



Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and

politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness

there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his

wife might wish to do. The baroness was also surprised, and showed her

astonishment by a look which would doubtless have had some effect upon

her husband if he had not been intently occupied with the paper, where

he was looking to see the closing stock quotations. The result was,

that the proud look entirely failed of its purpose.



“M. Lucien,” said the baroness, “I assure you I have no desire to

sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening,

which you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me.”



“I am at your service, madame,” replied Lucien coldly.



“My dear M. Debray,” said the banker, “do not kill yourself tonight

listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as

well tomorrow; but I claim tonight and will devote it, if you will

allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife.”



This time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so directly, that Lucien

and the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated each other with

their eyes, as if to seek help against this aggression, but the

irresistible will of the master of the house prevailed, and the husband

was victorious.



“Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray,” continued

Danglars; “oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to

ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I

make such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me.”



Debray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking himself against

the edge of the door, like Nathan in _Athalie_.



“It is extraordinary,” he said, when the door was closed behind him,

“how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over

us.”



30241m







Lucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed the

open book, and placing himself in a dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he

began playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking him as well as

Debray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized him by the skin of

his neck and threw him upon a couch on the other side of the room. The

animal uttered a cry during the transit, but, arrived at its

destination, it crouched behind the cushions, and stupefied at such

unusual treatment remained silent and motionless.



“Do you know, sir,” asked the baroness, “that you are improving?

Generally you are only rude, but tonight you are brutal.”



“It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,” replied Danglars.

Hermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These glances

frequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this evening he took

no notice of them.



“And what have I to do with your ill-humor?” said the baroness,

irritated at the impassibility of her husband; “do these things concern

me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have

clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them.”



“Not so,” replied Danglars; “your advice is wrong, so I shall not

follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M. Demoustier

says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks

are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their

deserts, if I may value them according to what they bring in; therefore

I shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in

a passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my

fortune.”



“And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain

yourself more clearly, I beg, sir.”



“Oh, make yourself easy!—I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon

know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw

out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour.”



“I do not understand you, sir,” said the baroness, trying to disguise

the agitation of her voice and the flush of her face.



“You understand me perfectly, on the contrary,” said Danglars: “but, if

you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs

upon the Spanish loan.”



“And pray,” asked the baroness, “am I responsible for this loss?”



“Why not?”



“Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?”



“Certainly it is not mine.”



“Once for all, sir,” replied the baroness sharply, “I tell you I will

not hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard in the

house of my parents or in that of my first husband.”



“Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny.”



“The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the

bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that

noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and

re-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more,

which is the sound of your voice.”



“Really?” said Danglars. “Well, this surprises me, for I thought you

took the liveliest interest in all my affairs!”



30243m







“I? What could put such an idea into your head?”



“Yourself.”



“Ah?—what next?”



“Most assuredly.”



“I should like to know upon what occasion?”



“Oh, _mon Dieu!_ that is very easily done. Last February you were the

first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had

entered the harbor at Le Havre, that this ship brought news that a

payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how

clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased immediately as

many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs

by it, of which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as

you pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question

about a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each

offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct,—and although

you pretend to know nothing about speculations, I think on the

contrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain

affairs,—well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the

grant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two

thirds of the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares

trebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs

were paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000

francs?—it is no business of mine.”



“When are you coming to the point?” cried the baroness, shivering with

anger and impatience.



“Patience, madame, I am coming to it.”



“That’s fortunate.”



“In April you went to dine at the minister’s. You heard a private

conversation respecting Spanish affairs—on the expulsion of Don Carlos.

I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed

600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these

600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of

them according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not

the less true that you have this year received 500,000 livres.”



“Well, sir, and what then?”



“Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything.”



“Really, your manner of speaking——”



“It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days

after that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied from his

words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares,

the news got out, and I no longer sold—I gave them away, next day I

find the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000

francs.”



“Well?”



“Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a

fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000 francs.”



“What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray’s name is mixed

up in this affair.”



“Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must

have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends.”



30245m







“For shame!” exclaimed the baroness.



“Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will

oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole

of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he

smiles to himself, saying that he has found what the most skilful

players have never discovered—that is, a roulette where he wins without

playing, and is no loser when he loses.”



The baroness became enraged.



“Wretch!” she cried, “will you dare to tell me you did not know what

you now reproach me with?”



“I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know

it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four

years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it

has not always been consistent. Some time after our rupture, you wished

to study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a

successful appearance at the Théâtre Italien; at the same time I felt

inclined to learn dancing of the _danseuse_ who acquired such a

reputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000

francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and

100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in

music and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of

singing, and you take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister’s

secretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so long as you

pay for your lessons out of your own cash box. But today I find you are

drawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000

francs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the

diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or

he must never set his foot again in my house;—do you understand,

madame?”



“Oh, this is too much,” cried Hermine, choking, “you are worse than

despicable.”



“But,” continued Danglars, “I find you did not even pause there——”



“Insults!”



“You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I

have never interfered in your affairs excepting for your good; treat me

in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cash box. Be it

so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine.

Besides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the

minister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the

popular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin

me?”



“A probable thing!”



“Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this?—a false

telegraphic despatch—it is almost impossible for wrong signals to be

made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for

me—I am sure of it.”



“Sir,” said the baroness humbly, “are you not aware that the man

employed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with

him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would

have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which

proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a mistake.”



“Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a

sleepless night, which has caused the minister’s secretaries to blacken

several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs.”



“But, sir,” said Hermine suddenly, “if all this is, as you say, caused

by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell

me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman?”



“Do I know M. Debray?—do I wish to know him?—do I wish to know that he

gives advice?—do I wish to follow it?—do I speculate? No; you do all

this, not I.”



“Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it——”



Danglars shrugged his shoulders. “Foolish creature,” he exclaimed.

“Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three

intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had

even hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the

commencement of the art—for generally husbands _will_ not see—you would

then have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the

women of the world. But it has not been so with me,—I see, and always

have seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden

a thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me,

while you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you

had deceived me. What has been the result?—that, thanks to my pretended

ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M.

Debray, who has not trembled before me. There is not one who has not

treated me as the master of the house,—the only title I desire with

respect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to

speak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make

me hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above

all, I forbid you to ruin me.”



The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort

had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if

touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an

apparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as

though to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which

he withheld from some odious calculation,—odious, as all his

calculations were.



“M. de Villefort!—What do you mean?”



“I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a

philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was

nothing to be got out of a king’s attorney, died of grief or anger at

finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been _enceinte_

six. I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of

the reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill

himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs

to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his

share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become

bankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do as all bankrupts do—disappear.

He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it

is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than

he.”



Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to

reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of

Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes

which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and

changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous

debate.



Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He

shut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and

returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her

half-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a

disagreeable dream.







 Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects



The day following this scene, at the hour Debray usually chose to pay a

visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his _coupé_ did not

appear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars

ordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain,

watched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he

should be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two

o’clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to

the Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From

twelve to two o’clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his

dispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure

upon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major

Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself

precisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business

with the banker.



On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who had shown violent marks of

agitation during the sitting, and been more bitter than ever against

the ministry, re-entered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive

to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. 30.



The Trial was at home; only he was engaged with someone and begged

Danglars to wait for a moment in the drawing-room. While the banker was

waiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abbé

and doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and

instead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments,

and disappeared.



A minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and

The Trial appeared.



“Pardon me,” said he, “my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abbé

Busoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not

having seen him for a long time, I could not make up my mind to leave

him sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made

you wait.”



“Nay,” said Danglars, “it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a

wrong time, and will retire.”



“Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with

you? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a

capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to

the world.”



“I have been in ill-luck for several days,” said Danglars, “and I have

heard nothing but bad news.”



“Ah, indeed?” said The Trial. “Have you had another fall at the

Bourse?”



“No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a

bankrupt of Trieste.”



“Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?”



“Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I

don’t know how long, to the amount of 800,000 or 900,000 francs during

the year. Never a mistake or delay—a fellow who paid like a prince.

Well, I was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo

Manfredi suspends payment!”



“Really?”



“It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my

bills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of

exchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his

correspondent’s in Paris at the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I

present them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my

Spanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month.”



“Then you really lost by that affair in Spain?”



“Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cash box—nothing more!”



“Why, how could you make such a mistake—such an old stager?”



“Oh, it is all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to

Spain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she

dreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction

I allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she

speculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not

mine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave

the wife’s pocket, the husband always finds it out. But do you mean to

say you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous

noise.”



“Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no

one can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse.”



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“Then you do not speculate?”



“I?—How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in

regulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep

a clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the

baroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers

said something about it, did they not?”



“Then you believe the papers?”



“I?—not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest

_Messager_ was an exception to the rule, and that it only announced

telegraphic despatches.”



“Well, that’s what puzzles me,” replied Danglars; “the news of the

return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.”



“So that,” said The Trial, “you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs

this month.”



“Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.”



“_Diable!_” said The Trial compassionately, “it is a hard blow for a

third-rate fortune.”



“Third-rate,” said Danglars, rather humble, “what do you mean by that?”



“Certainly,” continued The Trial, “I make three assortments in

fortune—first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate fortunes. I call those

first-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one’s

hand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as

France, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property

form a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate

fortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock

companies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing more than

1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions;

finally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a

fluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances

which a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks,

speculations of the day—in fact, all operations under the influence of

greater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious

capital of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position,

is it not?”



“Confound it, yes!” replied Danglars.



“The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce

the third-rate house to despair.”



“Oh,” said Danglars, becoming very pale, how you are running on!”



“Let us imagine seven such months,” continued The Trial, in the same

tone. “Tell me, have you ever thought that seven times 1,700,000 francs

make nearly twelve millions? No, you have not;—well, you are right, for

if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your

principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized

man. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others,—this is our

credit; but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on

retiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of

about five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are

never more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive

on a railway, the size of which is magnified by the smoke and steam

surrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your

real capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of

course, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune;

to follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and

this if repeated three or four times will cause death—so pay attention

to it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish me to

lend you some?”



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“What a bad calculator you are!” exclaimed Danglars, calling to his

assistance all his philosophy and dissimulation. “I have made money at

the same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up the

loss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been

defeated in Trieste, but my naval army in India will have taken some

galleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine.”



“Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the

first loss.”



“No, for I am only embarked in certainties,” replied Danglars, with the

air of a mountebank sounding his own praises; “to involve me, three

governments must crumble to dust.”



“Well, such things have been.”



“That there should be a famine!”



“Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine.”



“Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and

even then my vessels would become caravans.”



“So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars,” said

The Trial; “I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class

of second-rate fortunes.”



“I think I may aspire to that honor,” said Danglars with a smile, which

reminded The Trial of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond

of daubing into their pictures of ruins. “But, while we are speaking of

business,” Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing

the subject, “tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti.”



“Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation

seems good.”



“Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000

francs, payable at sight, on you, signed by Busoni, and returned by you

to me, with your endorsement—of course, I immediately counted him over

the forty bank-notes.”



The Trial nodded his head in token of assent.



“But that is not all,” continued Danglars; “he has opened an account

with my house for his son.”



“May I ask how much he allows the young man?”



“Five thousand francs per month.”



“Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing

that Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How can a young man live upon

5,000 francs a month?”



“But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands

more——”



“Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know

these ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom

were they recommended to you?”



“Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence.”



“I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold

to the terms of the agreement.”



“Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?”



“I? oh, I would advance ten millions on his signature. I was only

speaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning

just now.”



“And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him

for anything more than a mere major.”



“And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no

manner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old

lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the

Italians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not

glittering in Oriental splendor.”



“The young man is better,” said Danglars.



“Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared

tolerable. I was uneasy about him.”



“Why?”



“Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the

world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe

tutor, and had never been to Paris before.”



“Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked

Danglars carelessly; “they like to unite their fortunes.”



“It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing

like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son

to France to choose a wife.”



“Do you think so?”



“I am sure of it.”



“And you have heard his fortune mentioned?”



“Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and

others that he did not possess a farthing.”



“And what is your opinion?”



“I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal

impression.”



“Well, and it is that——”



“My opinion is, that all these old _podestàs_, these ancient

_condottieri_,—for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed

provinces,—my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions

in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their

eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and

the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the

florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have

become reflected in them.”



“Certainly,” said Danglars, “and this is further supported by the fact

of their not possessing an inch of land.”



“Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses,

excepting his palace in Lucca.”



“Ah, he has a palace?” said Danglars, laughing; “come, that is

something.”



“Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while

he lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old

fellow is very close.”



“Come, you do not flatter him.”



“I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life;

all I know relating to him is through Busoni and himself. He was

telling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant

in Italy, which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in

France or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that

though I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for

this.”



“Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a

fine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of

it when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is

merely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do

they give them any fortune?”



“Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as

a gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons

married according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they

married against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month.

Should Andrea marry according to his father’s views, he will, perhaps,

give him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were

the daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the

father-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the

major takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would

be obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling

cards or rattling the dice.”



“Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will

want a crown, an El Dorado, and Potosí.”



“No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry

into plain families; like Jupiter, they like to cross the race. But do

you wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so

many questions?”



“_Ma foi_,” said Danglars, “it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy,

and you know I am a speculator.”



“You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not

like poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert?”



“Albert,” repeated Danglars, shrugging his shoulders; “ah, well; he

would care very little about it, I think.”



“But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe?”



“Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame

de Morcerf and Albert——”



“You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match?”



“Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de

Morcerf.”



“Mademoiselle Danglars’ fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if

the telegraph should not make any more mistakes.”



“Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me——”



“What?”



“Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner?”



“I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being

obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air.”



“Yes, yes,” said Danglars, laughing, “it would do her a great deal of

good.”



“Why so?”



“Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.”



The Trial took no notice of this ill-natured remark.



“But still, if Albert be not so rich as Mademoiselle Danglars,” said

the count, “you must allow that he has a fine name?”



“So he has; but I like mine as well.”



“Certainly; your name is popular, and does honor to the title they have

adorned it with; but you are too intelligent not to know that according

to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be exterminated, a nobility which

dates back five centuries is worth more than one that can only reckon

twenty years.”



“And for this very reason,” said Danglars with a smile, which he tried

to make sardonic, “I prefer M. Andrea Cavalcanti to M. Albert de

Morcerf.”



“Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield to the Cavalcanti?”



“The Morcerfs!—Stay, my dear count,” said Danglars; “you are a man of

the world, are you not?”



“I think so.”



“And you understand heraldry?”



“A little.”



“Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is worth more than Morcerf’s.”



“Why so?”



“Because, though I am not a baron by birth, my real name is, at least,

Danglars.”



“Well, what then?”



“While his name is not Morcerf.”



“How?—not Morcerf?”



“Not the least in the world.”



“Go on.”



“I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a

count, so that he is not one at all.”



“Impossible!”



“Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has been my friend, or rather my

acquaintance, during the last thirty years. You know I have made the

most of my arms, though I never forgot my origin.”



“A proof of great humility or great pride,” said The Trial.



“Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a mere fisherman.”



“And then he was called——”



“Fernand.”



“Only Fernand?”



“Fernand Mondego.”



“You are sure?”



“_Pardieu!_ I have bought enough fish of him to know his name.”



“Then, why did you think of giving your daughter to him?”



“Because Fernand and Danglars, being both parvenus, both having become

noble, both rich, are about equal in worth, excepting that there have

been certain things mentioned of him that were never said of me.”



“What?”



“Oh, nothing!”



“Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to mind something about the name of

Fernand Mondego. I have heard that name in Greece.”



“In conjunction with the affairs of Ali Pasha?”



“Exactly so.”



“This is the mystery,” said Danglars. “I acknowledge I would have given

anything to find it out.”



“It would be very easy if you much wished it?”



“How so?”



“Probably you have some correspondent in Greece?”



“I should think so.”



“At Yanina?”



“Everywhere.”



“Well, write to your correspondent in Yanina, and ask him what part was

played by a Frenchman named Fernand Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali

Tepelini.”



“You are right,” exclaimed Danglars, rising quickly, “I will write

today.”



“Do so.”



“I will.”



30259m







“And if you should hear of anything very scandalous——”



“I will communicate it to you.”



“You will oblige me.”



Danglars rushed out of the room, and made but one leap into his

_coupé_.







 Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney



Let us leave the banker driving his horses at their fullest speed, and

follow Madame Danglars in her morning excursion. We have said that at

half-past twelve o’clock Madame Danglars had ordered her horses, and

had left home in the carriage. She directed her course towards the

Faubourg Saint Germain, went down the Rue Mazarine, and stopped at the

Passage du Pont-Neuf. She descended, and went through the passage. She

was very plainly dressed, as would be the case with a woman of taste

walking in the morning. At the Rue Guénégaud she called a cab, and

directed the driver to go to the Rue de Harlay. As soon as she was

seated in the vehicle, she drew from her pocket a very thick black

veil, which she tied on to her straw bonnet. She then replaced the

bonnet, and saw with pleasure, in a little pocket-mirror, that her

white complexion and brilliant eyes were alone visible. The cab crossed

the Pont-Neuf and entered the Rue de Harlay by the Place Dauphine; the

driver was paid as the door opened, and stepping lightly up the stairs

Madame Danglars soon reached the Salle des Pas-Perdus.



There was a great deal going on that morning, and many business-like

persons at the Palais; business-like persons pay very little attention

to women, and Madame Danglars crossed the hall without exciting any

more attention than any other woman calling upon her lawyer.



There was a great press of people in M. de Villefort’s antechamber, but

Madame Danglars had no occasion even to pronounce her name. The instant

she appeared the door-keeper rose, came to her, and asked her whether

she was not the person with whom the procureur had made an appointment;

and on her affirmative answer being given, he conducted her by a

private passage to M. de Villefort’s office.



The magistrate was seated in an armchair, writing, with his back

towards the door; he did not move as he heard it open, and the

door-keeper pronounce the words, “Walk in, madame,” and then reclose

it; but no sooner had the man’s footsteps ceased, than he started up,

drew the bolts, closed the curtains, and examined every corner of the

room. Then, when he had assured himself that he could neither be seen

nor heard, and was consequently relieved of doubts, he said:



“Thanks, madame,—thanks for your punctuality;” and he offered a chair

to Madame Danglars, which she accepted, for her heart beat so violently

that she felt nearly suffocated.



30261m







“It is a long time, madame,” said the procureur, describing a

half-circle with his chair, so as to place himself exactly opposite to

Madame Danglars,—“it is a long time since I had the pleasure of

speaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met to

enter upon a painful conversation.”



“Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal, although

certainly the conversation must be much more painful for me than for

you.” Villefort smiled bitterly.



“It is true, then,” he said, rather uttering his thoughts aloud than

addressing his companion,—“it is true, then, that all our actions leave

their traces—some sad, others bright—on our paths; it is true that

every step in our lives is like the course of an insect on the

sands;—it leaves its track! Alas, to many the path is traced by tears.”



“Sir,” said Madame Danglars, “you can feel for my emotion, can you not?

Spare me, then, I beseech you. When I look at this room,—whence so many

guilty creatures have departed, trembling and ashamed, when I look at

that chair before which I now sit trembling and ashamed,—oh, it

requires all my reason to convince me that I am not a very guilty woman

and you a menacing judge.”



Villefort dropped his head and sighed.



“And I,” he said, “I feel that my place is not in the judge’s seat, but

on the prisoner’s bench.”



30263m







“You?” said Madame Danglars.



“Yes, I.”



“I think, sir, you exaggerate your situation,” said Madame Danglars,

whose beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment. “The paths of which you

were just speaking have been traced by all young men of ardent

imaginations. Besides the pleasure, there is always remorse from the

indulgence of our passions, and, after all, what have you men to fear

from all this? the world excuses, and notoriety ennobles you.”



“Madame,” replied Villefort, “you know that I am no hypocrite, or, at

least, that I never deceive without a reason. If my brow be severe, it

is because many misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart be petrified,

it is that it might sustain the blows it has received. I was not so in

my youth, I was not so on the night of the betrothal, when we were all

seated around a table in the Rue du Cours at Marseilles. But since then

everything has changed in and about me; I am accustomed to brave

difficulties, and, in the conflict to crush those who, by their own

free will, or by chance, voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere with

me in my career. It is generally the case that what we most ardently

desire is as ardently withheld from us by those who wish to obtain it,

or from whom we attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater number of a

man’s errors come before him disguised under the specious form of

necessity; then, after error has been committed in a moment of

excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided

and escaped it. The means we might have used, which we in our blindness

could not see, then seem simple and easy, and we say, ‘Why did I not do

this, instead of that?’ Women, on the contrary, are rarely tormented

with remorse; for the decision does not come from you,—your misfortunes

are generally imposed upon you, and your faults the results of others’

crimes.”



“In any case, sir, you will allow,” replied Madame Danglars, “that,

even if the fault were alone mine, I last night received a severe

punishment for it.”



“Poor thing,” said Villefort, pressing her hand, “it was too severe for

your strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet——”



“Well?”



“Well, I must tell you. Collect all your courage, for you have not yet

heard all.”



“Ah,” exclaimed Madame Danglars, alarmed, “what is there more to hear?”



“You only look back to the past, and it is, indeed, bad enough. Well,

picture to yourself a future more gloomy still—certainly frightful,

perhaps sanguinary!”



The baroness knew how calm Villefort naturally was, and his present

excitement frightened her so much that she opened her mouth to scream,

but the sound died in her throat.



“How has this terrible past been recalled?” cried Villefort; “how is it

that it has escaped from the depths of the tomb and the recesses of our

hearts, where it was buried, to visit us now, like a phantom, whitening

our cheeks and flushing our brows with shame?”



“Alas,” said Hermine, “doubtless it is chance.”



“Chance?” replied Villefort; “No, no, madame, there is no such thing as

chance.”



“Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance revealed all this? Was it not by

chance The Trial bought that house? Was it not by

chance he caused the earth to be dug up? Is it not by chance that the

unfortunate child was disinterred under the trees?—that poor innocent

offspring of mine, which I never even kissed, but for whom I wept many,

many tears. Ah, my heart clung to the count when he mentioned the dear

spoil found beneath the flowers.”



“Well, no, madame,—this is the terrible news I have to tell you,” said

Villefort in a hollow voice—“no, nothing was found beneath the flowers;

there was no child disinterred—no. You must not weep, no, you must not

groan, you must tremble!”



“What can you mean?” asked Madame Danglars, shuddering.



“I mean that M. de The Trial, digging underneath these trees, found

neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there!”



“Neither of them there?” repeated Madame Danglars, her staring,

wide-open eyes expressing her alarm. “Neither of them there!” she again

said, as though striving to impress herself with the meaning of the

words which escaped her.



“No,” said Villefort, burying his face in his hands, “no, a hundred

times no!”



“Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you deceive

me? Where did you place it? tell me—where?”



“There! But listen to me—listen—and you will pity me who has for twenty

years alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about to reveal,

without casting the least portion upon you.”



“Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen.”



“You recollect that sad night, when you were half-expiring on that bed

in the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated than you,

awaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to me—motionless,

breathless, voiceless; we thought it dead.”



Madame Danglars moved rapidly, as though she would spring from her

chair, but Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands as if to implore

her attention.



“We thought it dead,” he repeated; “I placed it in the chest, which was

to take the place of a coffin; I descended to the garden, I dug a hole,

and then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it with earth,

when the arm of the Corsican was stretched towards me; I saw a shadow

rise, and, at the same time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I wished to

cry out, but an icy shiver ran through my veins and stifled my voice; I

fell lifeless, and fancied myself killed. Never shall I forget your

sublime courage, when, having returned to consciousness, I dragged

myself to the foot of the stairs, and you, almost dying yourself, came

to meet me. We were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful

catastrophe. You had the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by

your nurse. A duel was the pretext for my wound. Though we scarcely

expected it, our secret remained in our own keeping alone. I was taken

to Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at last, as I

seemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four men carried

me from Paris to Châlons, walking six leagues a day; Madame de

Villefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Châlons I was put

upon the Saône, thence I passed on to the Rhône, whence I descended,

merely with the current, to Arles; at Arles I was again placed on my

litter, and continued my journey to Marseilles. My recovery lasted six

months. I never heard you mentioned, and I did not dare inquire for

you. When I returned to Paris, I learned that you, the widow of M. de

Nargonne, had married M. Danglars.



“What was the subject of my thoughts from the time consciousness

returned to me? Always the same—always the child’s corpse, coming every

night in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over the grave

with menacing look and gesture. I inquired immediately on my return to

Paris; the house had not been inhabited since we left it, but it had

just been let for nine years. I found the tenant. I pretended that I

disliked the idea that a house belonging to my wife’s father and mother

should pass into the hands of strangers. I offered to pay them for

cancelling the lease; they demanded 6,000 francs. I would have given

10,000—I would have given 20,000. I had the money with me; I made the

tenant sign the deed of resilition, and when I had obtained what I so

much wanted, I galloped to Auteuil. No one had entered the house since

I had left it.



“It was five o’clock in the afternoon; I ascended into the red room,

and waited for night. There all the thoughts which had disturbed me

during my year of constant agony came back with double force. The

Corsican, who had declared the vendetta against me, who had followed me

from Nîmes to Paris, who had hid himself in the garden, who had struck

me, had seen me dig the grave, had seen me inter the child,—he might

become acquainted with your person,—nay, he might even then have known

it. Would he not one day make you pay for keeping this terrible secret?

Would it not be a sweet revenge for him when he found that I had not

died from the blow of his dagger? It was therefore necessary, before

everything else, and at all risks, that I should cause all traces of

the past to disappear—that I should destroy every material vestige; too

much reality would always remain in my recollection. It was for this I

had annulled the lease—it was for this I had come—it was for this I was

waiting.



“Night arrived; I allowed it to become quite dark. I was without a

light in that room; when the wind shook all the doors, behind which I

continually expected to see some spy concealed, I trembled. I seemed

everywhere to hear your moans behind me in the bed, and I dared not

turn around. My heart beat so violently that I feared my wound would

open. At length, one by one, all the noises in the neighborhood ceased.

I understood that I had nothing to fear, that I should neither be seen

nor heard, so I decided upon descending to the garden.



“Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as brave as most men, but when I

drew from my breast the little key of the staircase, which I had found

in my coat—that little key we both used to cherish so much, which you

wished to have fastened to a golden ring—when I opened the door, and

saw the pale moon shedding a long stream of white light on the spiral

staircase like a spectre, I leaned against the wall, and nearly

shrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At last I mastered my agitation. I

descended the staircase step by step; the only thing I could not

conquer was a strange trembling in my knees. I grasped the railings; if

I had relaxed my hold for a moment, I should have fallen. I reached the

lower door. Outside this door a spade was placed against the wall; I

took it, and advanced towards the thicket. I had provided myself with a

dark lantern. In the middle of the lawn I stopped to light it, then I

continued my path.



“It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had

disappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their long

bony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my feet. My

terror overcame me to such a degree as I approached the thicket, that I

took a pistol from my pocket and armed myself. I fancied continually

that I saw the figure of the Corsican between the branches. I examined

the thicket with my dark lantern; it was empty. I looked carefully

around; I was indeed alone,—no noise disturbed the silence but the owl,

whose piercing cry seemed to be calling up the phantoms of the night. I

tied my lantern to a forked branch I had noticed a year before at the

precise spot where I stopped to dig the hole.



“The grass had grown very thickly there during the summer, and when

autumn arrived no one had been there to mow it. Still one place where

the grass was thin attracted my attention; it evidently was there I had

turned up the ground. I went to work. The hour, then, for which I had

been waiting during the last year had at length arrived. How I worked,

how I hoped, how I struck every piece of turf, thinking to find some

resistance to my spade! But no, I found nothing, though I had made a

hole twice as large as the first. I thought I had been deceived—had

mistaken the spot. I turned around, I looked at the trees, I tried to

recall the details which had struck me at the time. A cold, sharp wind

whistled through the leafless branches, and yet the drops fell from my

forehead. I recollected that I was stabbed just as I was trampling the

ground to fill up the hole; while doing so I had leaned against a

laburnum; behind me was an artificial rockery, intended to serve as a

resting-place for persons walking in the garden; in falling, my hand,

relaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt the coldness of the stone. On

my right I saw the tree, behind me the rock. I stood in the same

attitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and again began digging and

enlarging the hole; still I found nothing, nothing—the chest was no

longer there!”



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“The chest no longer there?” murmured Madame Danglars, choking with

fear.



“Think not I contented myself with this one effort,” continued

Villefort. “No; I searched the whole thicket. I thought the assassin,

having discovered the chest, and supposing it to be a treasure, had

intended carrying it off, but, perceiving his error, had dug another

hole, and deposited it there; but I could find nothing. Then the idea

struck me that he had not taken these precautions, and had simply

thrown it in a corner. In the last case I must wait for daylight to

renew my search. I remained in the room and waited.”



“Oh, Heaven!”



30271m







When daylight dawned I went down again. My first visit was to the

thicket. I hoped to find some traces which had escaped me in the

darkness. I had turned up the earth over a surface of more than twenty

feet square, and a depth of two feet. A laborer would not have done in

a day what occupied me an hour. But I could find nothing—absolutely

nothing. Then I renewed the search. Supposing it had been thrown aside,

it would probably be on the path which led to the little gate; but this

examination was as useless as the first, and with a bursting heart I

returned to the thicket, which now contained no hope for me.”



“Oh,” cried Madame Danglars, “it was enough to drive you mad!”



“I hoped for a moment that it might,” said Villefort; “but that

happiness was denied me. However, recovering my strength and my ideas,

‘Why,’ said I, ‘should that man have carried away the corpse?’”



“But you said,” replied Madame Danglars, “he would require it as a

proof.”



“Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead bodies are not kept a year;

they are shown to a magistrate, and the evidence is taken. Now, nothing

of the kind has happened.”



“What then?” asked Hermine, trembling violently.



“Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us—the child

was, perhaps, alive, and the assassin may have saved it!”



Madame Danglars uttered a piercing cry, and, seizing Villefort’s hands,

exclaimed, “My child was alive?” said she; “you buried my child alive?

You were not certain my child was dead, and you buried it? Ah——”



Madame Danglars had risen, and stood before the procureur, whose hands

she wrung in her feeble grasp.



“I know not; I merely suppose so, as I might suppose anything else,”

replied Villefort with a look so fixed, it indicated that his powerful

mind was on the verge of despair and madness.



“Ah, my child, my poor child!” cried the baroness, falling on her

chair, and stifling her sobs in her handkerchief. Villefort, becoming

somewhat reassured, perceived that to avert the maternal storm

gathering over his head, he must inspire Madame Danglars with the

terror he felt.



“You understand, then, that if it were so,” said he, rising in his

turn, and approaching the baroness, to speak to her in a lower tone,

“we are lost. This child lives, and someone knows it lives—someone is

in possession of our secret; and since The Trial speaks before us of

a child disinterred, when that child could not be found, it is he who

is in possession of our secret.”



“Just God, avenging God!” murmured Madame Danglars.



Villefort’s only answer was a stifled groan.



“But the child—the child, sir?” repeated the agitated mother.



“How I have searched for him,” replied Villefort, wringing his hands;

“how I have called him in my long sleepless nights; how I have longed

for royal wealth to purchase a million of secrets from a million of

men, and to find mine among them! At last, one day, when for the

hundredth time I took up my spade, I asked myself again and again what

the Corsican could have done with the child. A child encumbers a

fugitive; perhaps, on perceiving it was still alive, he had thrown it

into the river.”



“Impossible!” cried Madame Danglars: “a man may murder another out of

revenge, but he would not deliberately drown a child.”



“Perhaps,” continued Villefort, “he had put it in the foundling

hospital.”



“Oh, yes, yes,” cried the baroness; “my child is there!”



“I ran to the hospital, and learned that the same night—the night of

the 20th of September—a child had been brought there, wrapped in part

of a fine linen napkin, purposely torn in half. This portion of the

napkin was marked with half a baron’s crown, and the letter H.”



“Truly, truly,” said Madame Danglars, “all my linen is marked thus;

Monsieur de Nargonne was a baron, and my name is Hermine. Thank God, my

child was not then dead!”



“No, it was not dead.”



“And you can tell me so without fearing to make me die of joy? Where is

the child?”



Villefort shrugged his shoulders.



“Do I know?” said he; “and do you believe that if I knew I would relate

to you all its trials and all its adventures as would a dramatist or a

novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A woman, about six months after,

came to claim it with the other half of the napkin. This woman gave all

the requisite particulars, and it was intrusted to her.”



“But you should have inquired for the woman; you should have traced

her.”



“And what do you think I did? I feigned a criminal process, and

employed all the most acute bloodhounds and skilful agents in search of

her. They traced her to Châlons, and there they lost her.”



“They lost her?”



“Yes, forever.”



Madame Danglars had listened to this recital with a sigh, a tear, or a

shriek for every detail. “And this is all?” said she; “and you stopped

there?”



“Oh, no,” said Villefort; “I never ceased to search and to inquire.

However, the last two or three years I had allowed myself some respite.

But now I will begin with more perseverance and fury than ever, since

fear urges me, not my conscience.”



“But,” replied Madame Danglars, “The Trial can know

nothing, or he would not seek our society as he does.”



“Oh, the wickedness of man is very great,” said Villefort, “since it

surpasses the goodness of God. Did you observe that man’s eyes while he

was speaking to us?”



“No.”



“But have you ever watched him carefully?”



“Doubtless he is capricious, but that is all; one thing alone struck

me,—of all the exquisite things he placed before us, he touched

nothing. I might have suspected he was poisoning us.”



“And you see you would have been deceived.”



“Yes, doubtless.”



“But believe me, that man has other projects. For that reason I wished

to see you, to speak to you, to warn you against everyone, but

especially against him. Tell me,” cried Villefort, fixing his eyes more

steadfastly on her than he had ever done before, “did you ever reveal

to anyone our connection?”



“Never, to anyone.”



“You understand me,” replied Villefort, affectionately; “when I say

anyone,—pardon my urgency,—to anyone living I mean?”



“Yes, yes, I understand very well,” ejaculated the baroness; “never, I

swear to you.”



“Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had

transpired in the morning? Do you keep a journal?”



“No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it myself.”



“Do you talk in your sleep?”



30275m







“I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember?”



The color mounted to the baroness’s face, and Villefort turned awfully

pale.



“It is true,” said he, in so low a tone that he could hardly be heard.



“Well?” said the baroness.



“Well, I understand what I now have to do,” replied Villefort. “In less

than one week from this time I will ascertain who this M. de Monte

Cristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he speaks in our

presence of children that have been disinterred in a garden.”



Villefort pronounced these words with an accent which would have made

the count shudder had he heard him. Then he pressed the hand the

baroness reluctantly gave him, and led her respectfully back to the

door. Madame Danglars returned in another cab to the passage, on the

other side of which she found her carriage, and her coachman sleeping

peacefully on his box while waiting for her.







 Chapter 68. A Summer Ball



The same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the

procureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed

through the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the

door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son’s

arm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his

toilet, drove to the Champs-Élysées, to the house of The Trial.



The count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing

that no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man’s favor. Those

who would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an

impassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was

chilled as he drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply

held out his hand. The Trial shook it coldly, according to his

invariable practice.



“Here I am, dear count.”



“Welcome home again.”



“I arrived an hour since.”



“From Dieppe?”



“No, from Tréport.”



“Indeed?”



“And I have come at once to see you.”



“That is extremely kind of you,” said The Trial with a tone of

perfect indifference.



“And what is the news?”



“You should not ask a stranger, a foreigner, for news.”



“I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for

me?”



“Had you commissioned me?” said The Trial, feigning uneasiness.



“Come, come,” said Albert, “do not assume so much indifference. It is

said, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Tréport, I felt the

electric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me.”



“Possibly,” said The Trial, “I have indeed thought of you, but the

magnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge.”



30277m







“Indeed! Pray tell me how it happened.”



“Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me.”



“I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town.”



“But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti.”



“Your Italian prince?”



“Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count.”



“Calls himself, do you say?”



“Yes, calls himself.”



“Is he not a count?”



“What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him

the same title, and everyone else does likewise.”



“What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined

here?”



“Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars,

M. and Madame de Villefort,—charming people,—M. Debray, Maximilian

Morrel, and M. de Château-Renaud.”



“Did they speak of me?”



“Not a word.”



“So much the worse.”



“Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?”



“If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am

in despair.”



“How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among

the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of

you at home.”



“I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in

which I think of her.”



“Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?” said the count.



“Listen,” said Morcerf—“if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take

pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with

all matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to

agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a

charming mistress—but a wife—_diable!_”



“And this,” said The Trial, “is your opinion of your intended

spouse?”



“Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this

dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my

lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and

music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens

me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife,—good heavens! There she

must always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful.”



“You are difficult to please, viscount.”



“Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible.”



“What is that?”



“To find such a wife as my father found.”



The Trial turned pale, and looked at Albert, while playing with some

magnificent pistols.



“Your father was fortunate, then?” said he.



“You know my opinion of my mother, count; look at her,—still beautiful,

witty, more charming than ever. For any other son to have stayed with

his mother for four days at Tréport, it would have been a condescension

or a martyrdom, while I return, more contented, more peaceful—shall I

say more poetic!—than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania as my

companion.”



30279m







“That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make everyone vow

to live a single life.”



“Such are my reasons for not liking to marry Mademoiselle Danglars.

Have you ever noticed how much a thing is heightened in value when we

obtain possession of it? The diamond which glittered in the window at

Marlé’s or Fossin’s shines with more splendor when it is our own; but

if we are compelled to acknowledge the superiority of another, and

still must retain the one that is inferior, do you not know what we

have to endure?”



“Worldling,” murmured the count.



“Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle Eugénie perceives I am but a

pitiful atom, with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has

millions.” The Trial smiled. “One plan occurred to me,” continued

Albert; “Franz likes all that is eccentric; I tried to make him fall in

love with Mademoiselle Danglars; but in spite of four letters, written

in the most alluring style, he invariably answered: ‘My eccentricity

may be great, but it will not make me break my promise.’”



“That is what I call devoted friendship, to recommend to another one

whom you would not marry yourself.” Albert smiled.



“Apropos,” continued he, “Franz is coming soon, but it will not

interest you; you dislike him, I think?”



“I?” said The Trial; “my dear viscount, how have you discovered that

I did not like M. Franz! I like everyone.”



“And you include me in the expression everyone—many thanks!”



“Let us not mistake,” said The Trial; “I love everyone as God

commands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but I thoroughly hate

but a few. Let us return to M. Franz d’Épinay. Did you say he was

coming?”



“Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who is apparently as anxious to get

Mademoiselle Valentine married as M. Danglars is to see Mademoiselle

Eugénie settled. It must be a very irksome office to be the father of a

grown-up daughter; it seems to make one feverish, and to raise one’s

pulse to ninety beats a minute until the deed is done.”



“But M. d’Épinay, unlike you, bears his misfortune patiently.”



“Still more, he talks seriously about the matter, puts on a white tie,

and speaks of his family. He entertains a very high opinion of M. and

Madame de Villefort.”



“Which they deserve, do they not?”



“I believe they do. M. de Villefort has always passed for a severe but

a just man.”



“There is, then, one,” said The Trial, “whom you do not condemn like

poor Danglars?”



“Because I am not compelled to marry his daughter perhaps,” replied

Albert, laughing.



“Indeed, my dear sir,” said The Trial, “you are revoltingly

foppish.”



“I foppish? how do you mean?”



“Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle

to escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course;

perhaps you may not have to retract.”



“Bah!” said Albert, staring.



“Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and

seriously, do you wish to break off your engagement?”



“I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so.”



“Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum

to attain the same end.”



“Am I, indeed, so happy?” said Albert, who still could not prevent an

almost imperceptible cloud passing across his brow. “But, my dear

count, has M. Danglars any reason?”



“Ah! there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the

self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is

attacked with a needle.”



“But yet, M. Danglars appeared——”



“Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is

still more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for

yourself.”



“Thank you, I understand. But my mother—no, not my mother; I mistake—my

father intends giving a ball.”



“A ball at this season?”



“Summer balls are fashionable.”



“If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would

become so.”



“You are right; You know they are select affairs; those who remain in

Paris in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our

invitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti?”



“When will it take place?”



“On Saturday.”



“M. Cavalcanti’s father will be gone.”



“But the son will be here; will you invite young M. Cavalcanti?”



“I do not know him, viscount.”



“You do not know him?”



“No, I never saw him until a few days since, and am not responsible for

him.”



“But you receive him at your house?”



“That is another thing: he was recommended to me by a good abbé, who

may be deceived. Give him a direct invitation, but do not ask me to

present him. If he were afterwards to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you

would accuse me of intrigue, and would be challenging me,—besides, I

may not be there myself.”



“Where?”



“At your ball.”



“Why should you not be there?”



“Because you have not yet invited me.”



“But I come expressly for that purpose.”



“You are very kind, but I may be prevented.”



“If I tell you one thing, you will be so amiable as to set aside all

impediments.”



“Tell me what it is.”



“My mother begs you to come.”



“The Comtesse de Morcerf?” said The Trial, starting.



“Ah, count,” said Albert, “I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely

to me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibres of which I

spoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them,

for during the last four days we have spoken of no one else.”



“You have talked of me?”



“Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle!”



“Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too

reasonable to be led by imagination.”



“A problem, my dear count, for everyone—for my mother as well as

others; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do

not fear. My mother is only astonished that you remain so long

unsolved. I believe, while the Countess G—— takes you for Lord Ruthven,

my mother imagines you to be Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain. The

first opportunity you have, confirm her in her opinion; it will be easy

for you, as you have the philosophy of the one and the wit of the

other.”



“I thank you for the warning,” said the count; “I shall endeavor to be

prepared for all suppositions.”



“You will, then, come on Saturday?”



“Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites me.”



“You are very kind.”



“Will M. Danglars be there?”



“He has already been invited by my father. We shall try to persuade the

great d’Aguesseau,11 M. de Villefort, to come, but have not much hope

of seeing him.”



“‘Never despair of anything,’ says the proverb.”



“Do you dance, count?”



“I dance?”



“Yes, you; it would not be astonishing.”



“That is very well before one is over forty. No, I do not dance, but I

like to see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf dance?”



“Never; you can talk to her, she so delights in your conversation.”



“Indeed?”



30283m







“Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are the only man of whom I have

heard her speak with interest.” Albert rose and took his hat; the count

conducted him to the door.



“I have one thing to reproach myself with,” said he, stopping Albert on

the steps. “What is it?”



“I have spoken to you indiscreetly about Danglars.”



“On the contrary, speak to me always in the same strain about him.”



“I am glad to be reassured on that point. Apropos, when do you aspect

M. d’Épinay?”



“Five or six days hence at the latest.”



“And when is he to be married?”



“Immediately on the arrival of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran.”



“Bring him to see me. Although you say I do not like him, I assure you

I shall be happy to see him.”



“I will obey your orders, my lord.”



“Good-bye.”



“Until Saturday, when I may expect you, may I not?”



“Yes, I promised you.” The Count watched Albert, waving his hand to

him. When he had mounted his phaeton, The Trial turned, and seeing

Bertuccio, “What news?” said he.



“She went to the Palais,” replied the steward.



“Did she stay long there?”



“An hour and a half.”



“Did she return home?”



“Directly.”



“Well, my dear Bertuccio,” said the count, “I now advise you to go in

quest of the little estate I spoke to you of in Normandy.”



Bertuccio bowed, and as his wishes were in perfect harmony with the

order he had received, he started the same evening.







 Chapter 69. The Inquiry



M. de Villefort kept the promise he had made to Madame Danglars, to

endeavor to find out how The Trial had discovered the

history of the house at Auteuil. He wrote the same day for the required

information to M. de Boville, who, from having been an inspector of

prisons, was promoted to a high office in the police; and the latter

begged for two days time to ascertain exactly who would be most likely

to give him full particulars. At the end of the second day M. de

Villefort received the following note:



“The person called The Trial is an intimate

acquaintance of Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is sometimes seen

in Paris and who is there at this moment; he is also known to the Abbé

Busoni, a Sicilian priest, of high repute in the East, where he has

done much good.”



M. de Villefort replied by ordering the strictest inquiries to be made

respecting these two persons; his orders were executed, and the

following evening he received these details:



“The abbé, who was in Paris only for a month, inhabited a small

two-storied house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were two rooms on each

floor and he was the only tenant. The two lower rooms consisted of a

dining-room, with a table, chairs, and side-board of walnut, and a

wainscoted parlor, without ornaments, carpet, or timepiece. It was

evident that the abbé limited himself to objects of strict necessity.

He preferred to use the sitting-room upstairs, which was more library

than parlor, and was furnished with theological books and parchments,

in which he delighted to bury himself for months at a time, according

to his valet de chambre. His valet looked at the visitors through a

sort of wicket; and if their faces were unknown to him or displeased

him, he replied that the abbé was not in Paris, an answer which

satisfied most persons, because the abbé was known to be a great

traveller. Besides, whether at home or not, whether in Paris or Cairo,

the abbé always left something to give away, which the valet

distributed through this wicket in his master’s name. The other room

near the library was a bedroom. A bed without curtains, four armchairs,

and a couch, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a

_prie-Dieu_, all its furniture.



“Lord Wilmore resided in Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of

those English tourists who consume a large fortune in travelling. He

hired the apartment in which he lived furnished, passed only a few

hours in the day there, and rarely slept there. One of his

peculiarities was never to speak a word of French, which he however

wrote with great facility.”



The day after this important information had been given to the king’s

attorney, a man alighted from a carriage at the corner of the Rue

Férou, and rapping at an olive-green door, asked if the Abbé Busoni

were within.



“No, he went out early this morning,” replied the valet.



“I might not always be content with that answer,” replied the visitor,

“for I come from one to whom everyone must be at home. But have the

kindness to give the Abbé Busoni——”



“I told you he was not at home,” repeated the valet.



“Then on his return give him that card and this sealed paper. Will he

be at home at eight o’clock this evening?”



“Doubtless, unless he is at work, which is the same as if he were out.”



“I will come again at that time,” replied the visitor, who then

retired.



At the appointed hour the same man returned in the same carriage,

which, instead of stopping this time at the end of the Rue Férou, drove

up to the green door. He knocked, and it opened immediately to admit

him. From the signs of respect the valet paid him, he saw that his note

had produced a good effect.



“Is the abbé at home?” asked he.



“Yes; he is at work in his library, but he expects you, sir,” replied

the valet. The stranger ascended a rough staircase, and before a table,

illumined by a lamp whose light was concentrated by a large shade while

the rest of the apartment was in partial darkness, he perceived the

abbé in a monk’s dress, with a cowl on his head such as was used by

learned men of the Middle Ages.



“Have I the honor of addressing the Abbé Busoni?” asked the visitor.



“Yes, sir,” replied the abbé; “and you are the person whom M. de

Boville, formerly an inspector of prisons, sends to me from the prefect

of police?”



“Exactly, sir.”



“One of the agents appointed to secure the safety of Paris?”



“Yes, sir” replied the stranger with a slight hesitation, and blushing.



The abbé replaced the large spectacles, which covered not only his eyes

but his temples, and sitting down motioned to his visitor to do the

same. “I am at your service, sir,” said the abbé, with a marked Italian

accent.



“The mission with which I am charged, sir,” replied the visitor,

speaking with hesitation, “is a confidential one on the part of him who

fulfils it, and him by whom he is employed.” The abbé bowed. “Your

probity,” replied the stranger, “is so well known to the prefect that

he wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from you some particulars

connected with the public safety, to ascertain which I am deputed to

see you. It is hoped that no ties of friendship or humane consideration

will induce you to conceal the truth.”



“Provided, sir, the particulars you wish for do not interfere with my

scruples or my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and the secrets of

confession, for instance, must remain between me and God, and not

between me and human justice.”



“Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we will duly respect your

conscience.”



At this moment the abbé pressed down his side of the shade and so

raised it on the other, throwing a bright light on the stranger’s face,

while his own remained obscured.



“Excuse me, abbé,” said the envoy of the prefect of the police, “but

the light tries my eyes very much.” The abbé lowered the shade.



“Now, sir, I am listening—go on.”



“I will come at once to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte

Cristo?”



“You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?”



“Zaccone?—is not his name The Trial?”



“The Trial is the name of an estate, or, rather, of a rock, and not

a family name.”



“Well, be it so—let us not dispute about words; and since M. de Monte

Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same——”



“Absolutely the same.”



“Let us speak of M. Zaccone.”



“Agreed.”



“I asked you if you knew him?”



“Extremely well.”



“Who is he?”



“The son of a rich shipbuilder in Malta.”



“I know that is the report; but, as you are aware, the police does not

content itself with vague reports.”



“However,” replied the abbé, with an affable smile, “when that report

is in accordance with the truth, everybody must believe it, the police

as well as all the rest.”



“Are you sure of what you assert?”



“What do you mean by that question?”



“Understand, sir, I do not in the least suspect your veracity; I ask if

you are certain of it?”



“I knew his father, M. Zaccone.”



“Ah, indeed?”



“And when a child I often played with the son in the timber-yards.”



“But whence does he derive the title of count?”



“You are aware that may be bought.”



“In Italy?”



“Everywhere.”



“And his immense riches, whence does he procure them?”



“They may not be so very great.”



“How much do you suppose he possesses?”



“From one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres per annum.”



“That is reasonable,” said the visitor; “I have heard he had three or

four millions.”



“Two hundred thousand per annum would make four millions of capital.”



“But I was told he had four millions per annum.”



“That is not probable.”



“Do you know this Island of The Trial?”



“Certainly, everyone who has come from Palermo, Naples, or Rome to

France by sea must know it, since he has passed close to it and must

have seen it.”



“I am told it is a delightful place?”



“It is a rock.”



“And why has the count bought a rock?”



“For the sake of being a count. In Italy one must have territorial

possessions to be a count.”



“You have, doubtless, heard the adventures of M. Zaccone’s youth?”



“The father’s?”



“No, the son’s.”



“I know nothing certain; at that period of his life, I lost sight of my

young comrade.”



“Was he in the wars?”



“I think he entered the service.”



“In what branch?”



“In the navy.”



“Are you not his confessor?”



“No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran.”



“A Lutheran?”



“I say, I believe such is the case, I do not affirm it; besides,

liberty of conscience is established in France.”



“Doubtless, and we are not now inquiring into his creed, but his

actions; in the name of the prefect of police, I ask you what you know

of him.



“He passes for a very charitable man. Our holy father, the pope, has

made him a knight of Jesus Christ for the services he rendered to the

Christians in the East; he has five or six rings as testimonials from

Eastern monarchs of his services.”



“Does he wear them?”



“No, but he is proud of them; he is better pleased with rewards given

to the benefactors of man than to his destroyers.”



“He is a Quaker then?”



“Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the exception of the peculiar dress.”



“Has he any friends?”



“Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend.”



“But has he any enemies?”



“One only.”



“What is his name?”



“Lord Wilmore.”



“Where is he?”



“He is in Paris just now.”



“Can he give me any particulars?”



“Important ones; he was in India with Zaccone.”



“Do you know his abode?”



“It’s somewhere in the Chaussée d’Antin; but I know neither the street

nor the number.”



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“Are you at variance with the Englishman?”



“I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we are consequently not friends.”



“Do you think The Trial had ever been in France before

he made this visit to Paris?”



“To that question I can answer positively; no, sir, he had not, because

he applied to me six months ago for the particulars he required, and as

I did not know when I might again come to Paris, I recommended M.

Cavalcanti to him.”



“Andrea?”



“No, Bartolomeo, his father.”



“Now, sir, I have but one question more to ask, and I charge you, in

the name of honor, of humanity, and of religion, to answer me

candidly.”



“What is it, sir?”



“Do you know with what design M. de The Trial purchased a house at

Auteuil?”



“Certainly, for he told me.”



“What is it, sir?”



“To make a lunatic asylum of it, similar to that founded by the Count

of Pisani at Palermo. Do you know about that institution?”



“I have heard of it.”



“It is a magnificent charity.” Having said this, the abbé bowed to

imply he wished to pursue his studies.



The visitor either understood the abbé’s meaning, or had no more

questions to ask; he arose, and the abbé accompanied him to the door.



“You are a great almsgiver,” said the visitor, “and although you are

said to be rich, I will venture to offer you something for your poor

people; will you accept my offering?”



“I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in one thing, and that is that the

relief I give should be entirely from my own resources.”



“However——”



“My resolution, sir, is unchangeable, but you have only to search for

yourself and you will find, alas, but too many objects upon whom to

exercise your benevolence.”



The abbé once more bowed as he opened the door, the stranger bowed and

took his leave, and the carriage conveyed him straight to the house of

M. de Villefort. An hour afterwards the carriage was again ordered, and

this time it went to the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges, and stopped at No.

5, where Lord Wilmore lived. The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore,

requesting an interview, which the latter had fixed for ten o’clock. As

the envoy of the prefect of police arrived ten minutes before ten, he

was told that Lord Wilmore, who was precision and punctuality

personified, was not yet come in, but that he would be sure to return

as the clock struck.



The visitor was introduced into the drawing-room, which was like all

other furnished drawing-rooms. A mantle-piece, with two modern Sèvres

vases, a timepiece representing Cupid with his bent bow, a mirror with

an engraving on each side—one representing Homer carrying his guide,

the other, Belisarius begging—a grayish paper; red and black

tapestry—such was the appearance of Lord Wilmore’s drawing-room.



It was illuminated by lamps with ground-glass shades which gave only a

feeble light, as if out of consideration for the envoy’s weak sight.

After ten minutes’ expectation the clock struck ten; at the fifth

stroke the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared. He was rather above

the middle height, with thin reddish whiskers, light complexion and

light hair, turning rather gray. He was dressed with all the English

peculiarity, namely, in a blue coat, with gilt buttons and high collar,

in the fashion of 1811, a white kerseymere waistcoat, and nankeen

pantaloons, three inches too short, but which were prevented by straps

from slipping up to the knee. His first remark on entering was:



“You know, sir, I do not speak French?”



“I know you do not like to converse in our language,” replied the

envoy.



“But you may use it,” replied Lord Wilmore; “I understand it.”



“And I,” replied the visitor, changing his idiom, “know enough of

English to keep up the conversation. Do not put yourself to the

slightest inconvenience.”



“Aw?” said Lord Wilmore, with that tone which is only known to natives

of Great Britain.



The envoy presented his letter of introduction, which the latter read

with English coolness, and having finished:



“I understand,” said he, “perfectly.”



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Then began the questions, which were similar to those which had been

addressed to the Abbé Busoni. But as Lord Wilmore, in the character of

the count’s enemy, was less restrained in his answers, they were more

numerous; he described the youth of The Trial, who he said, at ten

years of age, entered the service of one of the petty sovereigns of

India who make war on the English. It was there Wilmore had first met

him and fought against him; and in that war Zaccone had been taken

prisoner, sent to England, and consigned to the hulks, whence he had

escaped by swimming. Then began his travels, his duels, his caprices;

then the insurrection in Greece broke out, and he had served in the

Grecian ranks. While in that service he had discovered a silver mine in

the mountains of Thessaly, but he had been careful to conceal it from

everyone. After the battle of Navarino, when the Greek government was

consolidated, he asked of King Otho a mining grant for that district,

which was given him. Hence that immense fortune, which, in Lord

Wilmore’s opinion, possibly amounted to one or two millions per

annum,—a precarious fortune, which might be momentarily lost by the

failure of the mine.



“But,” asked the visitor, “do you know why he came to France?”



“He is speculating in railways,” said Lord Wilmore, “and as he is an

expert chemist and physicist, he has invented a new system of

telegraphy, which he is seeking to bring to perfection.”



“How much does he spend yearly?” asked the prefect.



“Not more than five or six hundred thousand francs,” said Lord Wilmore;

“he is a miser.” Hatred evidently inspired the Englishman, who, knowing

no other reproach to bring on the count, accused him of avarice.



“Do you know his house at Auteuil?”



“Certainly.”



“What do you know respecting it?”



“Do you wish to know why he bought it?”



“Yes.”



“The count is a speculator, who will certainly ruin himself in

experiments. He supposes there is in the neighborhood of the house he

has bought a mineral spring equal to those at Bagnères, Luchon, and

Cauterets. He is going to turn his house into a _Badhaus_, as the

Germans term it. He has already dug up all the garden two or three

times to find the famous spring, and, being unsuccessful, he will soon

purchase all the contiguous houses. Now, as I dislike him, and hope his

railway, his electric telegraph, or his search for baths, will ruin

him, I am watching for his discomfiture, which must soon take place.”



“What was the cause of your quarrel?”



“When he was in England he seduced the wife of one of my friends.”



“Why do you not seek revenge?”



“I have already fought three duels with him,” said the Englishman, “the

first with the pistol, the second with the sword, and the third with

the sabre.”



“And what was the result of those duels?”



“The first time, he broke my arm; the second, he wounded me in the

breast; and the third time, made this large wound.” The Englishman

turned down his shirt-collar, and showed a scar, whose redness proved

it to be a recent one. “So that, you see, there is a deadly feud

between us.”



“But,” said the envoy, “you do not go about it in the right way to kill

him, if I understand you correctly.”



“Aw?” said the Englishman, “I practice shooting every day, and every

other day Grisier comes to my house.”



This was all the visitor wished to ascertain, or, rather, all the

Englishman appeared to know. The agent arose, and having bowed to Lord

Wilmore, who returned his salutation with the stiff politeness of the

English, he retired. Lord Wilmore, having heard the door close after

him, returned to his bedroom, where with one hand he pulled off his

light hair, his red whiskers, his false jaw, and his wound, to resume

the black hair, dark complexion, and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte

Cristo.



It was M. de Villefort, and not the prefect, who returned to the house

of M. de Villefort. The procureur felt more at ease, although he had

learned nothing really satisfactory, and, for the first time since the

dinner-party at Auteuil, he slept soundly.







 Chapter 70. The Ball



It was in the warmest days of July, when in due course of time the

Saturday arrived upon which the ball was to take place at M. de

Morcerf’s. It was ten o’clock at night; the branches of the great trees

in the garden of the count’s house stood out boldly against the azure

canopy of heaven, which was studded with golden stars, but where the

last fleeting clouds of a vanishing storm yet lingered.



From the apartments on the ground floor might be heard the sound of

music, with the whirl of the waltz and galop, while brilliant streams

of light shone through the openings of the Venetian blinds. At this

moment the garden was only occupied by about ten servants, who had just

received orders from their mistress to prepare the supper, the serenity

of the weather continuing to increase. Until now, it had been undecided

whether the supper should take place in the dining-room, or under a

long tent erected on the lawn, but the beautiful blue sky, studded with

stars, had settled the question in favor of the lawn.



The gardens were illuminated with colored lanterns, according to the

Italian custom, and, as is usual in countries where the luxuries of the

table—the rarest of all luxuries in their complete form—are well

understood, the supper-table was loaded with wax-lights and flowers.



30297m







At the time the Countess of Morcerf returned to the rooms, after giving

her orders, many guests were arriving, more attracted by the charming

hospitality of the countess than by the distinguished position of the

count; for, owing to the good taste of Mercédès, one was sure of

finding some devices at her entertainment worthy of describing, or even

copying in case of need.



Madame Danglars, in whom the events we have related had caused deep

anxiety, had hesitated about going to Madame de Morcerf’s, when during

the morning her carriage happened to meet that of Villefort. The latter

made a sign, and when the carriages had drawn close together, said:



“You are going to Madame de Morcerf’s, are you not?”



“No,” replied Madame Danglars, “I am too ill.”



“You are wrong,” replied Villefort, significantly; “it is important

that you should be seen there.”



“Do you think so?” asked the baroness.



“I do.”



“In that case I will go.”



And the two carriages passed on towards their different destinations.

Madame Danglars therefore came, not only beautiful in person, but

radiant with splendor; she entered by one door at the time when

Mercédès appeared at the door. The countess took Albert to meet Madame

Danglars. He approached, paid her some well merited compliments on her

toilet, and offered his arm to conduct her to a seat. Albert looked

around him.



“You are looking for my daughter?” said the baroness, smiling.



“I confess it,” replied Albert. “Could you have been so cruel as not to

bring her?”



“Calm yourself. She has met Mademoiselle de Villefort, and has taken

her arm; see, they are following us, both in white dresses, one with a

bouquet of camellias, the other with one of myosotis. But tell me——”



“Well, what do you wish to know?”



“Will not The Trial be here tonight?”



“Seventeen!” replied Albert.



“What do you mean?”



“I only mean that the count seems the rage,” replied the viscount,

smiling, “and that you are the seventeenth person that has asked me the

same question. The count is in fashion; I congratulate him upon it.”



“And have you replied to everyone as you have to me?”



“Ah, to be sure, I have not answered you; be satisfied, we shall have

this ‘lion’; we are among the privileged ones.”



“Were you at the Opera yesterday?”



“No.”



“He was there.”



“Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric person commit any new originality?”



“Can he be seen without doing so? Elssler was dancing in _Le Diable

boiteux_; the Greek princess was in ecstasies. After the cachucha he

placed a magnificent ring on the stem of a bouquet, and threw it to the

charming danseuse, who, in the third act, to do honor to the gift,

reappeared with it on her finger. And the Greek princess,—will she be

here?”



“No, you will be deprived of that pleasure; her position in the count’s

establishment is not sufficiently understood.”



“Wait; leave me here, and go and speak to Madame de Villefort, who is

trying to attract your attention.”



Albert bowed to Madame Danglars, and advanced towards Madame de

Villefort, whose lips opened as he approached.



“I wager anything,” said Albert, interrupting her, “that I know what

you were about to say.”



“Well, what is it?”



“If I guess rightly, will you confess it?”



“Yes.”



“On your honor?”



“On my honor.”



“You were going to ask me if The Trial had arrived, or

was expected.”



“Not at all. It is not of him that I am now thinking. I was going to

ask you if you had received any news of Monsieur Franz.”



“Yes,—yesterday.”



“What did he tell you?”



“That he was leaving at the same time as his letter.”



“Well, now then, the count?”



“The count will come, of that you may be satisfied.”



“You know that he has another name besides The Trial?”



“No, I did not know it.”



“The Trial is the name of an island, and he has a family name.”



“I never heard it.”



“Well, then, I am better informed than you; his name is Zaccone.”



“It is possible.”



“He is a Maltese.”



“That is also possible.



“The son of a shipowner.”



“Really, you should relate all this aloud, you would have the greatest

success.”



“He served in India, discovered a mine in Thessaly, and comes to Paris

to establish a mineral water-cure at Auteuil.”



“Well, I’m sure,” said Morcerf, “this is indeed news! Am I allowed to

repeat it?”



“Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at a time, and do not say I told

you.”



“Why so?”



“Because it is a secret just discovered.”



“By whom?”



“The police.”



“Then the news originated——”



“At the prefect’s last night. Paris, you can understand, is astonished

at the sight of such unusual splendor, and the police have made

inquiries.”



“Well, well! Nothing more is wanting than to arrest the count as a

vagabond, on the pretext of his being too rich.”



“Indeed, that doubtless would have happened if his credentials had not

been so favorable.”



“Poor count! And is he aware of the danger he has been in?”



“I think not.”



“Then it will be but charitable to inform him. When he arrives, I will

not fail to do so.”



Just then, a handsome young man, with bright eyes, black hair, and

glossy moustache, respectfully bowed to Madame de Villefort. Albert

extended his hand.



“Madame,” said Albert, “allow me to present to you M. Maximilian

Morrel, captain of Spahis, one of our best, and, above all, of our

bravest officers.”



“I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil,

at the house of The Trial,” replied Madame de

Villefort, turning away with marked coldness of manner.



This answer, and especially the tone in which it was uttered, chilled

the heart of poor Morrel. But a recompense was in store for him;

turning around, he saw near the door a beautiful fair face, whose large

blue eyes were, without any marked expression, fixed upon him, while

the bouquet of myosotis was gently raised to her lips.



The salutation was so well understood that Morrel, with the same

expression in his eyes, placed his handkerchief to his mouth; and these

two living statues, whose hearts beat so violently under their marble

aspect, separated from each other by the whole length of the room,

forgot themselves for a moment, or rather forgot the world in their

mutual contemplation. They might have remained much longer lost in one

another, without anyone noticing their abstraction. The Count of Monte

Cristo had just entered.



We have already said that there was something in the count which

attracted universal attention wherever he appeared. It was not the

coat, unexceptional in its cut, though simple and unornamented; it was

not the plain white waistcoat; it was not the trousers, that displayed

the foot so perfectly formed—it was none of these things that attracted

the attention,—it was his pale complexion, his waving black hair, his

calm and serene expression, his dark and melancholy eye, his mouth,

chiselled with such marvellous delicacy, which so easily expressed such

high disdain,—these were what fixed the attention of all upon him.



Many men might have been handsomer, but certainly there could be none

whose appearance was more _significant_, if the expression may be used.

Everything about the count seemed to have its meaning, for the constant

habit of thought which he had acquired had given an ease and vigor to

the expression of his face, and even to the most trifling gesture,

scarcely to be understood. Yet the Parisian world is so strange, that

even all this might not have won attention had there not been connected

with it a mysterious story gilded by an immense fortune.



30301m







Meanwhile he advanced through the assemblage of guests under a battery

of curious glances towards Madame de Morcerf, who, standing before a

mantle-piece ornamented with flowers, had seen his entrance in a

looking-glass placed opposite the door, and was prepared to receive

him. She turned towards him with a serene smile just at the moment he

was bowing to her. No doubt she fancied the count would speak to her,

while on his side the count thought she was about to address him; but

both remained silent, and after a mere bow, The Trial directed his

steps to Albert, who received him cordially.



“Have you seen my mother?” asked Albert.



“I have just had the pleasure,” replied the count; “but I have not seen

your father.”



“See, he is down there, talking politics with that little group of

great geniuses.”



“Indeed?” said The Trial; “and so those gentlemen down there are men

of great talent. I should not have guessed it. And for what kind of

talent are they celebrated? You know there are different sorts.”



“That tall, harsh-looking man is very learned, he discovered, in the

neighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard with a vertebra more than

lizards usually have, and he immediately laid his discovery before the

Institute. The thing was discussed for a long time, but finally decided

in his favor. I can assure you the vertebra made a great noise in the

learned world, and the gentleman, who was only a knight of the Legion

of Honor, was made an officer.”



“Come,” said The Trial, “this cross seems to me to be wisely

awarded. I suppose, had he found another additional vertebra, they

would have made him a commander.”



“Very likely,” said Albert.



“And who can that person be who has taken it into his head to wrap

himself up in a blue coat embroidered with green?”



“Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it is the Republic’s, which deputed

David12 to devise a uniform for the Academicians.”



“Indeed?” said The Trial; “so this gentleman is an Academician?”



“Within the last week he has been made one of the learned assembly.”



“And what is his especial talent?”



“His talent? I believe he thrusts pins through the heads of rabbits, he

makes fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal marrow out of dogs with

whalebone.”



“And he is made a member of the Academy of Sciences for this?”



“No; of the French Academy.”



“But what has the French Academy to do with all this?”



“I was going to tell you. It seems——”



“That his experiments have very considerably advanced the cause of

science, doubtless?”



“No; that his style of writing is very good.”



“This must be very flattering to the feelings of the rabbits into whose

heads he has thrust pins, to the fowls whose bones he has dyed red, and

to the dogs whose spinal marrow he has punched out?”



Albert laughed.



“And the other one?” demanded the count.



“That one?”



“Yes, the third.”



“The one in the dark blue coat?”



“Yes.”



“He is a colleague of the count, and one of the most active opponents

to the idea of providing the Chamber of Peers with a uniform. He was

very successful upon that question. He stood badly with the Liberal

papers, but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court is now

getting him into favor with the journalists. They talk of making him an

ambassador.”



30303m







“And what are his claims to the peerage?”



“He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or five

articles in the _Siècle_, and voted five or six years on the

ministerial side.”



“Bravo, viscount,” said The Trial, smiling; “you are a delightful

_cicerone_. And now you will do me a favor, will you not?”



“What is it?”



“Do not introduce me to any of these gentlemen; and should they wish

it, you will warn me.” Just then the count felt his arm pressed. He

turned round; it was Danglars.



“Ah! is it you, baron?” said he.



“Why do you call me baron?” said Danglars; “you know that I care

nothing for my title. I am not like you, viscount; you like your title,

do you not?”



“Certainly,” replied Albert, “seeing that without my title I should be

nothing; while you, sacrificing the baron, would still remain the

millionaire.”



“Which seems to me the finest title under the royalty of July,” replied

Danglars.



“Unfortunately,” said The Trial, “one’s title to a millionaire does

not last for life, like that of baron, peer of France, or academician;

for example, the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of Frankfurt, who have

just become bankrupts.”



“Indeed?” said Danglars, becoming pale.



“Yes; I received the news this evening by a courier. I had about a

million in their hands, but, warned in time, I withdrew it a month

ago.”



“Ah, _mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Danglars, “they have drawn on me for

200,000 francs!”



“Well, you can throw out the draft; their signature is worth five per

cent.”



“Yes, but it is too late,” said Danglars, “I have honored their bills.”



“Then,” said The Trial, “here are 200,000 francs gone after——”



“Hush, do not mention these things,” said Danglars; then, approaching

The Trial, he added, “especially before young M. Cavalcanti;” after

which he smiled, and turned towards the young man in question.



Albert had left the count to speak to his mother, Danglars to converse

with young Cavalcanti; The Trial was for an instant alone. Meanwhile

the heat became excessive. The footmen were hastening through the rooms

with waiters loaded with ices. The Trial wiped the perspiration from

his forehead, but drew back when the waiter was presented to him; he

took no refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte

Cristo; she saw that he took nothing, and even noticed his gesture of

refusal.



“Albert,” she asked, “did you notice that?”



“What, mother?”



“That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the

roof of M. de Morcerf.”



“Yes; but then he breakfasted with me—indeed, he made his first

appearance in the world on that occasion.”



“But your house is not M. de Morcerf’s,” murmured Mercédès; “and since

he has been here I have watched him.”



“Well?”



“Well, he has taken nothing yet.”



“The count is very temperate.”



Mercédès smiled sadly.



“Approach him,” said she, “and when the next waiter passes, insist upon

his taking something.”



“But why, mother?”



“Just to please me, Albert,” said Mercédès. Albert kissed his mother’s

hand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the

preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he

obstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.



“Well,” said she, “you see he refuses?”



“Yes; but why need this annoy you?”



“You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have

seen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he

cannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might

prefer something else.”



“Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does

not feel inclined this evening.”



“And besides,” said the countess, “accustomed as he is to burning

climates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do.”



“I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost

suffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well

as the windows.”



“In a word,” said Mercédès, “it was a way of assuring me that his

abstinence was intended.”



And she left the room.



A minute afterwards the blinds were thrown open, and through the

jessamine and clematis that overhung the window one could see the

garden ornamented with lanterns, and the supper laid under the tent.

Dancers, players, talkers, all uttered an exclamation of joy—everyone

inhaled with delight the breeze that floated in. At the same time

Mercédès reappeared, paler than before, but with that imperturbable

expression of countenance which she sometimes wore. She went straight

to the group of which her husband formed the centre.



“Do not detain those gentlemen here, count,” she said; “they would

prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden rather than suffocate

here, since they are not playing.”



“Ah,” said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung _Partant pour

la Syrie_,—“we will not go alone to the garden.”



“Then,” said Mercédès, “I will lead the way.”



Turning towards The Trial, she added, “count, will you oblige me

with your arm?”



The count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his

eyes on Mercédès. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the

countess to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that

one look. He offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather

just touched it with her little hand, and they together descended the

steps, lined with rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another

outlet, a group of about twenty persons rushed into the garden with

loud exclamations of delight.







 Chapter 71. Bread and Salt



Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It

led through a grove of lindens to a conservatory.



“It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?” she asked.



“Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors

and the blinds.” As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of

Mercédès tremble. “But you,” he said, “with that light dress, and

without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel

cold?”



“Do you know where I am leading you?” said the countess, without

replying to the question.



“No, madame,” replied The Trial; “but you see I make no resistance.”



“We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the

grove.”



The count looked at Mercédès as if to interrogate her, but she

continued to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They

reached the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen

at the beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the

place of the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess

left the arm of The Trial, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes.



“See, count,” she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one

could almost detect the tears on her eyelids—“see, our French grapes

are not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but

you will make allowance for our northern sun.” The count bowed, but

stepped back.



“Do you refuse?” said Mercédès, in a tremulous voice.



“Pray excuse me, madame,” replied The Trial, “but I never eat

Muscatel grapes.”



Mercédès let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging

against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat.

Mercédès drew near, and plucked the fruit.



“Take this peach, then,” she said. The count again refused. “What,

again?” she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that it seemed to

stifle a sob; “really, you pain me.”



A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the

ground.



“Count,” added Mercédès with a supplicating glance, “there is a

beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have

together eaten bread and salt under the same roof.”



“I know it, madame,” replied the count; “but we are in France, and not

in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom

of dividing bread and salt with one another.”



“But,” said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte

Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, “we are

friends, are we not?”



The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then

again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of

a man suddenly dazzled.



“Certainly, we are friends,” he replied; “why should we not be?”



The answer was so little like the one Mercédès desired, that she turned

away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more like a groan. “Thank

you,” she said. And they walked on again. They went the whole length of

the garden without uttering a word.



“Sir,” suddenly exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued

ten minutes in silence, “is it true that you have seen so much,

travelled so far, and suffered so deeply?”



“I have suffered deeply, madame,” answered The Trial.



“But now you are happy?”



“Doubtless,” replied the count, “since no one hears me complain.”



“And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?”



“My present happiness equals my past misery,” said the count.



“Are you not married?” asked the countess.



“I, married?” exclaimed The Trial, shuddering; “who could have told

you so?”



“No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the

Opera with a young and lovely woman.”



“She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter

of a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to

love in the world.”



“You live alone, then?”



“I do.”



“You have no sister—no son—no father?”



“I have no one.”



“How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life?”



“It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the

point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she

loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my

memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most

men who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker

than the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have

done in my place; that is all.”



The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath. “Yes,” she

said, “and you have still preserved this love in your heart—one can

only love once—and did you ever see her again?”



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“Never.”



“Never?”



“I never returned to the country where she lived.”



“To Malta?”



“Yes; Malta.”



“She is, then, now at Malta?”



“I think so.”



“And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?”



“Her,—yes.”



“But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you?”



“I hate them? Not at all; why should I?” The countess placed herself

before The Trial, still holding in her hand a portion of the

perfumed grapes.



“Take some,” she said.



“Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,” replied The Trial, as if the

subject had not been mentioned before. The countess dashed the grapes

into the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair.



“Inflexible man!” she murmured. The Trial remained as unmoved as if

the reproach had not been addressed to him.



Albert at this moment ran in. “Oh, mother,” he exclaimed, “such a

misfortune has happened!”



“What? What has happened?” asked the countess, as though awakening from

a sleep to the realities of life; “did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I

should expect misfortunes.”



“M. de Villefort is here.”



“Well?”



“He comes to fetch his wife and daughter.”



“Why so?”



“Because Madame de Saint-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the

news of M. de Saint-Méran’s death, which took place on the first stage

after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good

spirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but

Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,

notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her

like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless.”



“And how was M. de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?”

said the count.



“He was her grandfather on the mother’s side. He was coming here to

hasten her marriage with Franz.”



“Ah, indeed!”



“So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Méran also grandfather to

Mademoiselle Danglars?”



“Albert, Albert,” said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof,

“what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him

that he has spoken amiss.”



And she took two or three steps forward. The Trial watched her with

an air so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that she

turned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she seized that of

her son, and joined them together.



“We are friends; are we not?” she asked.



“Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all

times I am your most respectful servant.” The countess left with an

indescribable pang in her heart, and before she had taken ten steps the

count saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes.



“Do not my mother and you agree?” asked Albert, astonished.



“On the contrary,” replied the count, “did you not hear her declare

that we were friends?”



They re-entered the drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de

Villefort had just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morrel

departed almost at the same time.







 Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran



A gloomy scene had indeed just passed at the house of M. de Villefort.

After the ladies had departed for the ball, whither all the entreaties

of Madame de Villefort had failed in persuading him to accompany them,

the procureur had shut himself up in his study, according to his

custom, with a heap of papers calculated to alarm anyone else, but

which generally scarcely satisfied his inordinate desires.



But this time the papers were a mere matter of form. Villefort had

secluded himself, not to study, but to reflect; and with the door

locked and orders given that he should not be disturbed excepting for

important business, he sat down in his armchair and began to ponder

over the events, the remembrance of which had during the last eight

days filled his mind with so many gloomy thoughts and bitter

recollections.



Then, instead of plunging into the mass of documents piled before him,

he opened the drawer of his desk, touched a spring, and drew out a

parcel of cherished memoranda, amongst which he had carefully arranged,

in characters only known to himself, the names of all those who, either

in his political career, in money matters, at the bar, or in his

mysterious love affairs, had become his enemies.



Their number was formidable, now that he had begun to fear, and yet

these names, powerful though they were, had often caused him to smile

with the same kind of satisfaction experienced by a traveller who from

the summit of a mountain beholds at his feet the craggy eminences, the

almost impassable paths, and the fearful chasms, through which he has

so perilously climbed. When he had run over all these names in his

memory, again read and studied them, commenting meanwhile upon his

lists, he shook his head.



“No,” he murmured, “none of my enemies would have waited so patiently

and laboriously for so long a space of time, that they might now come

and crush me with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet says:



‘Foul deeds will rise,



Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes;’





but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The story has

been told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn has repeated

it. M. de The Trial may have heard it, and to enlighten himself——



“But why should he wish to enlighten himself upon the subject?” asked

Villefort, after a moment’s reflection, “what interest can this M. de

The Trial or M. Zaccone,—son of a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of

a mine in Thessaly, now visiting Paris for the first time,—what

interest, I say, can he take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and

useless fact like this? However, among all the incoherent details given

to me by the Abbé Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that

enemy, one thing appears certain and clear in my opinion—that in no

period, in no case, in no circumstance, could there have been any

contact between him and me.”



But Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not believe. He

dreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply to or deny its

truth;—he cared little for that _mene, mene, tekel upharsin_, which

appeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the wall;—but what he was

really anxious for was to discover whose hand had traced them. While he

was endeavoring to calm his fears,—and instead of dwelling upon the

political future that had so often been the subject of his ambitious

dreams, was imagining a future limited to the enjoyments of home, in

fear of awakening the enemy that had so long slept,—the noise of a

carriage sounded in the yard, then he heard the steps of an aged person

ascending the stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such as

servants always give vent to when they wish to appear interested in

their master’s grief.



He drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an old lady

entered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and her bonnet in

her hand. The white hair was thrown back from her yellow forehead, and

her eyes, already sunken by the furrows of age, now almost disappeared

beneath the eyelids swollen with grief.



“Oh, sir,” she said; “oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of it;

oh, yes, I shall certainly die of it!”



And then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst into a

paroxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not daring to

approach nearer, were looking at Noirtier’s old servant, who had heard

the noise from his master’s room, and run there also, remaining behind

the others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his mother-in-law, for it

was she.



“Why, what can have happened?” he exclaimed, “what has thus disturbed

you? Is M. de Saint-Méran with you?”



“M. de Saint-Méran is dead,” answered the old marchioness, without

preface and without expression; she appeared to be stupefied. Villefort

drew back, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed:



“Dead!—so suddenly?”



“A week ago,” continued Madame de Saint-Méran, “we went out together in

the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Méran had been unwell for some

days; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine again inspired him

with courage, and notwithstanding his illness he would leave. At six

leagues from Marseilles, after having eaten some of the lozenges he is

accustomed to take, he fell into such a deep sleep, that it appeared to

me unnatural; still I hesitated to wake him, although I fancied that

his face was flushed, and that the veins of his temples throbbed more

violently than usual. However, as it became dark, and I could no longer

see, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a

person suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back

violently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to M.

de Saint-Méran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over, and I

arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse.”



Villefort stood with his mouth half open, quite stupefied.



“Of course you sent for a doctor?”



“Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.”



“Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis had

died.”



“Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic

stroke.”



“And what did you do then?”



“M. de Saint-Méran had always expressed a desire, in case his death

happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be brought

to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I am

preceding him by a few days.”



“Oh! my poor mother!” said Villefort, “to have such duties to perform

at your age after such a blow!”



“God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he would

certainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It is

true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot

cry; at my age they say that we have no more tears,—still I think that

when one is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where is

Valentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to see

Valentine.”



30315m







Villefort thought it would be terrible to reply that Valentine was at a

ball; so he only said that she had gone out with her step-mother, and

that she should be fetched. “This instant, sir—this instant, I beseech

you!” said the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de

Saint-Méran within his own, and conducted her to his apartment.



“Rest yourself, mother,” he said.



The marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the man who

so forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who still lived

for her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of mother, and

bursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an armchair, where

she buried her venerable head. Villefort left her to the care of the

women, while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to his master; for nothing

frightens old people so much as when death relaxes its vigilance over

them for a moment in order to strike some other old person. Then, while

Madame de Saint-Méran remained on her knees, praying fervently,

Villefort sent for a cab, and went himself to fetch his wife and

daughter from Madame de Morcerf’s. He was so pale when he appeared at

the door of the ball-room, that Valentine ran to him, saying:



“Oh, father, some misfortune has happened!”



“Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine,” said M. de Villefort.



“And grandpapa?” inquired the young girl, trembling with apprehension.

M. de Villefort only replied by offering his arm to his daughter. It

was just in time, for Valentine’s head swam, and she staggered; Madame

de Villefort instantly hastened to her assistance, and aided her

husband in dragging her to the carriage, saying:



“What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah, yes, it is

indeed strange!”



And the wretched family departed, leaving a cloud of sadness hanging

over the rest of the evening. At the foot of the stairs, Valentine

found Barrois awaiting her.



“M. Noirtier wishes to see you tonight, he said, in an undertone.



“Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma,” she replied,

feeling, with true delicacy, that the person to whom she could be of

the most service just then was Madame de Saint-Méran.



Valentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartwrung

sobs, broken sighs, burning tears, were all that passed in this sad

interview, while Madame de Villefort, leaning on her husband’s arm,

maintained all outward forms of respect, at least towards the poor

widow. She soon whispered to her husband:



“I think it would be better for me to retire, with your permission, for

the sight of me appears still to afflict your mother-in-law.” Madame de

Saint-Méran heard her.



“Yes, yes,” she said softly to Valentine, “let her leave; but do you

stay.”



Madame de Villefort left, and Valentine remained alone beside the bed,

for the procureur, overcome with astonishment at the unexpected death,

had followed his wife. Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the first

time to old Noirtier, who having heard the noise in the house, had, as

we have said, sent his old servant to inquire the cause; on his return,

his quick intelligent eye interrogated the messenger.



“Alas, sir,” exclaimed Barrois, “a great misfortune has happened.

Madame de Saint-Méran has arrived, and her husband is dead!”



M. de Saint-Méran and Noirtier had never been on strict terms of

friendship; still, the death of one old man always considerably affects

another. Noirtier let his head fall upon his chest, apparently

overwhelmed and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, in token of

inquiry.



Barrois asked, “Mademoiselle Valentine?”



Noirtier nodded his head.



“She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say good-bye to you

in full dress.” Noirtier again closed his left eye.



“Do you wish to see her?” Noirtier again made an affirmative sign.



“Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de Morcerf’s;

I will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is that what you

wish for?”



“Yes,” replied the invalid.



Barrois, therefore, as we have seen, watched for Valentine, and

informed her of her grandfather’s wish. Consequently, Valentine came up

to Noirtier, on leaving Madame de Saint-Méran, who in the midst of her

grief had at last yielded to fatigue and fallen into a feverish sleep.

Within reach of her hand they placed a small table upon which stood a

bottle of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a glass. Then, as we have

said, the young girl left the bedside to see M. Noirtier.



Valentine kissed the old man, who looked at her with such tenderness

that her eyes again filled with tears, whose sources he thought must be

exhausted. The old gentleman continued to dwell upon her with the same

expression.



“Yes, yes,” said Valentine, “you mean that I have yet a kind

grandfather left, do you not.” The old man intimated that such was his

meaning. “Ah, yes, happily I have,” replied Valentine. “Without that,

what would become of me?”



It was one o’clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to bed

himself, observed that after such sad events everyone stood in need of

rest. Noirtier would not say that the only rest he needed was to see

his child, but wished her good-night, for grief and fatigue had made

her appear quite ill.



The next morning she found her grandmother in bed; the fever had not

abated, on the contrary her eyes glistened and she appeared to be

suffering from violent nervous irritability.



“Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?” exclaimed Valentine, perceiving

all these signs of agitation.



“No, my child, no,” said Madame de Saint-Méran; “but I was impatiently

waiting for your arrival, that I might send for your father.”



“My father?” inquired Valentine, uneasily.



“Yes, I wish to speak to him.”



Valentine durst not oppose her grandmother’s wish, the cause of which

she did not know, and an instant afterwards Villefort entered.



“Sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, without using any circumlocution,

and as if fearing she had no time to lose, “you wrote to me concerning

the marriage of this child?”



“Yes, madame,” replied Villefort, “it is not only projected but

arranged.”



“Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d’Épinay?”



“Yes, madame.”



“Is he not the son of General d’Épinay who was on our side, and who was

assassinated some days before the usurper returned from the Island of

Elba?”



“The same.”



“Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a

Jacobin?”



“Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother,” said

Villefort; “M. d’Épinay was quite a child when his father died, he

knows very little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with

pleasure, at least with indifference.”



“Is it a suitable match?”



“In every respect.”



“And the young man?”



“Is regarded with universal esteem.”



“You approve of him?”



“He is one of the most well-bred young men I know.”



During the whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent.



“Well, sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, after a few minutes’

reflection, “I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time to

live.”



“You, madame?” “You, dear mamma?” exclaimed M. de Villefort and

Valentine at the same time.



“I know what I am saying,” continued the marchioness; “I must hurry

you, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother

to bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her belonging to my

poor Renée, whom you have so soon forgotten, sir.”



“Ah, madame,” said Villefort, “you forget that I was obliged to give a

mother to my child.”



“A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to the

purpose,—our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead in

peace.”



All this was said with such exceeding rapidity, that there was

something in the conversation that seemed like the beginning of

delirium.



“It shall be as you wish, madame,” said Villefort; “more especially

since your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M. d’Épinay

arrives in Paris——”



30319m







“My dear grandmother,” interrupted Valentine, “consider decorum—the

recent death. You would not have me marry under such sad auspices?”



“My child,” exclaimed the old lady sharply, “let us hear none of the

conventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing for the

future. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother, and certainly

I have not been less happy on that account.”



“Still that idea of death, madame,” said Villefort.



“Still?—Always! I tell you I am going to die—do you understand? Well,

before dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make

my child happy; I wish to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey

me;—in fact, I will know him—I will!” continued the old lady, with a

fearful expression, “that I may rise from the depths of my grave to

find him, if he should not fulfil his duty!”



“Madame,” said Villefort, “you must lay aside these exalted ideas,

which almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead, once buried in

their graves, rise no more.”



“And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have had a

fearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over

my body, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will, and

what will appear impossible above all to you, sir, I saw, with my eyes

shut, in the spot where you are now standing, issuing from that corner

where there is a door leading into Madame Villefort’s dressing-room—I

saw, I tell you, silently enter, a white figure.”



Valentine screamed.



“It was the fever that disturbed you, madame,” said Villefort.



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“Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a white

figure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of only one

of my senses, I heard my glass removed—the same which is there now on

the table.”



“Oh, dear mother, it was a dream.”



“So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the bell;

but when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then entered with a

light.”



“But she saw no one?”



“Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It was the

soul of my husband!—Well, if my husband’s soul can come to me, why

should not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter? the tie is even

more direct, it seems to me.”



“Oh, madame,” said Villefort, deeply affected, in spite of himself, “do

not yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live with us, happy,

loved, and honored, and we will make you forget——”



“Never, never, never,” said the marchioness. “When does M. d’Épinay

return?”



“We expect him every moment.”



“It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be expeditious.

And then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be assured that all

our property returns to Valentine.”



“Ah, grandmamma,” murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burning

brow, “do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must not

send for a notary, but for a doctor!”



“A doctor?” said she, shrugging her shoulders, “I am not ill; I am

thirsty—that is all.”



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“What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?”



“The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table—give it to

me, Valentine.” Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave it

to her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the same

glass she fancied that had been touched by the spectre.



The marchioness drained the glass at a single draught, and then turned

on her pillow, repeating,



“The notary, the notary!”



M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at the

bedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to require

the doctor she had recommended to her aged relative. A bright spot

burned in either cheek, her respiration was short and difficult, and

her pulse beat with feverish excitement. She was thinking of the

despair of Maximilian, when he should be informed that Madame de

Saint-Méran, instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as his

enemy.



More than once she thought of revealing all to her grandmother, and she

would not have hesitated a moment, if Maximilian Morrel had been named

Albert de Morcerf or Raoul de Château-Renaud; but Morrel was of

plebeian extraction, and Valentine knew how the haughty Marquise de

Saint-Méran despised all who were not noble. Her secret had each time

been repressed when she was about to reveal it, by the sad conviction

that it would be useless to do so; for, were it once discovered by her

father and mother, all would be lost.



Two hours passed thus; Madame de Saint-Méran was in a feverish sleep,

and the notary had arrived. Though his coming was announced in a very

low tone, Madame de Saint-Méran arose from her pillow.



“The notary!” she exclaimed, “let him come in.”



The notary, who was at the door, immediately entered. “Go, Valentine,”

said Madame de Saint-Méran, “and leave me with this gentleman.”



“But, grandmamma——”



“Leave me—go!”



The young girl kissed her grandmother, and left with her handkerchief

to her eyes; at the door she found the valet de chambre, who told her

that the doctor was waiting in the dining-room. Valentine instantly ran

down. The doctor was a friend of the family, and at the same time one

of the cleverest men of the day, and very fond of Valentine, whose

birth he had witnessed. He had himself a daughter about her age, but

whose life was one continued source of anxiety and fear to him from her

mother having been consumptive.



“Oh,” said Valentine, “we have been waiting for you with such

impatience, dear M. d’Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and

Antoinette?”



Madeleine was the daughter of M. d’Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece.

M. d’Avrigny smiled sadly.



“Antoinette is very well,” he said, “and Madeleine tolerably so. But

you sent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de

Villefort who is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our

patients of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to

recommend you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field.”



Valentine colored. M. d’Avrigny carried the science of divination

almost to a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who

always work upon the body through the mind.



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“No,” she replied, “it is for my poor grandmother. You know the

calamity that has happened to us, do you not?”



“I know nothing.” said M. d’Avrigny.



“Alas,” said Valentine, restraining her tears, “my grandfather is

dead.”



“M. de Saint-Méran?”



“Yes.”



“Suddenly?”



“From an apoplectic stroke.”



“An apoplectic stroke?” repeated the doctor.



“Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never

left, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M.

d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!”



“Where is she?”



“In her room with the notary.”



“And M. Noirtier?”



“Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability of

moving or speaking.”



“And the same love for you—eh, my dear child?”



“Yes,” said Valentine, “he was very fond of me.”



“Who does not love you?” Valentine smiled sadly. “What are your

grandmother’s symptoms?”



“An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep; she

fancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering above her

body, which she at the same time watched. It must have been delirium;

she fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber and even

heard the noise it made on touching her glass.”



“It is singular,” said the doctor; “I was not aware that Madame de

Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.”



“It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition,” said

Valentine; “and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her

mad; and my father, who you know is a strong-minded man, himself

appeared deeply impressed.”



“We will go and see,” said the doctor; “what you tell me seems very

strange.” The notary here descended, and Valentine was informed that

her grandmother was alone.



“Go upstairs,” she said to the doctor.



“And you?”



“Oh, I dare not—she forbade my sending for you; and, as you say, I am

myself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and take a turn

in the garden to recover myself.”



The doctor pressed Valentine’s hand, and while he visited her

grandmother, she descended the steps. We need not say which portion of

the garden was her favorite walk. After remaining for a short time in

the parterre surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in

her waist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the

bench; then from the bench she went to the gate. As usual, Valentine

strolled for a short time among her flowers, but without gathering

them. The mourning in her heart forbade her assuming this simple

ornament, though she had not yet had time to put on the outward

semblance of woe.



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She then turned towards the avenue. As she advanced she fancied she

heard a voice speaking her name. She stopped astonished, then the voice

reached her ear more distinctly, and she recognized it to be that of

Maximilian.







 Chapter 73. The Promise



It was indeed Maximilian Morrel, who had passed a wretched existence

since the previous day. With the instinct peculiar to lovers he had

anticipated after the return of Madame de Saint-Méran and the death of

the marquis, that something would occur at M. de Villefort’s in

connection with his attachment for Valentine. His presentiments were

realized, as we shall see, and his uneasy forebodings had goaded him

pale and trembling to the gate under the chestnut-trees.



Valentine was ignorant of the cause of this sorrow and anxiety, and as

it was not his accustomed hour for visiting her, she had gone to the

spot simply by accident or perhaps through sympathy. Morrel called her,

and she ran to the gate.



“You here at this hour?” said she.



“Yes, my poor girl,” replied Morrel; “I come to bring and to hear bad

tidings.”



“This is, indeed, a house of mourning,” said Valentine; “speak,

Maximilian, although the cup of sorrow seems already full.”



“Dear Valentine,” said Morrel, endeavoring to conceal his own emotion,

“listen, I entreat you; what I am about to say is very serious. When

are you to be married?”



“I will tell you all,” said Valentine; “from you I have nothing to

conceal. This morning the subject was introduced, and my dear

grandmother, on whom I depended as my only support, not only declared

herself favorable to it, but is so anxious for it, that they only await

the arrival of M. d’Épinay, and the following day the contract will be

signed.”



A deep sigh escaped the young man, who gazed long and mournfully at her

he loved.



“Alas,” replied he, “it is dreadful thus to hear my condemnation from

your own lips. The sentence is passed, and, in a few hours, will be

executed; it must be so, and I will not endeavor to prevent it. But,

since you say nothing remains but for M. d’Épinay to arrive that the

contract may be signed, and the following day you will be his, tomorrow

you will be engaged to M. d’Épinay, for he came this morning to Paris.”

Valentine uttered a cry.



“I was at the house of The Trial an hour since,” said Morrel; “we

were speaking, he of the sorrow your family had experienced, and I of

your grief, when a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Never, till

then, had I placed any confidence in presentiments, but now I cannot

help believing them, Valentine. At the sound of that carriage I

shuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which terrified me as

much as the footsteps of the commander did Don Juan. The door at last

opened; Albert de Morcerf entered first, and I began to hope my fears

were vain, when, after him, another young man advanced, and the count

exclaimed: ‘Ah, here is the Baron Franz d’Épinay!’ I summoned all my

strength and courage to my support. Perhaps I turned pale and trembled,

but certainly I smiled; and five minutes after I left, without having

heard one word that had passed.”



“Poor Maximilian!” murmured Valentine.



“Valentine, the time has arrived when you must answer me. And remember

my life depends on your answer. What do you intend doing?” Valentine

held down her head; she was overwhelmed.



“Listen,” said Morrel; “it is not the first time you have contemplated

our present position, which is a serious and urgent one; I do not think

it is a moment to give way to useless sorrow; leave that for those who

like to suffer at their leisure and indulge their grief in secret.

There are such in the world, and God will doubtless reward them in

heaven for their resignation on earth, but those who mean to contend

must not lose one precious moment, but must return immediately the blow

which fortune strikes. Do you intend to struggle against our

ill-fortune? Tell me, Valentine for it is that I came to know.”



Valentine trembled, and looked at him with amazement. The idea of

resisting her father, her grandmother, and all the family, had never

occurred to her.



“What do you say, Maximilian?” asked Valentine. “What do you mean by a

struggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege. What? I resist my father’s

order, and my dying grandmother’s wish? Impossible!”



Morrel started.



“You are too noble not to understand me, and you understand me so well

that you already yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my

strength to struggle with myself and support my grief in secret, as you

say. But to grieve my father—to disturb my grandmother’s last

moments—never!”



“You are right,” said Morrel, calmly.



“In what a tone you speak!” cried Valentine.



“I speak as one who admires you, mademoiselle.”



“Mademoiselle,” cried Valentine; “mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man! he

sees me in despair, and pretends he cannot understand me!”



“You mistake—I understand you perfectly. You will not oppose M.

Villefort, you will not displease the marchioness, and tomorrow you

will sign the contract which will bind you to your husband.”



“But, _mon Dieu!_ tell me, how can I do otherwise?”



“Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I shall be a bad judge in such a

case; my selfishness will blind me,” replied Morrel, whose low voice

and clenched hands announced his growing desperation.



“What would you have proposed, Maximilian, had you found me willing to

accede?”



“It is not for me to say.”



“You are wrong; you must advise me what to do.”



“Do you seriously ask my advice, Valentine?”



“Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it is good, I will follow it; you

know my devotion to you.”



“Valentine,” said Morrel pushing aside a loose plank, “give me your

hand in token of forgiveness of my anger; my senses are confused, and

during the last hour the most extravagant thoughts have passed through

my brain. Oh, if you refuse my advice——”



“What do you advise?” said Valentine, raising her eyes to heaven and

sighing.



“I am free,” replied Maximilian, “and rich enough to support you. I

swear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even shall have

approached your forehead.”



“You make me tremble!” said the young girl.



“Follow me,” said Morrel; “I will take you to my sister, who is worthy

also to be yours. We will embark for Algiers, for England, for America,

or, if you prefer it, retire to the country and only return to Paris

when our friends have reconciled your family.”



Valentine shook her head.



“I feared it, Maximilian,” said she; “it is the counsel of a madman,

and I should be more mad than you, did I not stop you at once with the

word ‘Impossible, Morrel, impossible!’”



“You will then submit to what fate decrees for you without even

attempting to contend with it?” said Morrel sorrowfully.



“Yes,—if I die!”



“Well, Valentine,” resumed Maximilian, “I can only say again that you

are right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and you prove to me that passion

blinds the most well-meaning. I appreciate your calm reasoning. It is

then understood that tomorrow you will be irrevocably promised to M.

Franz d’Épinay, not only by that theatrical formality invented to

heighten the effect of a comedy called the signature of the contract,

but your own will?”



“Again you drive me to despair, Maximilian,” said Valentine, “again you

plunge the dagger into the wound! What would you do, tell me, if your

sister listened to such a proposition?”



“Mademoiselle,” replied Morrel with a bitter smile, “I am selfish—you

have already said so—and as a selfish man I think not of what others

would do in my situation, but of what I intend doing myself. I think

only that I have known you not a whole year. From the day I first saw

you, all my hopes of happiness have been in securing your affection.

One day you acknowledged that you loved me, and since that day my hope

of future happiness has rested on obtaining you, for to gain you would

be life to me. Now, I think no more; I say only that fortune has turned

against me—I had thought to gain heaven, and now I have lost it. It is

an every-day occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he

possesses but also what he has not.”



Morrel pronounced these words with perfect calmness; Valentine looked

at him a moment with her large, scrutinizing eyes, endeavoring not to

let Morrel discover the grief which struggled in her heart.



“But, in a word, what are you going to do?” asked she.



“I am going to have the honor of taking my leave of you, mademoiselle,

solemnly assuring you that I wish your life may be so calm, so happy,

and so fully occupied, that there may be no place for me even in your

memory.”



“Oh!” murmured Valentine.



“Adieu, Valentine, adieu!” said Morrel, bowing.



“Where are you going?” cried the young girl, extending her hand through

the opening, and seizing Maximilian by his coat, for she understood

from her own agitated feelings that her lover’s calmness could not be

real; “where are you going?”



“I am going, that I may not bring fresh trouble into your family: and

to set an example which every honest and devoted man, situated as I am,

may follow.”



“Before you leave me, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilian.”

The young man smiled sorrowfully.



“Speak, speak!” said Valentine; “I entreat you.”



“Has your resolution changed, Valentine?”



“It cannot change, unhappy man; you know it must not!” cried the young

girl.



“Then adieu, Valentine!”



Valentine shook the gate with a strength of which she could not have

been supposed to be possessed, as Morrel was going away, and passing

both her hands through the opening, she clasped and wrung them. “I must

know what you mean to do!” said she. “Where are you going?”



“Oh, fear not,” said Maximilian, stopping at a short distance, “I do

not intend to render another man responsible for the rigorous fate

reserved for me. Another might threaten to seek M. Franz, to provoke

him, and to fight with him; all that would be folly. What has M. Franz

to do with it? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has

already forgotten he has seen me. He did not even know I existed when

it was arranged by your two families that you should be united. I have

no enmity against M. Franz, and promise you the punishment shall not

fall on him.”



“On whom, then!—on me?”



“On you? Valentine! Oh, Heaven forbid! Woman is sacred; the woman one

loves is holy.”



“On yourself, then, unhappy man; on yourself?”



“I am the only guilty person, am I not?” said Maximilian.



“Maximilian!” said Valentine, “Maximilian, come back, I entreat you!”



He drew near with his sweet smile, and but for his paleness one might

have thought him in his usual happy mood.



“Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine,” said he in his melodious and

grave tone; “those who, like us, have never had a thought for which we

need blush before the world, such may read each other’s hearts. I never

was romantic, and am no melancholy hero. I imitate neither Manfred nor

Anthony; but without words, protestations, or vows, my life has

entwined itself with yours; you leave me, and you are right in doing

so,—I repeat it, you are right; but in losing you, I lose my life. The

moment you leave me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My sister is

happily married; her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is, a man

whom the ties of social life alone attach to me; no one then longer

needs my useless life. This is what I shall do; I will wait until the

very moment you are married, for I will not lose the shadow of one of

those unexpected chances which are sometimes reserved for us, since M.

Franz may, after all, die before that time, a thunderbolt may fall even

on the altar as you approach it,—nothing appears impossible to one

condemned to die, and miracles appear quite reasonable when his escape

from death is concerned. I will, then, wait until the last moment, and

when my misery is certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will write a

confidential letter to my brother-in-law, another to the prefect of

police, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner of some

wood, on the brink of some abyss, on the bank of some river, I will put

an end to my existence, as certainly as I am the son of the most honest

man who ever lived in France.”



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Valentine trembled convulsively; she loosened her hold of the gate, her

arms fell by her side, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. The

young man stood before her, sorrowful and resolute.



“Oh, for pity’s sake,” said she, “you will live, will you not?”



“No, on my honor,” said Maximilian; “but that will not affect you. You

have done your duty, and your conscience will be at rest.”



Valentine fell on her knees, and pressed her almost bursting heart.

“Maximilian,” said she, “Maximilian, my friend, my brother on earth, my

true husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as I do, live in suffering;

perhaps we may one day be united.”



“Adieu, Valentine,” repeated Morrel.



“My God,” said Valentine, raising both her hands to heaven with a

sublime expression, “I have done my utmost to remain a submissive

daughter; I have begged, entreated, implored; he has regarded neither

my prayers, my entreaties, nor my tears. It is done,” cried she, wiping

away her tears, and resuming her firmness, “I am resolved not to die of

remorse, but rather of shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be yours.

Say when shall it be? Speak, command, I will obey.”



Morrel, who had already gone some few steps away, again returned, and

pale with joy extended both hands towards Valentine through the

opening.



“Valentine,” said he, “dear Valentine, you must not speak thus—rather

let me die. Why should I obtain you by violence, if our love is mutual?

Is it from mere humanity you bid me live? I would then rather die.”



“Truly,” murmured Valentine, “who on this earth cares for me, if he

does not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he? On whom do my hopes

rest? On whom does my bleeding heart repose? On him, on him, always on

him! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I will leave

the paternal home, I will give up all. Oh, ungrateful girl that I am,”

cried Valentine, sobbing, “I will give up all, even my dear old

grandfather, whom I had nearly forgotten.”



“No,” said Maximilian, “you shall not leave him. M. Noirtier has

evinced, you say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, before you leave,

tell him all; his consent would be your justification in God’s sight.

As soon as we are married, he shall come and live with us, instead of

one child, he shall have two. You have told me how you talk to him and

how he answers you; I shall very soon learn that language by signs,

Valentine, and I promise you solemnly, that instead of despair, it is

happiness that awaits us.”



“Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you have over me, you almost make

me believe you; and yet, what you tell me is madness, for my father

will curse me—he is inflexible—he will never pardon me. Now listen to

me, Maximilian; if by artifice, by entreaty, by accident—in short, if

by any means I can delay this marriage, will you wait?”



“Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as you have promised me that this

horrible marriage shall not take place, and that if you are dragged

before a magistrate or a priest, you will refuse.”



“I promise you by all that is most sacred to me in the world, namely,

by my mother.”



“We will wait, then,” said Morrel.



“Yes, we will wait,” replied Valentine, who revived at these words;

“there are so many things which may save unhappy beings such as we

are.”



“I rely on you, Valentine,” said Morrel; “all you do will be well done;

only if they disregard your prayers, if your father and Madame de

Saint-Méran insist that M. d’Épinay should be called tomorrow to sign

the contract——”



“Then you have my promise, Maximilian.”



“Instead of signing——”



“I will go to you, and we will fly; but from this moment until then,

let us not tempt Providence, let us not see each other. It is a

miracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. If we

were surprised, if it were known that we met thus, we should have no

further resource.”



“You are right, Valentine; but how shall I ascertain?”



“From the notary, M. Deschamps.”



“I know him.”



“And for myself—I will write to you, depend on me. I dread this

marriage, Maximilian, as much as you.”



“Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank you; that is enough. When once I

know the hour, I will hasten to this spot, you can easily get over this

fence with my assistance, a carriage will await us at the gate, in

which you will accompany me to my sister’s; there living, retired or

mingling in society, as you wish, we shall be enabled to use our power

to resist oppression, and not suffer ourselves to be put to death like

sheep, which only defend themselves by sighs.”



“Yes,” said Valentine, “I will now acknowledge you are right,

Maximilian; and now are you satisfied with your betrothal?” said the

young girl sorrowfully.



“My adored Valentine, words cannot express one half of my

satisfaction.”



Valentine had approached, or rather, had placed her lips so near the

fence, that they nearly touched those of Morrel, which were pressed

against the other side of the cold and inexorable barrier.



“Adieu, then, till we meet again,” said Valentine, tearing herself

away. “I shall hear from you?”



“Yes.”



“Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!”



The sound of a kiss was heard, and Valentine fled through the avenue.

Morrel listened to catch the last sound of her dress brushing the

branches, and of her footstep on the gravel, then raised his eyes with

an ineffable smile of thankfulness to heaven for being permitted to be

thus loved, and then also disappeared.



The young man returned home and waited all the evening and all the next

day without getting any message. It was only on the following day, at

about ten o’clock in the morning, as he was starting to call on M.

Deschamps, the notary, that he received from the postman a small

billet, which he knew to be from Valentine, although he had not before

seen her writing. It was to this effect:



“Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed me nothing. Yesterday, for

two hours, I was at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, and for two

hours I prayed most fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as man, and the

signature of the contract is fixed for this evening at nine o’clock. I

have but one promise and but one heart to give; that promise is pledged

to you, that heart is also yours. This evening, then, at a quarter to

nine at the gate.



“Your betrothed,



“Valentine de Villefort.”



“P.S.—My poor grandmother gets worse and worse; yesterday her fever

amounted to delirium; today her delirium is almost madness. You will be

very kind to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me forget my sorrow in

leaving her thus? I think it is kept a secret from grandpapa Noirtier,

that the contract is to be signed this evening.”



Morrel went also to the notary, who confirmed the news that the

contract was to be signed that evening. Then he went to call on Monte

Cristo and heard still more. Franz had been to announce the ceremony,

and Madame de Villefort had also written to beg the count to excuse her

not inviting him; the death of M. de Saint-Méran and the dangerous

illness of his widow would cast a gloom over the meeting which she

would regret should be shared by the count whom she wished every

happiness.



The day before Franz had been presented to Madame de Saint-Méran, who

had left her bed to receive him, but had been obliged to return to it

immediately after.



It is easy to suppose that Morrel’s agitation would not escape the

count’s penetrating eye. The Trial was more affectionate than

ever,—indeed, his manner was so kind that several times Morrel was on

the point of telling him all. But he recalled the promise he had made

to Valentine, and kept his secret.



The young man read Valentine’s letter twenty times in the course of the

day. It was her first, and on what an occasion! Each time he read it he

renewed his vow to make her happy. How great is the power of a woman

who has made so courageous a resolution! What devotion does she deserve

from him for whom she has sacrificed everything! How ought she really

to be supremely loved! She becomes at once a queen and a wife, and it

is impossible to thank and love her sufficiently.



Morrel longed intensely for the moment when he should hear Valentine

say, “Here I am, Maximilian; come and help me.” He had arranged

everything for her escape; two ladders were hidden in the clover-field;

a cabriolet was ordered for Maximilian alone, without a servant,

without lights; at the turning of the first street they would light the

lamps, as it would be foolish to attract the notice of the police by

too many precautions. Occasionally he shuddered; he thought of the

moment when, from the top of that wall, he should protect the descent

of his dear Valentine, pressing in his arms for the first time her of

whom he had yet only kissed the delicate hand.



When the afternoon arrived and he felt that the hour was drawing near,

he wished for solitude, his agitation was extreme; a simple question

from a friend would have irritated him. He shut himself in his room,

and tried to read, but his eye glanced over the page without

understanding a word, and he threw away the book, and for the second

time sat down to sketch his plan, the ladders and the fence.



At length the hour drew near. Never did a man deeply in love allow the

clocks to go on peacefully. Morrel tormented his so effectually that

they struck eight at half-past six. He then said, “It is time to start;

the signature was indeed fixed to take place at nine o’clock, but

perhaps Valentine will not wait for that.” Consequently, Morrel, having

left the Rue Meslay at half-past eight by his timepiece, entered the

clover-field while the clock of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule was striking

eight. The horse and cabriolet were concealed behind a small ruin,

where Morrel had often waited.



The night gradually drew on, and the foliage in the garden assumed a

deeper hue. Then Morrel came out from his hiding-place with a beating

heart, and looked through the small opening in the gate; there was yet

no one to be seen.



The clock struck half-past eight, and still another half-hour was

passed in waiting, while Morrel walked to and fro, and gazed more and

more frequently through the opening. The garden became darker still,

but in the darkness he looked in vain for the white dress, and in the

silence he vainly listened for the sound of footsteps. The house, which

was discernible through the trees, remained in darkness, and gave no

indication that so important an event as the signature of a

marriage-contract was going on. Morrel looked at his watch, which

wanted a quarter to ten; but soon the same clock he had already heard

strike two or three times rectified the error by striking half-past

nine.



This was already half an hour past the time Valentine had fixed. It was

a terrible moment for the young man. The slightest rustling of the

foliage, the least whistling of the wind, attracted his attention, and

drew the perspiration to his brow; then he tremblingly fixed his

ladder, and, not to lose a moment, placed his foot on the first step.

Amidst all these alternations of hope and fear, the clock struck ten.

“It is impossible,” said Maximilian, “that the signing of a contract

should occupy so long a time without unexpected interruptions. I have

weighed all the chances, calculated the time required for all the

forms; something must have happened.”



And then he walked rapidly to and fro, and pressed his burning forehead

against the fence. Had Valentine fainted? or had she been discovered

and stopped in her flight? These were the only obstacles which appeared

possible to the young man.



The idea that her strength had failed her in attempting to escape, and

that she had fainted in one of the paths, was the one that most

impressed itself upon his mind. “In that case,” said he, “I should lose

her, and by my own fault.” He dwelt on this idea for a moment, then it

appeared reality. He even thought he could perceive something on the

ground at a distance; he ventured to call, and it seemed to him that

the wind wafted back an almost inarticulate sigh.



At last the half-hour struck. It was impossible to wait longer, his

temples throbbed violently, his eyes were growing dim; he passed one

leg over the wall, and in a moment leaped down on the other side. He

was on Villefort’s premises—had arrived there by scaling the wall. What

might be the consequences? However, he had not ventured thus far to

draw back. He followed a short distance close under the wall, then

crossed a path, hid entered a clump of trees. In a moment he had passed

through them, and could see the house distinctly.



30341m







Then Morrel saw that he had been right in believing that the house was

not illuminated. Instead of lights at every window, as is customary on

days of ceremony, he saw only a gray mass, which was veiled also by a

cloud, which at that moment obscured the moon’s feeble light. A light

moved rapidly from time to time past three windows of the second floor.

These three windows were in Madame de Saint-Méran’s room. Another

remained motionless behind some red curtains which were in Madame de

Villefort’s bedroom. Morrel guessed all this. So many times, in order

to follow Valentine in thought at every hour in the day, had he made

her describe the whole house, that without having seen it he knew it

all.



This darkness and silence alarmed Morrel still more than Valentine’s

absence had done. Almost mad with grief, and determined to venture

everything in order to see Valentine once more, and be certain of the

misfortune he feared, Morrel gained the edge of the clump of trees, and

was going to pass as quickly as possible through the flower-garden,

when the sound of a voice, still at some distance, but which was borne

upon the wind, reached him. At this sound, as he was already partially

exposed to view, he stepped back and concealed himself completely,

remaining perfectly motionless.



He had formed his resolution. If it was Valentine alone, he would speak

as she passed; if she was accompanied, and he could not speak, still he

should see her, and know that she was safe; if they were strangers, he

would listen to their conversation, and might understand something of

this hitherto incomprehensible mystery.



The moon had just then escaped from behind the cloud which had

concealed it, and Morrel saw Villefort come out upon the steps,

followed by a gentleman in black. They descended, and advanced towards

the clump of trees, and Morrel soon recognized the other gentleman as

Doctor d’Avrigny.



30339m







The young man, seeing them approach, drew back mechanically, until he

found himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in the centre of the clump;

there he was compelled to remain. Soon the two gentlemen stopped also.



“Ah, my dear doctor,” said the procureur, “Heaven declares itself

against my house! What a dreadful death—what a blow! Seek not to

console me; alas, nothing can alleviate so great a sorrow—the wound is

too deep and too fresh! Dead, dead!”



The cold sweat sprang to the young man’s brow, and his teeth chattered.

Who could be dead in that house, which Villefort himself had called

accursed?



“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with a tone which

redoubled the terror of the young man, “I have not led you here to

console you; on the contrary——”



“What can you mean?” asked the procureur, alarmed.



“I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you,

there is another, perhaps, still greater.”



“Can it be possible?” murmured Villefort, clasping his hands. “What are

you going to tell me?”



“Are we quite alone, my friend?”



“Yes, quite; but why all these precautions?”



“Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you,” said the

doctor. “Let us sit down.”



Villefort fell, rather than seated himself. The doctor stood before

him, with one hand placed on his shoulder. Morrel, horrified, supported

his head with one hand, and with the other pressed his heart, lest its

beatings should be heard. “Dead, dead!” repeated he within himself; and

he felt as if he were also dying.



“Speak, doctor—I am listening,” said Villefort; “strike—I am prepared

for everything!”



“Madame de Saint-Méran was, doubtless, advancing in years, but she

enjoyed excellent health.” Morrel began again to breathe freely, which

he had not done during the last ten minutes.



“Grief has consumed her,” said Villefort—“yes, grief, doctor! After

living forty years with the marquis——”



“It is not grief, my dear Villefort,” said the doctor; “grief may kill,

although it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in

ten minutes.” Villefort answered nothing, he simply raised his head,

which had been cast down before, and looked at the doctor with

amazement.



“Were you present during the last struggle?” asked M. d’Avrigny.



“I was,” replied the procureur; “you begged me not to leave.”



“Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de

Saint-Méran has fallen a victim?”



“I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, at

intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When

you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been panting for breath

some minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous

attack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and

her limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then

I understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had

thought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could

not. You held her hand—you were feeling her pulse—and the second fit

came on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than

the first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth

contracted and turned purple.”



“And at the third she expired.”



“At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you

confirmed my opinion.”



“Yes, before others,” replied the doctor; “but now we are alone——”



“What are you going to say? Oh, spare me!”



“That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances are

the same.”



M. de Villefort started from his seat, then in a moment fell down

again, silent and motionless. Morrel knew not if he were dreaming or

awake.



“Listen,” said the doctor; “I know the full importance of the statement

I have just made, and the disposition of the man to whom I have made

it.”



“Do you speak to me as a magistrate or as a friend?” asked Villefort.



“As a friend, and only as a friend, at this moment. The similarity in

the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances is so

great, that were I obliged to affirm by oath what I have now stated, I

should hesitate; I therefore repeat to you, I speak not to a

magistrate, but to a friend. And to that friend I say, ‘During the

three-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the

convulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, and am thoroughly

convinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could

also specify the poison.’”



“Can it be possible?”



“The symptoms are marked, do you see?—sleep broken by nervous spasms,

excitation of the brain, torpor of the nerve centres. Madame de

Saint-Méran succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine or of strychnine,

which by some mistake, perhaps, has been given to her.”



Villefort seized the doctor’s hand.



“Oh, it is impossible,” said he, “I must be dreaming! It is frightful

to hear such things from such a man as you! Tell me, I entreat you, my

dear doctor, that you may be deceived.”



“Doubtless I may, but——”



“But?”



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“But I do not think so.”



“Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me

lately that I am on the verge of madness.”



“Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-Méran?”



“No.”



“Has anything been sent for from a chemist’s that I have not examined?”



“Nothing.”



“Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?”



“Not to my knowledge.”



“Would her death affect anyone’s interest?”



“It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress—Valentine alone.

Oh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to

punish my heart for having for one instant harbored it.”



“Indeed, my dear friend,” said M. d’Avrigny, “I would not accuse

anyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand,—of a mistake,—but

whether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience

and compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry.”



“Of whom?—how?—of what?”



“May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given

Madame de Saint-Méran a dose prepared for his master?”



“For my father?”



“Yes.”



“But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de

Saint-Méran?”



“Nothing is more simple. You know poisons become remedies in certain

diseases, of which paralysis is one. For instance, having tried every

other remedy to restore movement and speech to M. Noirtier, I resolved

to try one last means, and for three months I have been giving him

brucine; so that in the last dose I ordered for him there were six

grains. This quantity, which is perfectly safe to administer to the

paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which has become gradually accustomed

to it, would be sufficient to kill another person.”



“My dear doctor, there is no communication between M. Noirtier’s

apartment and that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never entered

my mother-in-law’s room. In short, doctor although I know you to be the

most conscientious man in the world, and although I place the utmost

reliance in you, I want, notwithstanding my conviction, to believe this

axiom, _errare humanum est_.”



“Is there one of my brethren in whom you have equal confidence with

myself?”



“Why do you ask me that?—what do you wish?”



“Send for him; I will tell him what I have seen, and we will consult

together, and examine the body.”



“And you will find traces of poison?”



“No, I did not say of poison, but we can prove what was the state of

the body; we shall discover the cause of her sudden death, and we shall

say, ‘Dear Villefort, if this thing has been caused by negligence,

watch over your servants; if from hatred, watch your enemies.’”



“What do you propose to me, d’Avrigny?” said Villefort in despair; “so

soon as another is admitted into our secret, an inquest will become

necessary; and an inquest in my house—impossible! Still,” continued the

procureur, looking at the doctor with uneasiness, “if you wish it—if

you demand it, why then it shall be done. But, doctor, you see me

already so grieved—how can I introduce into my house so much scandal,

after so much sorrow? My wife and my daughter would die of it! And I,

doctor—you know a man does not arrive at the post I occupy—one has not

been king’s attorney twenty-five years without having amassed a

tolerable number of enemies; mine are numerous. Let this affair be

talked of, it will be a triumph for them, which will make them rejoice,

and cover me with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were

you a priest I should not dare tell you that, but you are a man, and

you know mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words; you have said

nothing, have you?”



“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, “my first duty is to

humanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-Méran, if science could

have done it; but she is dead and my duty regards the living. Let us

bury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am

willing, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject

should be imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always—watch

carefully, for perhaps the evil may not stop here. And when you have

found the culprit, if you find him, I will say to you, ‘You are a

magistrate, do as you will!’”



“I thank you, doctor,” said Villefort with indescribable joy; “I never

had a better friend than you.” And, as if he feared Doctor d’Avrigny

would recall his promise, he hurried him towards the house.



When they were gone, Morrel ventured out from under the trees, and the

moon shone upon his face, which was so pale it might have been taken

for that of a ghost.



“I am manifestly protected in a most wonderful, but most terrible

manner,” said he; “but Valentine, poor girl, how will she bear so much

sorrow?”



As he thought thus, he looked alternately at the window with red

curtains and the three windows with white curtains. The light had

almost disappeared from the former; doubtless Madame de Villefort had

just put out her lamp, and the nightlamp alone reflected its dull light

on the window. At the extremity of the building, on the contrary, he

saw one of the three windows open. A wax-light placed on the

mantle-piece threw some of its pale rays without, and a shadow was seen

for one moment on the balcony. Morrel shuddered; he thought he heard a

sob.



It cannot be wondered at that his mind, generally so courageous, but

now disturbed by the two strongest human passions, love and fear, was

weakened even to the indulgence of superstitious thoughts. Although it

was impossible that Valentine should see him, hidden as he was, he

thought he heard the shadow at the window call him; his disturbed mind

told him so. This double error became an irresistible reality, and by

one of the incomprehensible transports of youth, he bounded from his

hiding-place, and with two strides, at the risk of being seen, at the

risk of alarming Valentine, at the risk of being discovered by some

exclamation which might escape the young girl, he crossed the

flower-garden, which by the light of the moon resembled a large white

lake, and having passed the rows of orange-trees which extended in

front of the house, he reached the step, ran quickly up and pushed the

door, which opened without offering any resistance.



Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes, raised towards heaven, were

watching a silvery cloud gliding over the azure, its form that of a

shadow mounting towards heaven. Her poetic and excited mind pictured it

as the soul of her grandmother.



Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the anteroom and found the staircase,

which, being carpeted, prevented his approach being heard, and he had

regained that degree of confidence that the presence of M. de Villefort

even would not have alarmed him. He was quite prepared for any such

encounter. He would at once approach Valentine’s father and acknowledge

all, begging Villefort to pardon and sanction the love which united two

fond and loving hearts. Morrel was mad.



Happily he did not meet anyone. Now, especially, did he find the

description Valentine had given of the interior of the house useful to

him; he arrived safely at the top of the staircase, and while he was

feeling his way, a sob indicated the direction he was to take. He

turned back, a door partly open enabled him to see his road, and to

hear the voice of one in sorrow. He pushed the door open and entered.

At the other end of the room, under a white sheet which covered it, lay

the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since the account he had so

unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees, and with her head

buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine, trembling and

sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and stiff. She had

turned from the window, which remained open, and was praying in accents

that would have affected the most unfeeling; her words were rapid,

incoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of grief almost

stopped her utterance.



The moon shining through the open blinds made the lamp appear to burn

paler, and cast a sepulchral hue over the whole scene. Morrel could not

resist this; he was not exemplary for piety, he was not easily

impressed, but Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing her hands before

him, was more than he could bear in silence. He sighed, and whispered a

name, and the head bathed in tears and pressed on the velvet cushion of

the chair—a head like that of a Magdalen by Correggio—was raised and

turned towards him. Valentine perceived him without betraying the least

surprise. A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to

minor emotions. Morrel held out his hand to her. Valentine, as her only

apology for not having met him, pointed to the corpse under the sheet,

and began to sob again.



Neither dared for some time to speak in that room. They hesitated to

break the silence which death seemed to impose; at length Valentine

ventured.



“My friend,” said she, “how came you here? Alas, I would say you are

welcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house.”



“Valentine,” said Morrel with a trembling voice, “I had waited since

half-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the

wall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the

fatal event——”



“What voices?” asked Valentine. Morrel shuddered as he thought of the

conversation of the doctor and M. de Villefort, and he thought he could

see through the sheet the extended hands, the stiff neck, and the

purple lips.



“Your servants,” said he, “who were repeating the whole of the

sorrowful story; from them I learned it all.”



“But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love.”



“Forgive me,” replied Morrel; “I will go away.”



“No,” said Valentine, “you might meet someone; stay.”



“But if anyone should come here——”



The young girl shook her head. “No one will come,” said she; “do not

fear, there is our safeguard,” pointing to the bed.



“But what has become of M. d’Épinay?” replied Morrel.



30349m







“M. Franz arrived to sign the contract just as my dear grandmother was

dying.”



“Alas,” said Morrel with a feeling of selfish joy; for he thought this

death would cause the wedding to be postponed indefinitely.



“But what redoubles my sorrow,” continued the young girl, as if this

feeling was to receive its immediate punishment, “is that the poor old

lady, on her death-bed, requested that the marriage might take place as

soon as possible; she also, thinking to protect me, was acting against

me.”



“Hark!” said Morrel. They both listened; steps were distinctly heard in

the corridor and on the stairs.



“It is my father, who has just left his study.”



“To accompany the doctor to the door,” added Morrel.



“How do you know it is the doctor?” asked Valentine, astonished.



“I imagined it must be,” said Morrel.



Valentine looked at the young man; they heard the street door close,

then M. de Villefort locked the garden door, and returned upstairs. He

stopped a moment in the anteroom, as if hesitating whether to turn to

his own apartment or into Madame de Saint-Méran’s; Morrel concealed

himself behind a door; Valentine remained motionless, grief seeming to

deprive her of all fear. M. de Villefort passed on to his own room.



“Now,” said Valentine, “you can neither go out by the front door nor by

the garden.”



Morrel looked at her with astonishment.



“There is but one way left you that is safe,” said she; “it is through

my grandfather’s room.” She rose. “Come,” she added.



“Where?” asked Maximilian.



“To my grandfather’s room.”



“I in M. Noirtier’s apartment?”



“Yes.”



“Can you mean it, Valentine?”



“I have long wished it; he is my only remaining friend and we both need

his help,—come.”



“Be careful, Valentine,” said Morrel, hesitating to comply with the

young girl’s wishes; “I now see my error—I acted like a madman in

coming in here. Are you sure you are more reasonable?”



“Yes,” said Valentine; “and I have but one scruple,—that of leaving my

dear grandmother’s remains, which I had undertaken to watch.”



“Valentine,” said Morrel, “death is in itself sacred.”



“Yes,” said Valentine; “besides, it will not be for long.”



She then crossed the corridor, and led the way down a narrow staircase

to M. Noirtier’s room; Morrel followed her on tiptoe; at the door they

found the old servant.



“Barrois,” said Valentine, “shut the door, and let no one come in.”



She passed first.



Noirtier, seated in his chair, and listening to every sound, was

watching the door; he saw Valentine, and his eye brightened. There was

something grave and solemn in the approach of the young girl which

struck the old man, and immediately his bright eye began to

interrogate.



“Dear grandfather.” said she hurriedly, “you know poor grandmamma died

an hour since, and now I have no friend in the world but you.”



His expressive eyes evinced the greatest tenderness.



“To you alone, then, may I confide my sorrows and my hopes?”



The paralytic motioned “Yes.”



Valentine took Maximilian’s hand.



“Look attentively, then, at this gentleman.”



The old man fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight astonishment on

Morrel.



“It is M. Maximilian Morrel,” said she; “the son of that good merchant

of Marseilles, whom you doubtless recollect.”



“Yes,” said the old man.



“He brings an irreproachable name, which Maximilian is likely to render

glorious, since at thirty years of age he is a captain, an officer of

the Legion of Honor.”



The old man signified that he recollected him.



“Well, grandpapa,” said Valentine, kneeling before him, and pointing to

Maximilian, “I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to

marry another, I would destroy myself.”



The eyes of the paralytic expressed a multitude of tumultuous thoughts.



“You like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, grandpapa?” asked

Valentine.



“Yes.”



“And you will protect us, who are your children, against the will of my

father?”



Noirtier cast an intelligent glance at Morrel, as if to say, “perhaps I

may.”



Maximilian understood him.



“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your

deceased grandmother’s room, will you allow me the honor of a few

minutes’ conversation with M. Noirtier?”



“That is it,” said the old man’s eye. Then he looked anxiously at

Valentine.



“Do you fear he will not understand?”



“Yes.”



“Oh, we have so often spoken of you, that he knows exactly how I talk

to you.” Then turning to Maximilian, with an adorable smile; although

shaded by sorrow,—“He knows everything I know,” said she.



Valentine arose, placed a chair for Morrel, requested Barrois not to

admit anyone, and having tenderly embraced her grandfather, and

sorrowfully taken leave of Morrel, she went away. To prove to Noirtier

that he was in Valentine’s confidence and knew all their secrets,

Morrel took the dictionary, a pen, and some paper, and placed them all

on a table where there was a light.



“But first,” said Morrel, “allow me, sir, to tell you who I am, how

much I love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what are my designs respecting

her.”



Noirtier made a sign that he would listen.



It was an imposing sight to witness this old man, apparently a mere

useless burden, becoming the sole protector, support, and adviser of

the lovers who were both young, beautiful, and strong. His remarkably

noble and austere expression struck Morrel, who began his story with

trembling. He related the manner in which he had become acquainted with

Valentine, and how he had loved her, and that Valentine, in her

solitude and her misfortune, had accepted the offer of his devotion. He

told him his birth, his position, his fortune, and more than once, when

he consulted the look of the paralytic, that look answered, “That is

good, proceed.”



“And now,” said Morrel, when he had finished the first part of his

recital, “now I have told you of my love and my hopes, may I inform you

of my intentions?”



“Yes,” signified the old man.



“This was our resolution; a cabriolet was in waiting at the gate, in

which I intended to carry off Valentine to my sister’s house, to marry

her, and to wait respectfully M. de Villefort’s pardon.”



“No,” said Noirtier.



“We must not do so?”



“No.”



“You do not sanction our project?”



“No.”



“There is another way,” said Morrel. The old man’s interrogative eye

said, “Which?”



“I will go,” continued Maximilian, “I will seek M. Franz d’Épinay—I am

happy to be able to mention this in Mademoiselle de Villefort’s

absence—and will conduct myself toward him so as to compel him to

challenge me.” Noirtier’s look continued to interrogate.



“You wish to know what I will do?”



“Yes.”



“I will find him, as I told you. I will tell him the ties which bind me

to Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a sensible man, he will prove it by

renouncing of his own accord the hand of his betrothed, and will secure

my friendship, and love until death; if he refuse, either through

interest or ridiculous pride, after I have proved to him that he would

be forcing my wife from me, that Valentine loves me, and will have no

other, I will fight with him, give him every advantage, and I shall

kill him, or he will kill me; if I am victorious, he will not marry

Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure Valentine will not marry him.”



Noirtier watched, with indescribable pleasure, this noble and sincere

countenance, on which every sentiment his tongue uttered was depicted,

adding by the expression of his fine features all that coloring adds to

a sound and faithful drawing.



Still, when Morrel had finished, he shut his eyes several times, which

was his manner of saying “No.”



“No?” said Morrel; “you disapprove of this second project, as you did

of the first?”



“I do,” signified the old man.



“But what then must be done?” asked Morrel. “Madame de Saint-Méran’s

last request was, that the marriage might not be delayed; must I let

things take their course?” Noirtier did not move. “I understand,” said

Morrel; “I am to wait.”



“Yes.”



“But delay may ruin our plan, sir,” replied the young man. “Alone,

Valentine has no power; she will be compelled to submit. I am here

almost miraculously, and can scarcely hope for so good an opportunity

to occur again. Believe me, there are only the two plans I have

proposed to you; forgive my vanity, and tell me which you prefer. Do

you authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to intrust herself to my honor?”



“No.”



“Do you prefer I should seek M. d’Épinay?”



“No.”



“Whence then will come the help we need—from chance?” resumed Morrel.



“No.”



“From you?”



“Yes.”



“You thoroughly understand me, sir? Pardon my eagerness, for my life

depends on your answer. Will our help come from you?”



“Yes.”



“You are sure of it?”



“Yes.” There was so much firmness in the look which gave this answer,

no one could, at any rate, doubt his will, if they did his power.



“Oh, thank you a thousand times! But how, unless a miracle should

restore your speech, your gesture, your movement, how can you, chained

to that armchair, dumb and motionless, oppose this marriage?” A smile

lit up the old man’s face, a strange smile of the eyes in a paralyzed

face.



“Then I must wait?” asked the young man.



“Yes.”



“But the contract?” The same smile returned. “Will you assure me it

shall not be signed?”



“Yes,” said Noirtier.



“The contract shall not be signed!” cried Morrel. “Oh, pardon me, sir;

I can scarcely realize so great a happiness. Will they not sign it?”



“No,” said the paralytic. Notwithstanding that assurance, Morrel still

hesitated. This promise of an impotent old man was so strange that,

instead of being the result of the power of his will, it might emanate

from enfeebled organs. Is it not natural that the madman, ignorant of

his folly, should attempt things beyond his power? The weak man talks

of burdens he can raise, the timid of giants he can confront, the poor

of treasures he spends, the most humble peasant, in the height of his

pride, calls himself Jupiter. Whether Noirtier understood the young

man’s indecision, or whether he had not full confidence in his

docility, he looked uneasily at him.



“What do you wish, sir?” asked Morrel; “that I should renew my promise

of remaining tranquil?” Noirtier’s eye remained fixed and firm, as if

to imply that a promise did not suffice; then it passed from his face

to his hands.



“Shall I swear to you, sir?” asked Maximilian.



“Yes,” said the paralytic with the same solemnity. Morrel understood

that the old man attached great importance to an oath. He extended his

hand.



“I swear to you, on my honor,” said he, “to await your decision

respecting the course I am to pursue with M. d’Épinay.”



“That is right,” said the old man.



“Now,” said Morrel, “do you wish me to retire?”



“Yes.”



“Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?”



“Yes.”



Morrel made a sign that he was ready to obey. “But,” said he, “first

allow me to embrace you as your daughter did just now.” Noirtier’s

expression could not be understood. The young man pressed his lips on

the same spot, on the old man’s forehead, where Valentine’s had been.

Then he bowed a second time and retired.



He found outside the door the old servant, to whom Valentine had given

directions. Morrel was conducted along a dark passage, which led to a

little door opening on the garden, soon found the spot where he had

entered, with the assistance of the shrubs gained the top of the wall,

and by his ladder was in an instant in the clover-field where his

cabriolet was still waiting for him. He got in it, and thoroughly

wearied by so many emotions, arrived about midnight in the Rue Meslay,

threw himself on his bed and slept soundly.







VOLUME FOUR



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40012m







40020m









 Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault



Two days after, a considerable crowd was assembled, towards ten o’clock

in the morning, around the door of M. de Villefort’s house, and a long

file of mourning-coaches and private carriages extended along the

Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Rue de la Pépinière. Among them was one

of a very singular form, which appeared to have come from a distance.

It was a kind of covered wagon, painted black, and was one of the first

to arrive. Inquiry was made, and it was ascertained that, by a strange

coincidence, this carriage contained the corpse of the Marquis de

Saint-Méran, and that those who had come thinking to attend one funeral

would follow two. Their number was great. The Marquis de Saint-Méran,

one of the most zealous and faithful dignitaries of Louis XVIII. and

King Charles X., had preserved a great number of friends, and these,

added to the personages whom the usages of society gave Villefort a

claim on, formed a considerable body.



Due information was given to the authorities, and permission obtained

that the two funerals should take place at the same time. A second

hearse, decked with the same funereal pomp, was brought to M. de

Villefort’s door, and the coffin removed into it from the post-wagon.

The two bodies were to be interred in the cemetery of Père-Lachaise,

where M. de Villefort had long since had a tomb prepared for the

reception of his family. The remains of poor Renée were already

deposited there, and now, after ten years of separation, her father and

mother were to be reunited with her.



The Parisians, always curious, always affected by funereal display,

looked on with religious silence while the splendid procession

accompanied to their last abode two of the number of the old

aristocracy—the greatest protectors of commerce and sincere devotees to

their principles.



In one of the mourning-coaches Beauchamp, Debray, and Château-Renaud

were talking of the very sudden death of the marchioness.



“I saw Madame de Saint-Méran only last year at Marseilles, when I was

coming back from Algiers,” said Château-Renaud; “she looked like a

woman destined to live to be a hundred years old, from her apparent

sound health and great activity of mind and body. How old was she?”



“Franz assured me,” replied Albert, “that she was sixty-six years old.

But she has not died of old age, but of grief; it appears that since

the death of the marquis, which affected her very deeply, she has not

completely recovered her reason.”



“But of what disease, then, did she die?” asked Debray.



“It is said to have been a congestion of the brain, or apoplexy, which

is the same thing, is it not?”



“Nearly.”



“It is difficult to believe that it was apoplexy,” said Beauchamp.

“Madame de Saint-Méran, whom I once saw, was short, of slender form,

and of a much more nervous than sanguine temperament; grief could

hardly produce apoplexy in such a constitution as that of Madame de

Saint-Méran.”



“At any rate,” said Albert, “whatever disease or doctor may have killed

her, M. de Villefort, or rather, Mademoiselle Valentine,—or, still

rather, our friend Franz, inherits a magnificent fortune, amounting, I

believe, to 80,000 livres per annum.”



“And this fortune will be doubled at the death of the old Jacobin,

Noirtier.”



“That is a tenacious old grandfather,” said Beauchamp. “_Tenacem

propositi virum_. I think he must have made an agreement with death to

outlive all his heirs, and he appears likely to succeed. He resembles

the old Conventionalist of ’93, who said to Napoleon, in 1814, ‘You

bend because your empire is a young stem, weakened by rapid growth.

Take the Republic for a tutor; let us return with renewed strength to

the battle-field, and I promise you 500,000 soldiers, another Marengo,

and a second Austerlitz. Ideas do not become extinct, sire; they

slumber sometimes, but only revive the stronger before they sleep

entirely.’”



“Ideas and men appeared the same to him,” said Albert. “One thing only

puzzles me, namely, how Franz d’Épinay will like a grandfather who

cannot be separated from his wife. But where is Franz?”



“In the first carriage, with M. de Villefort, who considers him already

as one of the family.”



40024m







Such was the conversation in almost all the carriages; these two sudden

deaths, so quickly following each other, astonished everyone, but no

one suspected the terrible secret which M. d’Avrigny had communicated,

in his nocturnal walk to M. de Villefort. They arrived in about an hour

at the cemetery; the weather was mild, but dull, and in harmony with

the funeral ceremony. Among the groups which flocked towards the family

vault, Château-Renaud recognized Morrel, who had come alone in a

cabriolet, and walked silently along the path bordered with yew-trees.



“You here?” said Château-Renaud, passing his arms through the young

captain’s; “are you a friend of Villefort’s? How is it that I have

never met you at his house?”



“I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort’s,” answered Morrel, “but I

was of Madame de Saint-Méran.” Albert came up to them at this moment

with Franz.



“The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction.” said

Albert; “but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present

to you M. Franz d’Épinay, a delightful travelling companion, with whom

I made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an

excellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you

will hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit,

or amiability.”



Morrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it would be hypocritical to

accost in a friendly manner the man whom he was tacitly opposing, but

his oath and the gravity of the circumstances recurred to his memory;

he struggled to conceal his emotion and bowed to Franz.



“Mademoiselle de Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?” said Debray

to Franz.



“Extremely,” replied he; “she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely

knew her.”



These apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had

seen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer

required all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took

the arm of Château-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where the

attendants had already placed the two coffins.



“This is a magnificent habitation,” said Beauchamp, looking towards the

mausoleum; “a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my

dear d’Épinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I,

as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down

there under the trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body.

In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron:

‘_Eo rus_, and all will be over.’ But come, Franz, take courage, your

wife is an heiress.”



“Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made you laugh at

everything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But

when you have the honor of associating with ordinary men, and the

pleasure of leaving politics for a moment, try to find your

affectionate heart, which you leave with your stick when you go to the

Chamber.”



“But tell me,” said Beauchamp, “what is life? Is it not a halt in

Death’s anteroom?”



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“I am prejudiced against Beauchamp,” said Albert, drawing Franz away,

and leaving the former to finish his philosophical dissertation with

Debray.



The Villefort vault formed a square of white stones, about twenty feet

high; an interior partition separated the two families, and each

apartment had its entrance door. Here were not, as in other tombs,

ignoble drawers, one above another, where thrift bestows its dead and

labels them like specimens in a museum; all that was visible within the

bronze gates was a gloomy-looking room, separated by a wall from the

vault itself. The two doors before mentioned were in the middle of this

wall, and enclosed the Villefort and Saint-Méran coffins. There grief

might freely expend itself without being disturbed by the trifling

loungers who came from a picnic party to visit Père-Lachaise, or by

lovers who make it their rendezvous.



The two coffins were placed on trestles previously prepared for their

reception in the right-hand crypt belonging to the Saint-Méran family.

Villefort, Franz, and a few near relatives alone entered the sanctuary.



As the religious ceremonies had all been performed at the door, and

there was no address given, the party all separated; Château-Renaud,

Albert, and Morrel, went one way, and Debray and Beauchamp the other.

Franz remained with M. de Villefort; at the gate of the cemetery Morrel

made an excuse to wait; he saw Franz and M. de Villefort get into the

same mourning-coach, and thought this meeting forboded evil. He then

returned to Paris, and although in the same carriage with

Château-Renaud and Albert, he did not hear one word of their

conversation.



As Franz was about to take leave of M. de Villefort, “When shall I see

you again?” said the latter.



“At what time you please, sir,” replied Franz.



“As soon as possible.”



“I am at your command, sir; shall we return together?”



“If not unpleasant to you.”



“On the contrary, I shall feel much pleasure.”



Thus, the future father and son-in-law stepped into the same carriage,

and Morrel, seeing them pass, became uneasy. Villefort and Franz

returned to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The procureur, without going to

see either his wife or his daughter, went at once to his study, and,

offering the young man a chair:



“M. d’Épinay,” said he, “allow me to remind you at this moment,—which

is perhaps not so ill-chosen as at first sight may appear, for

obedience to the wishes of the departed is the first offering which

should be made at their tomb,—allow me then to remind you of the wish

expressed by Madame de Saint-Méran on her death-bed, that Valentine’s

wedding might not be deferred. You know the affairs of the deceased are

in perfect order, and her will bequeaths to Valentine the entire

property of the Saint-Méran family; the notary showed me the documents

yesterday, which will enable us to draw up the contract immediately.

You may call on the notary, M. Deschamps, Place Beauveau, Faubourg

Saint-Honoré, and you have my authority to inspect those deeds.”



“Sir,” replied M. d’Épinay, “it is not, perhaps, the moment for

Mademoiselle Valentine, who is in deep distress, to think of a husband;

indeed, I fear——”



40028m







“Valentine will have no greater pleasure than that of fulfilling her

grandmother’s last injunctions; there will be no obstacle from that

quarter, I assure you.”



“In that case,” replied Franz, “as I shall raise none, you may make

arrangements when you please; I have pledged my word, and shall feel

pleasure and happiness in adhering to it.”



“Then,” said Villefort, “nothing further is required. The contract was

to have been signed three days since; we shall find it all ready, and

can sign it today.”



“But the mourning?” said Franz, hesitating.



“Don’t be uneasy on that score,” replied Villefort; “no ceremony will

be neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de Villefort may retire during

the prescribed three months to her estate of Saint-Méran; I say hers,

for she inherits it today. There, after a few days, if you like, the

civil marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony. Madame de

Saint-Méran wished her daughter should be married there. When that is

over, you, sir, can return to Paris, while your wife passes the time of

her mourning with her mother-in-law.”



“As you please, sir,” said Franz.



“Then,” replied M. de Villefort, “have the kindness to wait half an

hour; Valentine shall come down into the drawing-room. I will send for

M. Deschamps; we will read and sign the contract before we separate,

and this evening Madame de Villefort shall accompany Valentine to her

estate, where we will rejoin them in a week.”



“Sir,” said Franz, “I have one request to make.”



“What is it?”



“I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de Château-Renaud to be present at

this signature; you know they are my witnesses.”



“Half an hour will suffice to apprise them; will you go for them

yourself, or shall you send?”



“I prefer going, sir.”



“I shall expect you, then, in half an hour, baron, and Valentine will

be ready.”



Franz bowed and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when M. de

Villefort sent to tell Valentine to be ready in the drawing-room in

half an hour, as he expected the notary and M. d’Épinay and his

witnesses. The news caused a great sensation throughout the house;

Madame de Villefort would not believe it, and Valentine was

thunderstruck. She looked around for help, and would have gone down to

her grandfather’s room, but on the stairs she met M. de Villefort, who

took her arm and led her into the drawing-room. In the anteroom,

Valentine met Barrois, and looked despairingly at the old servant. A

moment later, Madame de Villefort entered the drawing-room with her

little Edward. It was evident that she had shared the grief of the

family, for she was pale and looked fatigued. She sat down, took Edward

on her knees, and from time to time pressed this child, on whom her

affections appeared centred, almost convulsively to her bosom.



Two carriages were soon heard to enter the courtyard. One was the

notary’s; the other, that of Franz and his friends. In a moment the

whole party was assembled. Valentine was so pale one might trace the

blue veins from her temples, round her eyes and down her cheeks. Franz

was deeply affected. Château-Renaud and Albert looked at each other

with amazement; the ceremony which was just concluded had not appeared

more sorrowful than did that which was about to begin. Madame de

Villefort had placed herself in the shadow behind a velvet curtain, and

as she constantly bent over her child, it was difficult to read the

expression of her face. M. de Villefort was, as usual, unmoved.



The notary, after having, according to the customary method, arranged

the papers on the table, taken his place in an armchair, and raised his

spectacles, turned towards Franz:



“Are you M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d’Épinay?” asked he, although he

knew it perfectly.



“Yes, sir,” replied Franz. The notary bowed.



“I have, then, to inform you, sir, at the request of M. de Villefort,

that your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Villefort has changed

the feeling of M. Noirtier towards his grandchild, and that he

disinherits her entirely of the fortune he would have left her. Let me

hasten to add,” continued he, “that the testator, having only the right

to alienate a part of his fortune, and having alienated it all, the

will will not bear scrutiny, and is declared null and void.”



“Yes.” said Villefort; “but I warn M. d’Épinay, that during my

life-time my father’s will shall never be questioned, my position

forbidding any doubt to be entertained.”



40032m







“Sir,” said Franz, “I regret much that such a question has been raised

in the presence of Mademoiselle Valentine; I have never inquired the

amount of her fortune, which, however limited it may be, exceeds mine.

My family has sought consideration in this alliance with M. de

Villefort; all I seek is happiness.”



Valentine imperceptibly thanked him, while two silent tears rolled down

her cheeks.



“Besides, sir,” said Villefort, addressing himself to his future

son-in-law, “excepting the loss of a portion of your hopes, this

unexpected will need not personally wound you; M. Noirtier’s weakness

of mind sufficiently explains it. It is not because Mademoiselle

Valentine is going to marry you that he is angry, but because she will

marry, a union with any other would have caused him the same sorrow.

Old age is selfish, sir, and Mademoiselle de Villefort has been a

faithful companion to M. Noirtier, which she cannot be when she becomes

the Baroness d’Épinay. My father’s melancholy state prevents our

speaking to him on any subjects, which the weakness of his mind would

incapacitate him from understanding, and I am perfectly convinced that

at the present time, although, he knows that his granddaughter is going

to be married, M. Noirtier has even forgotten the name of his intended

grandson.” M. de Villefort had scarcely said this, when the door

opened, and Barrois appeared.



“Gentlemen,” said he, in a tone strangely firm for a servant speaking

to his masters under such solemn circumstances,—“gentlemen, M. Noirtier

de Villefort wishes to speak immediately to M. Franz de Quesnel, baron

d’Épinay.” He, as well as the notary, that there might be no mistake in

the person, gave all his titles to the bridegroom elect.



Villefort started, Madame de Villefort let her son slip from her knees,

Valentine rose, pale and dumb as a statue. Albert and Château-Renaud

exchanged a second look, more full of amazement than the first. The

notary looked at Villefort.



“It is impossible,” said the procureur. “M. d’Épinay cannot leave the

drawing-room at present.”



“It is at this moment,” replied Barrois with the same firmness, “that

M. Noirtier, my master, wishes to speak on important subjects to M.

Franz d’Épinay.”



“Grandpapa Noirtier can speak now, then,” said Edward, with his

habitual quickness. However, his remark did not make Madame de

Villefort even smile, so much was every mind engaged, and so solemn was

the situation.



“Tell M. Nortier,” resumed Villefort, “that what he demands is

impossible.”



“Then, M. Nortier gives notice to these gentlemen,” replied Barrois,

“that he will give orders to be carried to the drawing-room.”



Astonishment was at its height. Something like a smile was perceptible

on Madame de Villefort’s countenance. Valentine instinctively raised

her eyes, as if to thank heaven.



“Pray go, Valentine,” said; M. de Villefort, “and see what this new

fancy of your grandfather’s is.” Valentine rose quickly, and was

hastening joyfully towards the door, when M. de Villefort altered his

intention.



“Stop,” said he; “I will go with you.”



“Excuse me, sir,” said Franz, “since M. Noirtier sent for me, I am

ready to attend to his wish; besides, I shall be happy to pay my

respects to him, not having yet had the honor of doing so.”



“Pray, sir,” said Villefort with marked uneasiness, “do not disturb

yourself.”



40032m







“Forgive me, sir,” said Franz in a resolute tone. “I would not lose

this opportunity of proving to M. Noirtier how wrong it would be of him

to encourage feelings of dislike to me, which I am determined to

conquer, whatever they may be, by my devotion.”



And without listening to Villefort he arose, and followed Valentine,

who was running downstairs with the joy of a shipwrecked mariner who

finds a rock to cling to. M. de Villefort followed them. Château-Renaud

and Morcerf exchanged a third look of still increasing wonder.







 Chapter 75. A Signed Statement



Noirtier was prepared to receive them, dressed in black, and installed

in his armchair. When the three persons he expected had entered, he

looked at the door, which his valet immediately closed.



“Listen,” whispered Villefort to Valentine, who could not conceal her

joy; “if M. Noirtier wishes to communicate anything which would delay

your marriage, I forbid you to understand him.”



Valentine blushed, but did not answer. Villefort, approached Noirtier.



“Here is M. Franz d’Épinay,” said he; “you requested to see him. We

have all wished for this interview, and I trust it will convince you

how ill-formed are your objections to Valentine’s marriage.”



Noirtier answered only by a look which made Villefort’s blood run cold.

He motioned to Valentine to approach. In a moment, thanks to her habit

of conversing with her grandfather, she understood that he asked for a

key. Then his eye was fixed on the drawer of a small chest between the

windows. She opened the drawer, and found a key; and, understanding

that was what he wanted, again watched his eyes, which turned toward an

old secretaire which had been neglected for many years and was supposed

to contain nothing but useless documents.



“Shall I open the secretaire?” asked Valentine.



“Yes,” said the old man.



“And the drawers?”



“Yes.”



“Those at the side?”



“No.”



“The middle one?”



“Yes.”



Valentine opened it and drew out a bundle of papers. “Is that what you

wish for?” asked she.



“No.”



She took successively all the other papers out till the drawer was

empty. “But there are no more,” said she. Noirtier’s eye was fixed on

the dictionary.



“Yes, I understand, grandfather,” said the young girl.



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She pointed to each letter of the alphabet. At the letter S the old man

stopped her. She opened, and found the word “secret.”



“Ah! is there a secret spring?” said Valentine.



“Yes,” said Noirtier.



“And who knows it?” Noirtier looked at the door where the servant had

gone out.



“Barrois?” said she.



“Yes.”



“Shall I call him?”



“Yes.”



Valentine went to the door, and called Barrois. Villefort’s impatience

during this scene made the perspiration roll from his forehead, and

Franz was stupefied. The old servant came.



“Barrois,” said Valentine, “my grandfather has told me to open that

drawer in the secretaire, but there is a secret spring in it, which you

know—will you open it?”



Barrois looked at the old man. “Obey,” said Noirtier’s intelligent eye.

Barrois touched a spring, the false bottom came out, and they saw a

bundle of papers tied with a black string.



“Is that what you wish for?” said Barrois.



“Yes.”



“Shall I give these papers to M. de Villefort?”



“No.”



“To Mademoiselle Valentine?”



“No.”



“To M. Franz d’Épinay?”



“Yes.”



Franz, astonished, advanced a step. “To me, sir?” said he.



“Yes.”



Franz took them from Barrois and casting a glance at the cover, read:



“‘To be given, after my death, to General Durand, who shall bequeath

the packet to his son, with an injunction to preserve it as containing

an important document.’



“Well, sir,” asked Franz, “what do you wish me to do with this paper?”



“To preserve it, sealed up as it is, doubtless,” said the procureur.



“No,” replied Noirtier eagerly.



“Do you wish him to read it?” said Valentine.



“Yes,” replied the old man.



“You understand, baron, my grandfather wishes you to read this paper,”

said Valentine.



“Then let us sit down,” said Villefort impatiently, “for it will take

some time.”



“Sit down,” said the old man. Villefort took a chair, but Valentine

remained standing by her father’s side, and Franz before him, holding

the mysterious paper in his hand. “Read,” said the old man. Franz

untied it, and in the midst of the most profound silence read:



40038m







“‘_Extract of the report of a meeting of the Bonapartist Club in the

Rue Saint-Jacques, held February 5th, 1815_.’”



Franz stopped. “February 5th, 1815!” said he; “it is the day my father

was murdered.” Valentine and Villefort were dumb; the eye of the old

man alone seemed to say clearly, “Go on.”



“But it was on leaving this club,” said he, “my father disappeared.”



Noirtier’s eye continued to say, “Read.” He resumed:—



“‘The undersigned Louis-Jacques Beaurepaire, lieutenant-colonel of

artillery, Étienne Duchampy, general of brigade, and Claude Lecharpal,

keeper of woods and forests, declare, that on the 4th of February, a

letter arrived from the Island of Elba, recommending to the kindness

and the confidence of the Bonapartist Club, General Flavien de Quesnel,

who having served the emperor from 1804 to 1814 was supposed to be

devoted to the interests of the Napoleon dynasty, notwithstanding the

title of baron which Louis XVIII. had just granted to him with his

estate of Épinay.



400340m







“‘A note was in consequence addressed to General de Quesnel, begging

him to be present at the meeting next day, the 5th. The note indicated

neither the street nor the number of the house where the meeting was to

be held; it bore no signature, but it announced to the general that

someone would call for him if he would be ready at nine o’clock. The

meetings were always held from that time till midnight. At nine o’clock

the president of the club presented himself; the general was ready, the

president informed him that one of the conditions of his introduction

was that he should be eternally ignorant of the place of meeting, and

that he would allow his eyes to be bandaged, swearing that he would not

endeavor to take off the bandage. General de Quesnel accepted the

condition, and promised on his honor not to seek to discover the road

they took. The general’s carriage was ready, but the president told him

it was impossible for him to use it, since it was useless to blindfold

the master if the coachman knew through what streets he went. “What

must be done then?” asked the general.—“I have my carriage here,” said

the president.



“‘“Have you, then, so much confidence in your servant that you can

intrust him with a secret you will not allow me to know?”



“‘“Our coachman is a member of the club,” said the president; “we shall

be driven by a State-Councillor.”



“‘“Then we run another risk,” said the general, laughing, “that of

being upset.” We insert this joke to prove that the general was not in

the least compelled to attend the meeting, but that he came willingly.

When they were seated in the carriage the president reminded the

general of his promise to allow his eyes to be bandaged, to which he

made no opposition. On the road the president thought he saw the

general make an attempt to remove the handkerchief, and reminded him of

his oath. “Sure enough,” said the general. The carriage stopped at an

alley leading out of the Rue Saint-Jacques. The general alighted,

leaning on the arm of the president, of whose dignity he was not aware,

considering him simply as a member of the club; they went through the

alley, mounted a flight of stairs, and entered the assembly-room.



“‘The deliberations had already begun. The members, apprised of the

sort of presentation which was to be made that evening, were all in

attendance. When in the middle of the room the general was invited to

remove his bandage, he did so immediately, and was surprised to see so

many well-known faces in a society of whose existence he had till then

been ignorant. They questioned him as to his sentiments, but he

contented himself with answering, that the letters from the Island of

Elba ought to have informed them——’”



Franz interrupted himself by saying, “My father was a royalist; they

need not have asked his sentiments, which were well known.”



“And hence,” said Villefort, “arose my affection for your father, my

dear M. Franz. Opinions held in common are a ready bond of union.”



“Read again,” said the old man.



Franz continued:



“‘The president then sought to make him speak more explicitly, but M.

de Quesnel replied that he wished first to know what they wanted with

him. He was then informed of the contents of the letter from the Island

of Elba, in which he was recommended to the club as a man who would be

likely to advance the interests of their party. One paragraph spoke of

the return of Bonaparte and promised another letter and further

details, on the arrival of the _Pharaon_ belonging to the shipbuilder

Morrel, of Marseilles, whose captain was entirely devoted to the

emperor. During all this time, the general, on whom they thought to

have relied as on a brother, manifested evidently signs of discontent

and repugnance. When the reading was finished, he remained silent, with

knitted brows.



“‘“Well,” asked the president, “what do you say to this letter,

general?”



“‘“I say that it is too soon after declaring myself for Louis XVIII. to

break my vow in behalf of the ex-emperor.” This answer was too clear to

permit of any mistake as to his sentiments. “General,” said the

president, “we acknowledge no King Louis XVIII., or an ex-emperor, but

his majesty the emperor and king, driven from France, which is his

kingdom, by violence and treason.”



“‘“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the general; “you may not acknowledge

Louis XVIII., but I do, as he has made me a baron and a field-marshal,

and I shall never forget that for these two titles I am indebted to his

happy return to France.”



“‘“Sir,” said the president, rising with gravity, “be careful what you

say; your words clearly show us that they are deceived concerning you

in the Island of Elba, and have deceived us! The communication has been

made to you in consequence of the confidence placed in you, and which

does you honor. Now we discover our error; a title and promotion attach

you to the government we wish to overturn. We will not constrain you to

help us; we enroll no one against his conscience, but we will compel

you to act generously, even if you are not disposed to do so.”



“‘“You would call acting generously, knowing your conspiracy and not

informing against you, that is what I should call becoming your

accomplice. You see I am more candid than you.”’”



“Ah, my father!” said Franz, interrupting himself. “I understand now

why they murdered him.” Valentine could not help casting one glance

towards the young man, whose filial enthusiasm it was delightful to

behold. Villefort walked to and fro behind them. Noirtier watched the

expression of each one, and preserved his dignified and commanding

attitude. Franz returned to the manuscript, and continued:



“‘“Sir,” said the president, “you have been invited to join this

assembly—you were not forced here; it was proposed to you to come

blindfolded—you accepted. When you complied with this twofold request

you well knew we did not wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or

we should not take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police.

It would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to aid you

in the discovery of our secret, and then to remove it that you may ruin

those who have confided in you. No, no, you must first say if you

declare yourself for the king of a day who now reigns, or for his

majesty the emperor.”



“‘“I am a royalist,” replied the general; “I have taken the oath of

allegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to it.” These words were

followed by a general murmur, and it was evident that several of the

members were discussing the propriety of making the general repent of

his rashness.



“‘The president again arose, and having imposed silence, said,—“Sir,

you are too serious and too sensible a man not to understand the

consequences of our present situation, and your candor has already

dictated to us the conditions which remain for us to offer you.” The

general, putting his hand on his sword, exclaimed,—“If you talk of

honor, do not begin by disavowing its laws, and impose nothing by

violence.”



“‘“And you, sir,” continued the president, with a calmness still more

terrible than the general’s anger, “I advise you not to touch your

sword.” The general looked around him with slight uneasiness; however

he did not yield, but calling up all his fortitude, said,—“I will not

swear.”



“‘“Then you must die,” replied the president calmly. M. d’Épinay became

very pale; he looked round him a second time, several members of the

club were whispering, and getting their arms from under their cloaks.

“General,” said the president, “do not alarm yourself; you are among

men of honor who will use every means to convince you before resorting

to the last extremity, but as you have said, you are among

conspirators, you are in possession of our secret, and you must restore

it to us.” A significant silence followed these words, and as the

general did not reply,—“Close the doors,” said the president to the

door-keeper.



40042m







“‘The same deadly silence succeeded these words. Then the general

advanced, and making a violent effort to control his feelings,—“I have

a son,” said he, “and I ought to think of him, finding myself among

assassins.”



“‘“General,” said the chief of the assembly, “one man may insult

fifty—it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his

privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult.” The general,

again daunted by the superiority of the chief, hesitated a moment; then

advancing to the president’s desk,—“What is the form, said he.



“‘“It is this:—‘I swear by my honor not to reveal to anyone what I have

seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and ten

o’clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever

violate this oath.’” The general appeared to be affected by a nervous

tremor, which prevented his answering for some moments; then,

overcoming his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath,

but in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible to the majority of the

members, who insisted on his repeating it clearly and distinctly, which

he did.



“‘“Now am I at liberty to retire?” said the general. The president

rose, appointed three members to accompany him, and got into the

carriage with the general after bandaging his eyes. One of those three

members was the coachman who had driven them there. The other members

silently dispersed. “Where do you wish to be taken?” asked the

president.—“Anywhere out of your presence,” replied M. d’Épinay.

“Beware, sir,” replied the president, “you are no longer in the

assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them

unless you wish to be held responsible.” But instead of listening, M.

d’Épinay went on,—“You are still as brave in your carriage as in your

assembly because you are still four against one.” The president stopped

the coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where the steps

lead down to the river. “Why do you stop here?” asked d’Épinay.



“‘“Because, sir,” said the president, “you have insulted a man, and

that man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable

reparation.”



“‘“Another method of assassination?” said the general, shrugging his

shoulders.



“‘“Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the

men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for

a shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword

by your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these

gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage.” The

general tore the handkerchief from his eyes. “At last,” said he, “I

shall know with whom I have to do.” They opened the door and the four

men alighted.’”



Franz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops from his

brow; there was something awful in hearing the son read aloud in

trembling pallor these details of his father’s death, which had

hitherto been a mystery. Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer.

Noirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of

contempt and pride.



Franz continued:



“‘It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days the mercury

had been five or six degrees below freezing and the steps were covered

with ice. The general was stout and tall, the president offered him the

side of the railing to assist him in getting down. The two witnesses

followed. It was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river

was covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river looked

black and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern in a coal-barge

near, and by its light they examined the weapons. The president’s

sword, which was simply, as he had said, one he carried in his cane,

was five inches shorter than the general’s, and had no guard. The

general proposed to cast lots for the swords, but the president said it

was he who had given the provocation, and when he had given it he had

supposed each would use his own arms. The witnesses endeavored to

insist, but the president bade them be silent. The lantern was placed

on the ground, the two adversaries took their stations, and the duel

began. The light made the two swords appear like flashes of lightning;

as for the men, they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so

great.



40044m







“‘General d’Épinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in the army,

but he was pressed so closely in the onset that he missed his aim and

fell. The witnesses thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he

had not struck him, offered him the assistance of his hand to rise. The

circumstance irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on

his adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to be broken.

He received him on his sword and three times the general drew back on

finding himself too closely engaged, and then returned to the charge.

At the third he fell again. They thought he slipped, as at first, and

the witnesses, seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to

raise him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it was

moistened with blood. The general, who had almost fainted, revived.

“Ah,” said he, “they have sent some fencing-master to fight with me.”

The president, without answering, approached the witness who held the

lantern, and raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received

in his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his waistcoat,

displayed his side, pierced with a third wound. Still he had not even

uttered a sigh. General d’Épinay died five minutes after.’”



Franz read these last words in a voice so choked that they were hardly

audible, and then stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if to

dispel a cloud; but after a moment’s silence, he continued:



“‘The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his

cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely

arrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water—it was the

general’s body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river

after ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal

duel, and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of

this we have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts,

lest the moment should arrive when either of the actors in this

terrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder or of

infringement of the laws of honor.



“‘Signed, Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal.’”



When Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful for a son;

when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away a tear; when

Villefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner, had endeavored to

lessen the storm by supplicating glances at the implacable old man,—



“Sir,” said d’Épinay to Noirtier, “since you are well acquainted with

all these details, which are attested by honorable signatures,—since

you appear to take some interest in me, although you have only

manifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final

satisfaction—tell me the name of the president of the club, that I may

at least know who killed my father.”



Villefort mechanically felt for the handle of the door; Valentine, who

understood sooner than anyone her grandfather’s answer, and who had

often seen two scars upon his right arm, drew back a few steps.



“Mademoiselle,” said Franz, turning towards Valentine, “unite your

efforts with mine to find out the name of the man who made me an orphan

at two years of age.” Valentine remained dumb and motionless.



“Hold, sir,” said Villefort, “do not prolong this dreadful scene. The

names have been purposely concealed; my father himself does not know

who this president was, and if he knows, he cannot tell you; proper

names are not in the dictionary.”



“Oh, misery,” cried Franz: “the only hope which sustained me and

enabled me to read to the end was that of knowing, at least, the name

of him who killed my father! Sir, sir,” cried he, turning to Noirtier,

“do what you can—make me understand in some way!”



“Yes,” replied Noirtier.



“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” cried Franz, “your grandfather says

he can indicate the person. Help me,—lend me your assistance!”



Noirtier looked at the dictionary. Franz took it with a nervous

trembling, and repeated the letters of the alphabet successively, until

he came to M. At that letter the old man signified “Yes.”



“M,” repeated Franz. The young man’s finger, glided over the words, but

at each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign. Valentine hid her

head between her hands. At length, Franz arrived at the word MYSELF.



40046m







“Yes!”



“You!” cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; “you, M. Noirtier—you

killed my father?”



“Yes!” replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young man. Franz

fell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the door and escaped, for

the idea had entered his mind to stifle the little remaining life in

the heart of this terrible old man.









 Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger



Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his service, not in

the army of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the gaming-table

of the baths of Lucca, of which he was one of the most assiduous

courtiers. He had spent every farthing that had been allowed for his

journey as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he had

maintained his assumed character of father.



M. Andrea at his departure inherited all the papers which proved that

he had indeed the honor of being the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and

the Marchioness Oliva Corsinari. He was now fairly launched in that

Parisian society which gives such ready access to foreigners, and

treats them, not as they really are, but as they wish to be considered.

Besides, what is required of a young man in Paris? To speak its

language tolerably, to make a good appearance, to be a good gamester,

and to pay in cash. They are certainly less particular with a foreigner

than with a Frenchman. Andrea had, then, in a fortnight, attained a

very fair position. He was called count, he was said to possess 50,000

livres per annum; and his father’s immense riches, buried in the

quarries of Saravezza, were a constant theme. A learned man, before

whom the last circumstance was mentioned as a fact, declared he had

seen the quarries in question, which gave great weight to assertions

hitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now assumed the garb of reality.



Such was the state of society in Paris at the period we bring before

our readers, when The Trial went one evening to pay M. Danglars a

visit. M. Danglars was out, but the count was asked to go and see the

baroness, and he accepted the invitation. It was never without a

nervous shudder, since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which

followed it, that Madame Danglars heard The Trial’s name announced.

If he did not come, the painful sensation became most intense; if, on

the contrary, he appeared, his noble countenance, his brilliant eyes,

his amiability, his polite attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon

dispelled every impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the

baroness that a man of such delightfully pleasing manners should

entertain evil designs against her; besides, the most corrupt minds

only suspect evil when it would answer some interested end—useless

injury is repugnant to every mind.



40048m







When The Trial entered the boudoir, to which we have already once

introduced our readers, and where the baroness was examining some

drawings, which her daughter passed to her after having looked at them

with M. Cavalcanti, his presence soon produced its usual effect, and it

was with smiles that the baroness received the count, although she had

been a little disconcerted at the announcement of his name. The latter

took in the whole scene at a glance.



The baroness was partially reclining on a sofa, Eugénie sat near her,

and Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti, dressed in black, like one of

Goethe’s heroes, with varnished shoes and white silk open-worked

stockings, passed a white and tolerably nice-looking hand through his

light hair, and so displayed a sparkling diamond, that in spite of

The Trial’s advice the vain young man had been unable to resist

putting on his little finger. This movement was accompanied by killing

glances at Mademoiselle Danglars, and by sighs launched in the same

direction.



Mademoiselle Danglars was still the same—cold, beautiful, and

satirical. Not one of these glances, nor one sigh, was lost on her;

they might have been said to fall on the shield of Minerva, which some

philosophers assert protected sometimes the breast of Sappho. Eugénie

bowed coldly to the count, and availed herself of the first moment when

the conversation became earnest to escape to her study, whence very

soon two cheerful and noisy voices being heard in connection with

occasional notes of the piano assured The Trial that Mademoiselle

Danglars preferred to his society and to that of M. Cavalcanti the

company of Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, her singing teacher.



It was then, especially while conversing with Madame Danglars, and

apparently absorbed by the charm of the conversation, that the count

noticed M. Andrea Cavalcanti’s solicitude, his manner of listening to

the music at the door he dared not pass, and of manifesting his

admiration.



The banker soon returned. His first look was certainly directed towards

The Trial, but the second was for Andrea. As for his wife, he bowed

to her, as some husbands do to their wives, but in a way that bachelors

will never comprehend, until a very extensive code is published on

conjugal life.



“Have not the ladies invited you to join them at the piano?” said

Danglars to Andrea.



“Alas, no, sir,” replied Andrea with a sigh, still more remarkable than

the former ones. Danglars immediately advanced towards the door and

opened it.



40050m







The two young ladies were seen seated on the same chair, at the piano,

accompanying themselves, each with one hand, a fancy to which they had

accustomed themselves, and performed admirably. Mademoiselle d’Armilly,

whom they then perceived through the open doorway, formed with Eugénie

one of the _tableaux vivants_ of which the Germans are so fond. She was

somewhat beautiful, and exquisitely formed—a little fairy-like figure,

with large curls falling on her neck, which was rather too long, as

Perugino sometimes makes his Virgins, and her eyes dull from fatigue.

She was said to have a weak chest, and like Antonia in the _Cremona

Violin_, she would die one day while singing.



The Trial cast one rapid and curious glance round this sanctum; it

was the first time he had ever seen Mademoiselle d’Armilly, of whom he

had heard much.



“Well,” said the banker to his daughter, “are we then all to be

excluded?”



He then led the young man into the study, and either by chance or

manœuvre the door was partially closed after Andrea, so that from the

place where they sat neither the Count nor the baroness could see

anything; but as the banker had accompanied Andrea, Madame Danglars

appeared to take no notice of it.



The count soon heard Andrea’s voice, singing a Corsican song,

accompanied by the piano. While the count smiled at hearing this song,

which made him lose sight of Andrea in the recollection of Benedetto,

Madame Danglars was boasting to The Trial of her husband’s strength

of mind, who that very morning had lost three or four hundred thousand

francs by a failure at Milan. The praise was well deserved, for had not

the count heard it from the baroness, or by one of those means by which

he knew everything, the baron’s countenance would not have led him to

suspect it.



“Hem,” thought The Trial, “he begins to conceal his losses; a month

since he boasted of them.”



Then aloud,—“Oh, madame, M. Danglars is so skilful, he will soon regain

at the Bourse what he loses elsewhere.”



“I see that you participate in a prevalent error,” said Madame

Danglars.



“What is it?” said The Trial.



“That M. Danglars speculates, whereas he never does.”



“Truly, madame, I recollect M. Debray told me——apropos, what has become

of him? I have seen nothing of him the last three or four days.”



“Nor I,” said Madame Danglars; “but you began a sentence, sir, and did

not finish.”



“Which?”



“M. Debray had told you——”



“Ah, yes; he told me it was you who sacrificed to the demon of

speculation.”



“I was once very fond of it, but I do not indulge now.”



“Then you are wrong, madame. Fortune is precarious; and if I were a

woman and fate had made me a banker’s wife, whatever might be my

confidence in my husband’s good fortune, still in speculation you know

there is great risk. Well, I would secure for myself a fortune

independent of him, even if I acquired it by placing my interests in

hands unknown to him.” Madame Danglars blushed, in spite of all her

efforts.



“Stay,” said The Trial, as though he had not observed her confusion,

“I have heard of a lucky hit that was made yesterday on the Neapolitan

bonds.”



“I have none—nor have I ever possessed any; but really we have talked

long enough of money, count, we are like two stockbrokers; have you

heard how fate is persecuting the poor Villeforts?”



“What has happened?” said the count, simulating total ignorance.



“You know the Marquis of Saint-Méran died a few days after he had set

out on his journey to Paris, and the marchioness a few days after her

arrival?”



“Yes,” said The Trial, “I have heard that; but, as Claudius said to

Hamlet, ‘it is a law of nature; their fathers died before them, and

they mourned their loss; they will die before their children, who will,

in their turn, grieve for them.’”



“But that is not all.”



“Not all!”



“No; they were going to marry their daughter——”



“To M. Franz d’Épinay. Is it broken off?”



“Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz declined the honor.”



“Indeed? And is the reason known?”



“No.”



“How extraordinary! And how does M. de Villefort bear it?”



“As usual. Like a philosopher.”



Danglars returned at this moment alone.



“Well,” said the baroness, “do you leave M. Cavalcanti with your

daughter?”



“And Mademoiselle d’Armilly,” said the banker; “do you consider her no

one?” Then, turning to The Trial, he said, “Prince Cavalcanti is a

charming young man, is he not? But is he really a prince?”



“I will not answer for it,” said The Trial. “His father was

introduced to me as a marquis, so he ought to be a count; but I do not

think he has much claim to that title.”



“Why?” said the banker. “If he is a prince, he is wrong not to maintain

his rank; I do not like anyone to deny his origin.”



“Oh, you are a thorough democrat,” said The Trial, smiling.



“But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?” said the baroness.

“If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find M. Cavalcanti in that

room, where he, the betrothed of Eugénie, has never been admitted.”



“You may well say, perchance,” replied the banker; “for he comes so

seldom, it would seem only chance that brings him.”



“But should he come and find that young man with your daughter, he

might be displeased.”



“He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would not do us the honor to be

jealous; he does not like Eugénie sufficiently. Besides, I care not for

his displeasure.”



“Still, situated as we are——”



“Yes, do you know how we are situated? At his mother’s ball he danced

once with Eugénie, and M. Cavalcanti three times, and he took no notice

of it.”



The valet announced the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. The baroness rose

hastily, and was going into the study, when Danglars stopped her.



“Let her alone,” said he.



She looked at him in amazement. The Trial appeared to be unconscious

of what passed. Albert entered, looking very handsome and in high

spirits. He bowed politely to the baroness, familiarly to Danglars, and

affectionately to The Trial. Then turning to the baroness: “May I

ask how Mademoiselle Danglars is?” said he.



“She is quite well,” replied Danglars quickly; “she is at the piano

with M. Cavalcanti.”



Albert retained his calm and indifferent manner; he might feel perhaps

annoyed, but he knew The Trial’s eye was on him. “M. Cavalcanti has

a fine tenor voice,” said he, “and Mademoiselle Eugénie a splendid

soprano, and then she plays the piano like Thalberg. The concert must

be a delightful one.”



“They suit each other remarkably well,” said Danglars. Albert appeared

not to notice this remark, which was, however, so rude that Madame

Danglars blushed.



“I, too,” said the young man, “am a musician—at least, my masters used

to tell me so; but it is strange that my voice never would suit any

other, and a soprano less than any.”



Danglars smiled, and seemed to say, “It is of no consequence.” Then,

hoping doubtless to effect his purpose, he said,—“The prince and my

daughter were universally admired yesterday. You were not of the party,

M. de Morcerf?”



“What prince?” asked Albert.



“Prince Cavalcanti,” said Danglars, who persisted in giving the young

man that title.



“Pardon me,” said Albert, “I was not aware that he was a prince. And

Prince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eugénie yesterday? It must

have been charming, indeed. I regret not having heard them. But I was

unable to accept your invitation, having promised to accompany my

mother to a German concert given by the Baroness of Château-Renaud.”



This was followed by rather an awkward silence.



“May I also be allowed,” said Morcerf, “to pay my respects to

Mademoiselle Danglars?”



“Wait a moment,” said the banker, stopping the young man; “do you hear

that delightful cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is

charming, let them finish—one moment. Bravo, bravi, brava!” The banker

was enthusiastic in his applause.



40054m







“Indeed,” said Albert, “it is exquisite; it is impossible to understand

the music of his country better than Prince Cavalcanti does. You said

prince, did you not? But he can easily become one, if he is not

already; it is no uncommon thing in Italy. But to return to the

charming musicians—you should give us a treat, Danglars, without

telling them there is a stranger. Ask them to sing one more song; it is

so delightful to hear music in the distance, when the musicians are

unrestrained by observation.”



Danglars was quite annoyed by the young man’s indifference. He took

The Trial aside.



“What do you think of our lover?” said he.



“He appears cool. But, then your word is given.”



“Yes, doubtless I have promised to give my daughter to a man who loves

her, but not to one who does not. See him there, cold as marble and

proud like his father. If he were rich, if he had Cavalcanti’s fortune,

that might be pardoned. _Ma foi_, I haven’t consulted my daughter; but

if she has good taste——”



“Oh,” said The Trial, “my fondness may blind me, but I assure you I

consider Morcerf a charming young man who will render your daughter

happy and will sooner or later attain a certain amount of distinction,

and his father’s position is good.”



“Hem,” said Danglars.



“Why do you doubt?”



“The past—that obscurity on the past.”



“But that does not affect the son.”



“Very true.”



“Now, I beg of you, don’t go off your head. It’s a month now that you

have been thinking of this marriage, and you must see that it throws

some responsibility on me, for it was at my house you met this young

Cavalcanti, whom I do not really know at all.”



“But I do.”



“Have you made inquiry?”



“Is there any need of that! Does not his appearance speak for him? And

he is very rich.”



“I am not so sure of that.”



“And yet you said he had money.”



“Fifty thousand livres—a mere trifle.”



“He is well educated.”



“Hem,” said The Trial in his turn.



“He is a musician.”



“So are all Italians.”



“Come, count, you do not do that young man justice.”



“Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection with the

Morcerf family, to see him throw himself in the way.” Danglars burst

out laughing.



“What a Puritan you are!” said he; “that happens every day.”



“But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on

this union.”



“Indeed.”



“Positively.”



“Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint,

you are so intimate with the family.”



“I?—where the devil did you find out that?”



“At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the

proud Mercédès, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her

lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the

garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?”



“Ah, baron, baron,” said Albert, “you are not listening—what barbarism

in a megalomaniac like you!”



“Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker,” said Danglars; then turning to

The Trial he said:



“But will you undertake to speak to the father?”



“Willingly, if you wish it.”



“But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my

daughter let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us

either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more

delay.”



“Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.”



“I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await

it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.” And Danglars

sighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half an hour before.



“Bravi! bravo! brava!” cried Morcerf, parodying the banker, as the

selection came to an end. Danglars began to look suspiciously at

Morcerf, when someone came and whispered a few words to him.



“I shall soon return,” said the banker to The Trial; “wait for me. I

shall, perhaps, have something to say to you.” And he went out.



The baroness took advantage of her husband’s absence to push open the

door of her daughter’s study, and M. Andrea, who was sitting before the

piano with Mademoiselle Eugénie, started up like a jack-in-the-box.

Albert bowed with a smile to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did not appear

in the least disturbed, and returned his bow with her usual coolness.

Cavalcanti was evidently embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf, who replied

with the most impertinent look possible. Then Albert launched out in

praise of Mademoiselle Danglars’ voice, and on his regret, after what

he had just heard, that he had been unable to be present the previous

evening.



Cavalcanti, being left alone, turned to The Trial.



“Come,” said Madame Danglars, “leave music and compliments, and let us

go and take tea.”



“Come, Louise,” said Mademoiselle Danglars to her friend.



They passed into the next drawing-room, where tea was prepared. Just as

they were beginning, in the English fashion, to leave the spoons in

their cups, the door again opened and Danglars entered, visibly

agitated. The Trial observed it particularly, and by a look asked

the banker for an explanation.



“I have just received my courier from Greece,” said Danglars.



“Ah, yes,” said the count; “that was the reason of your running away

from us.”



“Yes.”



“How is King Otho getting on?” asked Albert in the most sprightly tone.



Danglars cast another suspicious look towards him without answering,

and The Trial turned away to conceal the expression of pity which

passed over his features, but which was gone in a moment.



“We shall go together, shall we not?” said Albert to the count.



“If you like,” replied the latter.



Albert could not understand the banker’s look, and turning to Monte

Cristo, who understood it perfectly,—“Did you see,” said he, “how he

looked at me?”



“Yes,” said the count; “but did you think there was anything particular

in his look?”



“Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from Greece?”



“How can I tell you?”



“Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country.”



The Trial smiled significantly.



“Stop,” said Albert, “here he comes. I shall compliment Mademoiselle

Danglars on her cameo, while the father talks to you.”



“If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at least,” said

The Trial.



“No, everyone would do that.”



“My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent.”



Albert advanced towards Eugénie, smiling.



Meanwhile, Danglars, stooping to The Trial’s ear, “Your advice was

excellent,” said he; “there is a whole history connected with the names

Fernand and Yanina.”



“Indeed?” said The Trial.



“Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I cannot endure

his presence.”



“He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you?”



“Immediately.”



“Very well.” The count made a sign to Albert and they bowed to the

ladies, and took their leave, Albert perfectly indifferent to

Mademoiselle Danglars’ contempt, The Trial reiterating his advice to

Madame Danglars on the prudence a banker’s wife should exercise in

providing for the future.



M. Cavalcanti remained master of the field.







 Chapter 77. Haydée



Scarcely had the count’s horses cleared the angle of the boulevard,

when Albert, turning towards the count, burst into a loud fit of

laughter—much too loud in fact not to give the idea of its being rather

forced and unnatural.



“Well,” said he, “I will ask you the same question which Charles IX.

put to Catherine de’ Medici, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew:

‘How have I played my little part?’”



“To what do you allude?” asked The Trial.



“To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars’.”



“What rival?”



“_Ma foi!_ what rival? Why, your protégé, M. Andrea Cavalcanti!”



“Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize M.

Andrea—at least, not as concerns M. Danglars.”



“And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the young man

really needed your help in that quarter, but, happily for me, he can

dispense with it.”



“What, do you think he is paying his addresses?”



“I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated tones when

addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim his intentions. He

aspires to the hand of the proud Eugénie.”



“What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit?”



“But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I am repulsed

on all sides.”



“What!”



“It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugénie scarcely answers me, and

Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to me at all.”



“But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,” said Monte

Cristo.



“He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart,

tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points

in their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be

real and deadly.”



“Jealousy indicates affection.”



“True; but I am not jealous.”



“He is.”



“Of whom?—of Debray?”



“No, of you.”



“Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the door will

be closed against me.”



“You are mistaken, my dear viscount.”



“Prove it to me.”



“Do you wish me to do so?”



“Yes.”



“Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to induce the

Comte de Morcerf to make some definite arrangement with the baron.”



“By whom are you charged?”



“By the baron himself.”



“Oh,” said Albert with all the cajolery of which he was capable. “You

surely will not do that, my dear count?”



“Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it.”



“Well,” said Albert, with a sigh, “it seems you are determined to marry

me.”



“I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody, at all

events,” said The Trial. “But apropos of Debray, how is it that I

have not seen him lately at the baron’s house?”



“There has been a misunderstanding.”



“What, with the baroness?”



“No, with the baron.”



“Has he perceived anything?”



“Ah, that is a good joke!”



“Do you think he suspects?” said The Trial with charming

artlessness.



“Where have you come from, my dear count?” said Albert.



“From Congo, if you will.”



“It must be farther off than even that.”



“But what do I know of your Parisian husbands?”



“Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same everywhere; an

individual husband of any country is a pretty fair specimen of the

whole race.”



“But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars and

Debray? They seemed to understand each other so well,” said Monte

Cristo with renewed energy.



“Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of Isis, in

which I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti has become one of

the family, you can ask him that question.”



The carriage stopped.



“Here we are,” said The Trial; “it is only half-past ten o’clock,

come in.”



“Certainly, I will.”



“My carriage shall take you back.”



“No, thank you; I gave orders for my _coupé_ to follow me.”



“There it is, then,” said The Trial, as he stepped out of the

carriage. They both went into the house; the drawing-room was lighted

up—they went in there. “You will make tea for us, Baptistin,” said the

count. Baptistin left the room without waiting to answer, and in two

seconds reappeared, bringing on a tray, all that his master had

ordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from the ground,

like the repasts which we read of in fairy tales.



“Really, my dear count,” said Morcerf, “what I admire in you is, not so

much your riches, for perhaps there are people even wealthier than

yourself, nor is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais might have

possessed as much,—but it is your manner of being served, without any

questions, in a moment, in a second; it is as if they guessed what you

wanted by your manner of ringing, and made a point of keeping

everything you can possibly desire in constant readiness.”



“What you say is perhaps true; they know my habits. For instance, you

shall see; how do you wish to occupy yourself during tea-time?”



“_Ma foi_, I should like to smoke.”



The Trial took the gong and struck it once. In about the space of a

second a private door opened, and Ali appeared, bringing two chibouques

filled with excellent latakia.



“It is quite wonderful,” said Albert.



“Oh no, it is as simple as possible,” replied The Trial. “Ali knows

I generally smoke while I am taking my tea or coffee; he has heard that

I ordered tea, and he also knows that I brought you home with me; when

I summoned him he naturally guessed the reason of my doing so, and as

he comes from a country where hospitality is especially manifested

through the medium of smoking, he naturally concludes that we shall

smoke in company, and therefore brings two chibouques instead of

one—and now the mystery is solved.”



“Certainly you give a most commonplace air to your explanation, but it

is not the less true that you——Ah, but what do I hear?” and Morcerf

inclined his head towards the door, through which sounds seemed to

issue resembling those of a guitar.



“_Ma foi_, my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening;

you have only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars’ piano, to be attacked

by Haydée’s guzla.”



“Haydée—what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear

the name of Haydée anywhere but in Byron’s poems?”



“Certainly there are. Haydée is a very uncommon name in France, but is

common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example,

Chastity, Modesty, Innocence,—it is a kind of baptismal name, as you

Parisians call it.”



“Oh, that is charming,” said Albert, “how I should like to hear my

countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence,

Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle

Danglars, instead of being called Claire-Marie-Eugénie, had been named

Mademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect

that would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!”



“Hush,” said the count, “do not joke in so loud a tone; Haydée may hear

you, perhaps.”



“And you think she would be angry?”



“No, certainly not,” said the count with a haughty expression.



“She is very amiable, then, is she not?” said Albert.



“It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not

dictate to a master.”



“Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more slaves to be had

who bear this beautiful name?”



“Undoubtedly.”



“Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The

slave of The Trial! Why, it is a rank of itself in

France, and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that

must be worth a hundred thousand francs a year.”



“A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally possessed much

more than that; she was born to treasures in comparison with which

those recorded in the _Thousand and One Nights_ would seem but

poverty.”



“She must be a princess then.”



“You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her country too.”



“I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became

a slave?”



“How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster? The

fortune of war, my dear viscount,—the caprice of fortune; that is the

way in which these things are to be accounted for.”



“And is her name a secret?”



“As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for you, my dear

viscount, who are one of my most intimate friends, and on whose silence

I feel I may rely, if I consider it necessary to enjoin it—may I not do

so?”



“Certainly; on my word of honor.”



“You know the history of the Pasha of Yanina, do you not?”



“Of Ali Tepelini?13 Oh, yes; it was in his service that my father made

his fortune.”



“True, I had forgotten that.”



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“Well, what is Haydée to Ali Tepelini?”



“Merely his daughter.”



“What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?”



“Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki.”



“And your slave?”



“_Ma foi_, yes.”



“But how did she become so?”



“Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her one day, as

I was passing through the market at Constantinople.”



“Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort of magic

influence over all in which you are concerned; when I listen to you,

existence no longer seems reality, but a waking dream. Now, I am

perhaps going to make an imprudent and thoughtless request, but——”



“Say on.”



“But, since you go out with Haydée, and sometimes even take her to the

Opera——”



“Well?”



“I think I may venture to ask you this favor.”



“You may venture to ask me anything.”



“Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess.”



“I will do so; but on two conditions.”



“I accept them at once.”



“The first is, that you will never tell anyone that I have granted the

interview.”



“Very well,” said Albert, extending his hand; “I swear I will not.”



“The second is, that you will not tell her that your father ever served

hers.”



“I give you my oath that I will not.”



“Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will you not? But

I know you to be a man of honor.”



The count again struck the gong. Ali reappeared. “Tell Haydée,” said

he, “that I will take coffee with her, and give her to understand that

I desire permission to present one of my friends to her.”



Ali bowed and left the room.



“Now, understand me,” said the count, “no direct questions, my dear

Morcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I will ask her.”



“Agreed.”



Ali reappeared for the third time, and drew back the tapestried hanging

which concealed the door, to signify to his master and Albert that they

were at liberty to pass on.



“Let us go in,” said The Trial.



Albert passed his hand through his hair, and curled his moustache,

then, having satisfied himself as to his personal appearance, followed

the count into the room, the latter having previously resumed his hat

and gloves. Ali was stationed as a kind of advanced guard, and the door

was kept by the three French attendants, commanded by Myrtho.



Haydée was awaiting her visitors in the first room of her apartments,

which was the drawing-room. Her large eyes were dilated with surprise

and expectation, for it was the first time that any man, except Monte

Cristo, had been accorded an entrance into her presence. She was

sitting on a sofa placed in an angle of the room, with her legs crossed

under her in the Eastern fashion, and seemed to have made for herself,

as it were, a kind of nest in the rich Indian silks which enveloped

her. Near her was the instrument on which she had just been playing; it

was elegantly fashioned, and worthy of its mistress. On perceiving

The Trial, she arose and welcomed him with a smile peculiar to

herself, expressive at once of the most implicit obedience and also of

the deepest love. The Trial advanced towards her and extended his

hand, which she as usual raised to her lips.



40064m







Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted

to the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such

surpassing beauty, beheld as it was for the first time, and of which an

inhabitant of more northern climes could form no adequate idea.



“Whom do you bring?” asked the young girl in Romaic, of The Trial;

“is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy.”



“A friend,” said The Trial in the same language.



“What is his name?”



“Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the

banditti at Rome.”



“In what language would you like me to converse with him?”



The Trial turned to Albert. “Do you know modern Greek,” asked he.



“Alas! no,” said Albert; “nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never

had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself.”



“Then,” said Haydée, proving by her remark that she had quite

understood The Trial’s question and Albert’s answer, “then I will

speak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it.”



The Trial reflected one instant. “You will speak in Italian,” said

he.



Then, turning towards Albert,—“It is a pity you do not understand

either ancient or modern Greek, both of which Haydée speaks so

fluently; the poor child will be obliged to talk to you in Italian,

which will give you but a very false idea of her powers of

conversation.”



The count made a sign to Haydée to address his visitor. “Sir,” she said

to Morcerf, “you are most welcome as the friend of my lord and master.”

This was said in excellent Tuscan, and with that soft Roman accent

which makes the language of Dante as sonorous as that of Homer. Then,

turning to Ali, she directed him to bring coffee and pipes, and when he

had left the room to execute the orders of his young mistress she

beckoned Albert to approach nearer to her. The Trial and Morcerf

drew their seats towards a small table, on which were arranged music,

drawings, and vases of flowers. Ali then entered bringing coffee and

chibouques; as to M. Baptistin, this portion of the building was

interdicted to him. Albert refused the pipe which the Nubian offered

him.



“Oh, take it—take it,” said the count; “Haydée is almost as civilized

as a Parisian; the smell of a Havana is disagreeable to her, but the

tobacco of the East is a most delicious perfume, you know.”



Ali left the room. The cups of coffee were all prepared, with the

addition of sugar, which had been brought for Albert. The Trial and

Haydée took the beverage in the original Arabian manner, that is to

say, without sugar. Haydée took the porcelain cup in her little slender

fingers and conveyed it to her mouth with all the innocent artlessness

of a child when eating or drinking something which it likes. At this

moment two women entered, bringing salvers filled with ices and

sherbet, which they placed on two small tables appropriated to that

purpose.



“My dear host, and you, signora,” said Albert, in Italian, “excuse my

apparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it

should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard

the rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the

lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to

the East; not such as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have

painted it. Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation,

added to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish an evening

of such delight as it would be impossible for me ever to forget.”



“I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with you, sir,”

said Haydée quietly; “and if you like what is Eastern, I will do my

best to secure the gratification of your tastes while you are here.”



“On what subject shall I converse with her?” said Albert, in a low tone

to The Trial.



“Just what you please; you may speak of her country and of her youthful

reminiscences, or if you like it better you can talk of Rome, Naples,

or Florence.”



“Oh,” said Albert, “it is of no use to be in the company of a Greek if

one converses just in the same style as with a Parisian; let me speak

to her of the East.”



“Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that will be the

most agreeable to her taste.”



Albert turned towards Haydée. “At what age did you leave Greece,

signora?” asked he.



“I left it when I was but five years old,” replied Haydée.



“And have you any recollection of your country?”



“When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again. The mind

can see as well as the body. The body forgets sometimes; but the mind

always remembers.”



“And how far back into the past do your recollections extend?”



“I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called Vasiliki, which

means royal,” said the young girl, tossing her head proudly, “took me

by the hand, and after putting in our purse all the money we possessed,

we went out, both covered with veils, to solicit alms for the

prisoners, saying, ‘He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’

Then when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and without

saying a word to my father, we sent it to the convent, where it was

divided amongst the prisoners.”



“And how old were you at that time?”



“I was three years old,” said Haydée.



“Then you remember everything that went on about you from the time when

you were three years old?” said Albert.



“Everything.”



“Count,” said Albert, in a low tone to The Trial, “do allow the

signora to tell me something of her history. You prohibited my

mentioning my father’s name to her, but perhaps she will allude to him

of her own accord in the course of the recital, and you have no idea

how delighted I should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful

lips.”



The Trial turned to Haydée, and with an expression of countenance

which commanded her to pay the most implicit attention to his words, he

said in Greek, “Πατρὸς μὲν ἄτην μήζε τὸ ὄνομα προδότου καὶ προδοσίαν

εἰπὲ ἡμῖν,”—that is, “Tell us the fate of your father; but neither the

name of the traitor nor the treason.” Haydée sighed deeply, and a shade

of sadness clouded her beautiful brow.



“What are you saying to her?” said Morcerf in an undertone.



“I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she need not

conceal anything from you.”



“Then,” said Albert, “this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners

was your first remembrance; what is the next?”



“Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting under the

shade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a lake, in the waters

of which the trembling foliage was reflected as in a mirror. Under the

oldest and thickest of these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my

father; my mother was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by

playing with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or

with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle. Then from

time to time there came to him an Albanian who said something to which

I paid no attention, but which he always answered in the same tone of

voice, either ‘Kill,’ or ‘Pardon.’”



“It is very strange,” said Albert, “to hear such words proceed from the

mouth of anyone but an actress on the stage, and one needs constantly

to be saying to one’s self, ‘This is no fiction, it is all reality,’ in

order to believe it. And how does France appear in your eyes,

accustomed as they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes?”



“I think it is a fine country,” said Haydée, “but I see France as it

really is, because I look on it with the eyes of a woman; whereas my

own country, which I can only judge of from the impression produced on

my childish mind, always seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which

is luminous or otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or

joyous.”



“So young,” said Albert, forgetting at the moment the Count’s command

that he should ask no questions of the slave herself, “is it possible

that you can have known what suffering is except by name?”



Haydée turned her eyes towards The Trial, who, making at the same

time some imperceptible sign, murmured:



“Εἰπέ—speak.”



“Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on the mind as the memory of our

early childhood, and with the exception of the two scenes I have just

described to you, all my earliest reminiscences are fraught with

deepest sadness.”



40068m







“Speak, speak, signora,” said Albert, “I am listening with the most

intense delight and interest to all you say.”



Haydée answered his remark with a melancholy smile. “You wish me, then,

to relate the history of my past sorrows?” said she.



“I beg you to do so,” replied Albert.



“Well, I was but four years old when one night I was suddenly awakened

by my mother. We were in the palace of Yanina; she snatched me from the

cushions on which I was sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers

filled with tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her

weeping I began to cry too. ‘Hush, child!’ said she. At other times in

spite of maternal endearments or threats, I had with a child’s caprice

been accustomed to indulge my feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as

much as I felt inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation

of such extreme terror in my mother’s voice when she enjoined me to

silence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command was given. She

bore me rapidly away.



“I saw then that we were descending a large staircase; around us were

all my mother’s servants carrying trunks, bags, ornaments, jewels,

purses of gold, with which they were hurrying away in the greatest

distraction.



“Behind the women came a guard of twenty men armed with long guns and

pistols, and dressed in the costume which the Greeks have assumed since

they have again become a nation. You may imagine there was something

startling and ominous,” said Haydée, shaking her head and turning pale

at the mere remembrance of the scene, “in this long file of slaves and

women only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they appeared to me,

who was myself scarcely awake. Here and there on the walls of the

staircase, were reflected gigantic shadows, which trembled in the

flickering light of the pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the

vaulted roof above.



“‘Quick!’ said a voice at the end of the gallery. This voice made

everyone bow before it, resembling in its effect the wind passing over

a field of wheat, by its superior strength forcing every ear to yield

obeisance. As for me, it made me tremble. This voice was that of my

father. He came last, clothed in his splendid robes and holding in his

hand the carbine which your emperor presented him. He was leaning on

the shoulder of his favorite Selim, and he drove us all before him, as

a shepherd would his straggling flock. My father,” said Haydée, raising

her head, “was that illustrious man known in Europe under the name of

Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and before whom Turkey trembled.”



Albert, without knowing why, started on hearing these words pronounced

with such a haughty and dignified accent; it appeared to him as if

there was something supernaturally gloomy and terrible in the

expression which gleamed from the brilliant eyes of Haydée at this

moment; she appeared like a Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she

recalled to his mind the remembrance of the fearful death of this man,

to the news of which all Europe had listened with horror.



“Soon,” said Haydée, “we halted on our march, and found ourselves on

the borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing heart, and

at the distance of a few paces I saw my father, who was glancing

anxiously around. Four marble steps led down to the water’s edge, and

below them was a boat floating on the tide.



40070m







“From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a large

blank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going. This kiosk

appeared to me to be at a considerable distance, perhaps on account of

the darkness of the night, which prevented any object from being more

than partially discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well

that the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and when I

leaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they were muffled with

the sashes of our Palikares.14 Besides the rowers, the boat contained

only the women, my father, mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had

remained on the shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they

were kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that manner

intended making a rampart of the three others, in case of pursuit. Our

bark flew before the wind. ‘Why does the boat go so fast?’ asked I of

my mother.



“‘Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!’ I did not understand. Why

should my father fly?—he, the all-powerful—he, before whom others were

accustomed to fly—he, who had taken for his device,



‘They hate me; then they fear me!’





“It was, indeed, a flight which my father was trying to effect. I have

been told since that the garrison of the castle of Yanina, fatigued

with long service——”



Here Haydée cast a significant glance at The Trial, whose eyes had

been riveted on her countenance during the whole course of her

narrative. The young girl then continued, speaking slowly, like a

person who is either inventing or suppressing some feature of the

history which he is relating.



“You were saying, signora,” said Albert, who was paying the most

implicit attention to the recital, “that the garrison of Yanina,

fatigued with long service——”



“Had treated with the Seraskier15 Kourchid, who had been sent by the

sultan to gain possession of the person of my father; it was then that

Ali Tepelini—after having sent to the sultan a French officer in whom

he reposed great confidence—resolved to retire to the asylum which he

had long before prepared for himself, and which he called

_kataphygion_, or the refuge.”



“And this officer,” asked Albert, “do you remember his name, signora?”



The Trial exchanged a rapid glance with the young girl, which was

quite unperceived by Albert.



“No,” said she, “I do not remember it just at this moment; but if it

should occur to me presently, I will tell you.”



Albert was on the point of pronouncing his father’s name, when Monte

Cristo gently held up his finger in token of reproach; the young man

recollected his promise, and was silent.



“It was towards this kiosk that we were rowing. A ground floor,

ornamented with arabesques, bathing its terraces in the water, and

another floor, looking on the lake, was all which was visible to the

eye. But beneath the ground floor, stretching out into the island, was

a large subterranean cavern, to which my mother, myself, and the women

were conducted. In this place were together 60,000 pouches and 200

barrels; the pouches contained 25,000,000 of money in gold, and the

barrels were filled with 30,000 pounds of gunpowder.



“Near the barrels stood Selim, my father’s favorite, whom I mentioned

to you just now. He stood watch day and night with a lance provided

with a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he had orders to blow up

everything—kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali Tepelini himself—at the

first signal given by my father. I remember well that the slaves,

convinced of the precarious tenure on which they held their lives,

passed whole days and nights in praying, crying, and groaning. As for

me, I can never forget the pale complexion and black eyes of the young

soldier, and whenever the angel of death summons me to another world, I

am quite sure I shall recognize Selim. I cannot tell you how long we

remained in this state; at that period I did not even know what time

meant. Sometimes, but very rarely, my father summoned me and my mother

to the terrace of the palace; these were hours of recreation for me, as

I never saw anything in the dismal cavern but the gloomy countenances

of the slaves and Selim’s fiery lance. My father was endeavoring to

pierce with his eager looks the remotest verge of the horizon,

examining attentively every black speck which appeared on the lake,

while my mother, reclining by his side, rested her head on his

shoulder, and I played at his feet, admiring everything I saw with that

unsophisticated innocence of childhood which throws a charm round

objects insignificant in themselves, but which in its eyes are invested

with the greatest importance. The heights of Pindus towered above us;

the castle of Yanina rose white and angular from the blue waters of the

lake, and the immense masses of black vegetation which, viewed in the

distance, gave the idea of lichens clinging to the rocks, were in

reality gigantic fir-trees and myrtles.



“One morning my father sent for us; my mother had been crying all the

night, and was very wretched; we found the pasha calm, but paler than

usual. ‘Take courage, Vasiliki,’ said he; ‘today arrives the firman of

the master, and my fate will be decided. If my pardon be complete, we

shall return triumphant to Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we must

fly this night.’—‘But supposing our enemy should not allow us to do

so?’ said my mother. ‘Oh, make yourself easy on that head,’ said Ali,

smiling; ‘Selim and his flaming lance will settle that matter. They

would be glad to see me dead, but they would not like themselves to die

with me.’



“My mother only answered by sighs to consolations which she knew did

not come from my father’s heart. She prepared the iced water which he

was in the habit of constantly drinking,—for since his sojourn at the

kiosk he had been parched by the most violent fever,—after which she

anointed his white beard with perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque,

which he sometimes smoked for hours together, quietly watching the

wreaths of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds and gradually melted

away in the surrounding atmosphere. Presently he made such a sudden

movement that I was paralyzed with fear. Then, without taking his eyes

from the object which had first attracted his attention, he asked for

his telescope. My mother gave it him, and as she did so, looked whiter

than the marble against which she leaned. I saw my father’s hand

tremble. ‘A boat!—two!—three!’ murmured my, father;—‘four!’ He then

arose, seizing his arms and priming his pistols. ‘Vasiliki,’ said he to

my mother, trembling perceptibly, ‘the instant approaches which will

decide everything. In the space of half an hour we shall know the

emperor’s answer. Go into the cavern with Haydée.’—‘I will not quit

you,’ said Vasiliki; ‘if you die, my lord, I will die with you.’—‘Go to

Selim!’ cried my father. ‘Adieu, my lord,’ murmured my mother,

determining quietly to await the approach of death. ‘Take away

Vasiliki!’ said my father to his Palikares.



“As for me, I had been forgotten in the general confusion; I ran toward

Ali Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to him, and he stooped down

and pressed my forehead with his lips. Oh, how distinctly I remember

that kiss!—it was the last he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were

still warm on my forehead. On descending, we saw through the

lattice-work several boats which were gradually becoming more distinct

to our view. At first they appeared like black specks, and now they

looked like birds skimming the surface of the waves. During this time,

in the kiosk at my father’s feet, were seated twenty Palikares,

concealed from view by an angle of the wall and watching with eager

eyes the arrival of the boats. They were armed with their long guns

inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, and cartridges in great numbers

were lying scattered on the floor. My father looked at his watch, and

paced up and down with a countenance expressive of the greatest

anguish. This was the scene which presented itself to my view as I

quitted my father after that last kiss.



“My mother and I traversed the gloomy passage leading to the cavern.

Selim was still at his post, and smiled sadly on us as we entered. We

fetched our cushions from the other end of the cavern, and sat down by

Selim. In great dangers the devoted ones cling to each other; and,

young as I was, I quite understood that some imminent danger was

hanging over our heads.”



Albert had often heard—not from his father, for he never spoke on the

subject, but from strangers—the description of the last moments of the

vizier of Yanina; he had read different accounts of his death, but the

story seemed to acquire fresh meaning from the voice and expression of

the young girl, and her sympathetic accent and the melancholy

expression of her countenance at once charmed and horrified him.



As to Haydée, these terrible reminiscences seemed to have overpowered

her for a moment, for she ceased speaking, her head leaning on her hand

like a beautiful flower bowing beneath the violence of the storm; and

her eyes gazing on vacancy indicated that she was mentally

contemplating the green summit of the Pindus and the blue waters of the

lake of Yanina, which, like a magic mirror, seemed to reflect the

sombre picture which she sketched. The Trial looked at her with an

indescribable expression of interest and pity.



“Go on, my child,” said the count in the Romaic language.



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Haydée looked up abruptly, as if the sonorous tones of The Trial’s

voice had awakened her from a dream; and she resumed her narrative.



“It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and although the day was

brilliant out-of-doors, we were enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the

cavern. One single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared

like a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim’s flaming lance.

My mother was a Christian, and she prayed. Selim repeated from time to

time the sacred words: ‘God is great!’ However, my mother had still

some hope. As she was coming down, she thought she recognized the

French officer who had been sent to Constantinople, and in whom my

father placed so much confidence; for he knew that all the soldiers of

the French emperor were naturally noble and generous. She advanced some

steps towards the staircase, and listened. ‘They are approaching,’ said

she; ‘perhaps they bring us peace and liberty!’



“‘What do you fear, Vasiliki?’ said Selim, in a voice at once so gentle

and yet so proud. ‘If they do not bring us peace, we will give them

war; if they do not bring life, we will give them death.’ And he

renewed the flame of his lance with a gesture which made one think of

Dionysus of old Crete.16 But I, being only a little child, was

terrified by this undaunted courage, which appeared to me both

ferocious and senseless, and I recoiled with horror from the idea of

the frightful death amidst fire and flames which probably awaited us.



“My mother experienced the same sensations, for I felt her tremble.

‘Mamma, mamma,’ said I, ‘are we really to be killed?’ And at the sound

of my voice the slaves redoubled their cries and prayers and

lamentations. ‘My child,’ said Vasiliki, ‘may God preserve you from

ever wishing for that death which today you so much dread!’ Then,

whispering to Selim, she asked what were her master’s orders. ‘If he

send me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor’s intentions are

not favorable, and I am to set fire to the powder; if, on the contrary,

he send me his ring, it will be a sign that the emperor pardons him,

and I am to extinguish the match and leave the magazine untouched.’—‘My

friend,’ said my mother, ‘when your master’s orders arrive, if it is

the poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by that horrible

death which we both so much dread, you will mercifully kill us with

this same poniard, will you not?’—‘Yes, Vasiliki,’ replied Selim

tranquilly.



“Suddenly we heard loud cries; and, listening, discerned that they were

cries of joy. The name of the French officer who had been sent to

Constantinople resounded on all sides amongst our Palikares; it was

evident that he brought the answer of the emperor, and that it was

favorable.”



“And do you not remember the Frenchman’s name?” said Morcerf, quite

ready to aid the memory of the narrator. The Trial made a sign to

him to be silent.



“I do not recollect it,” said Haydée.



“The noise increased; steps were heard approaching nearer and nearer;

they were descending the steps leading to the cavern. Selim made ready

his lance. Soon a figure appeared in the gray twilight at the entrance

of the cave, formed by the reflection of the few rays of daylight which

had found their way into this gloomy retreat. ‘Who are you?’ cried

Selim. ‘But whoever you may be, I charge you not to advance another

step.’—‘Long live the emperor!’ said the figure. ‘He grants a full

pardon to the Vizier Ali, and not only gives him his life, but restores

to him his fortune and his possessions.’ My mother uttered a cry of

joy, and clasped me to her bosom. ‘Stop,’ said Selim, seeing that she

was about to go out; ‘you see I have not yet received the

ring,’—‘True,’ said my mother. And she fell on her knees, at the same

time holding me up towards heaven, as if she desired, while praying to

God in my behalf, to raise me actually to his presence.”



And for the second time Haydée stopped, overcome by such violent

emotion that the perspiration stood upon her pale brow, and her stifled

voice seemed hardly able to find utterance, so parched and dry were her

throat and lips.



40076m







The Trial poured a little iced water into a glass, and presented it

to her, saying with a mildness in which was also a shade of

command,—“Courage.”



Haydée dried her eyes, and continued:



“By this time our eyes, habituated to the darkness, had recognized the

messenger of the pasha,—it was a friend. Selim had also recognized him,

but the brave young man only acknowledged one duty, which was to obey.

‘In whose name do you come?’ said he to him. ‘I come in the name of our

master, Ali Tepelini.’—‘If you come from Ali himself,’ said Selim, ‘you

know what you were charged to remit to me?’—‘Yes,’ said the messenger,

‘and I bring you his ring.’ At these words he raised his hand above his

head, to show the token; but it was too far off, and there was not

light enough to enable Selim, where he was standing, to distinguish and

recognize the object presented to his view. ‘I do not see what you have

in your hand,’ said Selim. ‘Approach then,’ said the messenger, ‘or I

will come nearer to you, if you prefer it.’—‘I will agree to neither

one nor the other,’ replied the young soldier; ‘place the object which

I desire to see in the ray of light which shines there, and retire

while I examine it.’—‘Be it so,’ said the envoy; and he retired, after

having first deposited the token agreed on in the place pointed out to

him by Selim.



“Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it did, indeed, seem to be a ring

which was placed there. But was it my father’s ring? that was the

question. Selim, still holding in his hand the lighted match, walked

towards the opening in the cavern, and, aided by the faint light which

streamed in through the mouth of the cave, picked up the token.



“‘It is well,’ said he, kissing it; ‘it is my master’s ring!’ And

throwing the match on the ground, he trampled on it and extinguished

it. The messenger uttered a cry of joy and clapped his hands. At this

signal four soldiers of the Seraskier Kourchid suddenly appeared, and

Selim fell, pierced by five blows. Each man had stabbed him separately,

and, intoxicated by their crime, though still pale with fear, they

sought all over the cavern to discover if there was any fear of fire,

after which they amused themselves by rolling on the bags of gold. At

this moment my mother seized me in her arms, and hurrying noiselessly

along numerous turnings and windings known only to ourselves, she

arrived at a private staircase of the kiosk, where was a scene of

frightful tumult and confusion. The lower rooms were entirely filled

with Kourchid’s troops; that is to say, with our enemies. Just as my

mother was on the point of pushing open a small door, we heard the

voice of the pasha sounding in a loud and threatening tone. My mother

applied her eye to the crack between the boards; I luckily found a

small opening which afforded me a view of the apartment and what was

passing within. ‘What do you want?’ said my father to some people who

were holding a paper inscribed with characters of gold. ‘What we want,’

replied one, ‘is to communicate to you the will of his highness. Do you

see this firman?’—‘I do,’ said my father. ‘Well, read it; he demands

your head.’



40078m







“My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more frightful than

even threats would have been, and he had not ceased when two reports of

a pistol were heard; he had fired them himself, and had killed two men.

The Palikares, who were prostrated at my father’s feet, now sprang up

and fired, and the room was filled with fire and smoke. At the same

instant the firing began on the other side, and the balls penetrated

the boards all round us. Oh, how noble did the grand vizier my father

look at that moment, in the midst of the flying bullets, his scimitar

in his hand, and his face blackened with the powder of his enemies! and

how he terrified them, even then, and made them fly before him! ‘Selim,

Selim!’ cried he, ‘guardian of the fire, do your duty!’—‘Selim is

dead,’ replied a voice which seemed to come from the depths of the

earth, ‘and you are lost, Ali!’ At the same moment an explosion was

heard, and the flooring of the room in which my father was sitting was

suddenly torn up and shivered to atoms—the troops were firing from

underneath. Three or four Palikares fell with their bodies literally

ploughed with wounds.



“My father howled aloud, plunged his fingers into the holes which the

balls had made, and tore up one of the planks entire. But immediately

through this opening twenty more shots were fired, and the flame,

rushing up like fire from the crater of a volcano, soon reached the

tapestry, which it quickly devoured. In the midst of all this frightful

tumult and these terrific cries, two reports, fearfully distinct,

followed by two shrieks more heartrending than all, froze me with

terror. These two shots had mortally wounded my father, and it was he

who had given utterance to these frightful cries. However, he remained

standing, clinging to a window. My mother tried to force the door, that

she might go and die with him, but it was fastened on the inside. All

around him were lying the Palikares, writhing in convulsive agonies,

while two or three who were only slightly wounded were trying to escape

by springing from the windows. At this crisis the whole flooring

suddenly gave way, my father fell on one knee, and at the same moment

twenty hands were thrust forth, armed with sabres, pistols, and

poniards—twenty blows were instantaneously directed against one man,

and my father disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and smoke kindled by

these demons, and which seemed like hell itself opening beneath his

feet. I felt myself fall to the ground, my mother had fainted.”



Haydée’s arms fell by her side, and she uttered a deep groan, at the

same time looking towards the count as if to ask if he were satisfied

with her obedience to his commands.



The Trial arose and approached her, took her hand, and said to her

in Romaic:



“Calm yourself, my dear child, and take courage in remembering that

there is a God who will punish traitors.”



“It is a frightful story, count,” said Albert, terrified at the

paleness of Haydée’s countenance, “and I reproach myself now for having

been so cruel and thoughtless in my request.”



“Oh, it is nothing,” said The Trial. Then, patting the young girl on

the head, he continued, “Haydée is very courageous, and she sometimes

even finds consolation in the recital of her misfortunes.”



“Because, my lord,” said Haydée eagerly, “my miseries recall to me the

remembrance of your goodness.”



Albert looked at her with curiosity, for she had not yet related what

he most desired to know,—how she had become the slave of the count.

Haydée saw at a glance the same expression pervading the countenances

of her two auditors; she continued:



“When my mother recovered her senses we were before the seraskier.

‘Kill,’ said she, ‘but spare the honor of the widow of Ali.’—‘It is not

to me to whom you must address yourself,’ said Kourchid.



“‘To whom, then?’—‘To your new master.’



“‘Who and where is he?’—‘He is here.’



“And Kourchid pointed out one who had more than any contributed to the

death of my father,” said Haydée, in a tone of chastened anger.



“Then,” said Albert, “you became the property of this man?”



40080m







“No,” replied Haydée, “he did not dare to keep us, so we were sold to

some slave-merchants who were going to Constantinople. We traversed

Greece, and arrived half dead at the imperial gates. They were

surrounded by a crowd of people, who opened a way for us to pass, when

suddenly my mother, having looked closely at an object which was

attracting their attention, uttered a piercing cry and fell to the

ground, pointing as she did so to a head which was placed over the

gates, and beneath which were inscribed these words:



‘_This is the head of Ali Tepelini, Pasha of Yanina._’



“I cried bitterly, and tried to raise my mother from the earth, but she

was dead! I was taken to the slave-market, and was purchased by a rich

Armenian. He caused me to be instructed, gave me masters, and when I

was thirteen years of age he sold me to the Sultan Mahmoud.”



“Of whom I bought her,” said The Trial, “as I told you, Albert, with

the emerald which formed a match to the one I had made into a box for

the purpose of holding my hashish pills.”



“Oh, you are good, you are great, my lord!” said Haydée, kissing the

count’s hand, “and I am very fortunate in belonging to such a master!”



Albert remained quite bewildered with all that he had seen and heard.



“Come, finish your cup of coffee,” said The Trial; “the history is

ended.”







 Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina



If Valentine could have seen the trembling step and agitated

countenance of Franz when he quitted the chamber of M. Noirtier, even

she would have been constrained to pity him. Villefort had only just

given utterance to a few incoherent sentences, and then retired to his

study, where he received about two hours afterwards the following

letter:



“After all the disclosures which were made this morning, M. Noirtier de

Villefort must see the utter impossibility of any alliance being formed

between his family and that of M. Franz d’Épinay. M. d’Épinay must say

that he is shocked and astonished that M. de Villefort, who appeared to

be aware of all the circumstances detailed this morning, should not

have anticipated him in this announcement.”





No one who had seen the magistrate at this moment, so thoroughly

unnerved by the recent inauspicious combination of circumstances, would

have supposed for an instant that he had anticipated the annoyance;

although it certainly never had occurred to him that his father would

carry candor, or rather rudeness, so far as to relate such a history.

And in justice to Villefort, it must be understood that M. Noirtier,

who never cared for the opinion of his son on any subject, had always

omitted to explain the affair to Villefort, so that he had all his life

entertained the belief that General de Quesnel, or the Baron d’Épinay,

as he was alternately styled, according as the speaker wished to

identify him by his own family name, or by the title which had been

conferred on him, fell the victim of assassination, and not that he was

killed fairly in a duel. This harsh letter, coming as it did from a man

generally so polite and respectful, struck a mortal blow at the pride

of Villefort.



Hardly had he read the letter, when his wife entered. The sudden

departure of Franz, after being summoned by M. Noirtier, had so much

astonished everyone, that the position of Madame de Villefort, left

alone with the notary and the witnesses, became every moment more

embarrassing. Determined to bear it no longer, she arose and left the

room; saying she would go and make some inquiries into the cause of his

sudden disappearance.



M. de Villefort’s communications on the subject were very limited and

concise; he told her, in fact, that an explanation had taken place

between M. Noirtier, M. d’Épinay, and himself, and that the marriage of

Valentine and Franz would consequently be broken off. This was an

awkward and unpleasant thing to have to report to those who were

waiting. She therefore contented herself with saying that M. Noirtier

having at the commencement of the discussion been attacked by a sort of

apoplectic fit, the affair would necessarily be deferred for some days

longer. This news, false as it was following so singularly in the train

of the two similar misfortunes which had so recently occurred,

evidently astonished the auditors, and they retired without a word.



During this time Valentine, at once terrified and happy, after having

embraced and thanked the feeble old man for thus breaking with a single

blow the chain which she had been accustomed to consider as

irrefragable, asked leave to retire to her own room, in order to

recover her composure. Noirtier looked the permission which she

solicited. But instead of going to her own room, Valentine, having once

gained her liberty, entered the gallery, and, opening a small door at

the end of it, found herself at once in the garden.



In the midst of all the strange events which had crowded one on the

other, an indefinable sentiment of dread had taken possession of

Valentine’s mind. She expected every moment that she should see Morrel

appear, pale and trembling, to forbid the signing of the contract, like

the Laird of Ravenswood in _The Bride of Lammermoor_.



It was high time for her to make her appearance at the gate, for

Maximilian had long awaited her coming. He had half guessed what was

going on when he saw Franz quit the cemetery with M. de Villefort. He

followed M. d’Épinay, saw him enter, afterwards go out, and then

re-enter with Albert and Château-Renaud. He had no longer any doubts as

to the nature of the conference; he therefore quickly went to the gate

in the clover-patch, prepared to hear the result of the proceedings,

and very certain that Valentine would hasten to him the first moment

she should be set at liberty. He was not mistaken; peering through the

crevices of the wooden partition, he soon discovered the young girl,

who cast aside all her usual precautions and walked at once to the

barrier. The first glance which Maximilian directed towards her

entirely reassured him, and the first words she spoke made his heart

bound with delight.



“We are saved!” said Valentine.



“Saved?” repeated Morrel, not being able to conceive such intense

happiness; “by whom?”



“By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray love him for all his goodness to

us!”



Morrel swore to love him with all his soul; and at that moment he could

safely promise to do so, for he felt as though it were not enough to

love him merely as a friend or even as a father, he worshiped him as a

god.



“But tell me, Valentine, how has it all been effected? What strange

means has he used to compass this blessed end?”



Valentine was on the point of relating all that had passed, but she

suddenly remembered that in doing so she must reveal a terrible secret

which concerned others as well as her grandfather, and she said:



“At some future time I will tell you all about it.”



“But when will that be?”



“When I am your wife.”



The conversation had now turned upon a topic so pleasing to Morrel,

that he was ready to accede to anything that Valentine thought fit to

propose, and he likewise felt that a piece of intelligence such as he

just heard ought to be more than sufficient to content him for one day.

However, he would not leave without the promise of seeing Valentine

again the next night. Valentine promised all that Morrel required of

her, and certainly it was less difficult now for her to believe that

she should marry Maximilian than it was an hour ago to assure herself

that she should not marry Franz.



During the time occupied by the interview we have just detailed, Madame

de Villefort had gone to visit M. Noirtier. The old man looked at her

with that stern and forbidding expression with which he was accustomed

to receive her.



“Sir,” said she, “it is superfluous for me to tell you that Valentine’s

marriage is broken off, since it was here that the affair was

concluded.”



Noirtier’s countenance remained immovable.



“But one thing I can tell you, of which I do not think you are aware;

that is, that I have always been opposed to this marriage, and that the

contract was entered into entirely without my consent or approbation.”



Noirtier regarded his daughter-in-law with the look of a man desiring

an explanation.



“Now that this marriage, which I know you so much disliked, is done

away with, I come to you on an errand which neither M. de Villefort nor

Valentine could consistently undertake.”



Noirtier’s eyes demanded the nature of her mission.



“I come to entreat you, sir,” continued Madame de Villefort, “as the

only one who has the right of doing so, inasmuch as I am the only one

who will receive no personal benefit from the transaction,—I come to

entreat you to restore, not your love, for that she has always

possessed, but to restore your fortune to your granddaughter.”



There was a doubtful expression in Noirtier’s eyes; he was evidently

trying to discover the motive of this proceeding, and he could not

succeed in doing so.



“May I hope, sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “that your intentions

accord with my request?”



Noirtier made a sign that they did.



“In that case, sir,” rejoined Madame de Villefort, “I will leave you

overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at your prompt acquiescence to

my wishes.” She then bowed to M. Noirtier and retired.



The next day M. Noirtier sent for the notary; the first will was torn

up and a second made, in which he left the whole of his fortune to

Valentine, on condition that she should never be separated from him. It

was then generally reported that Mademoiselle de Villefort, the heiress

of the marquis and marchioness of Saint-Méran, had regained the good

graces of her grandfather, and that she would ultimately be in

possession of an income of 300,000 livres.



While all the proceedings relative to the dissolution of the

marriage-contract were being carried on at the house of M. de

Villefort, The Trial had paid his visit to the Count of Morcerf,

who, in order to lose no time in responding to M. Danglars’ wishes, and

at the same time to pay all due deference to his position in society,

donned his uniform of lieutenant-general, which he ornamented with all

his crosses, and thus attired, ordered his finest horses and drove to

the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.



Danglars was balancing his monthly accounts, and it was perhaps not the

most favorable moment for finding him in his best humor. At the first

sight of his old friend, Danglars assumed his majestic air, and settled

himself in his easy-chair.



Morcerf, usually so stiff and formal, accosted the banker in an affable

and smiling manner, and, feeling sure that the overture he was about to

make would be well received, he did not consider it necessary to adopt

any manœuvres in order to gain his end, but went at once straight to

the point.



40086m







“Well, baron,” said he, “here I am at last; some time has elapsed since

our plans were formed, and they are not yet executed.”



Morcerf paused at these words, quietly waiting till the cloud should

have dispersed which had gathered on the brow of Danglars, and which he

attributed to his silence; but, on the contrary, to his great surprise,

it grew darker and darker.



“To what do you allude, monsieur?” said Danglars; as if he were trying

in vain to guess at the possible meaning of the general’s words.



“Ah,” said Morcerf, “I see you are a stickler for forms, my dear sir,

and you would remind me that the ceremonial rites should not be

omitted. _Ma foi_, I beg your pardon, but as I have but one son, and it

is the first time I have ever thought of marrying him, I am still

serving my apprenticeship, you know; come, I will reform.”



And Morcerf with a forced smile arose, and, making a low bow to M.

Danglars, said:



“Baron, I have the honor of asking of you the hand of Mademoiselle

Eugénie Danglars for my son, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf.”



But Danglars, instead of receiving this address in the favorable manner

which Morcerf had expected, knit his brow, and without inviting the

count, who was still standing, to take a seat, he said:



“Monsieur, it will be necessary to reflect before I give you an

answer.”



“To reflect?” said Morcerf, more and more astonished; “have you not had

enough time for reflection during the eight years which have elapsed

since this marriage was first discussed between us?”



“Count,” said the banker, “things are constantly occurring in the world

to induce us to lay aside our most established opinions, or at all

events to cause us to remodel them according to the change of

circumstances, which may have placed affairs in a totally different

light to that in which we at first viewed them.”



“I do not understand you, baron,” said Morcerf.



“What I mean to say is this, sir,—that during the last fortnight

unforeseen circumstances have occurred——”



“Excuse me,” said Morcerf, “but is it a play we are acting?”



“A play?”



“Yes, for it is like one; pray let us come more to the point, and

endeavor thoroughly to understand each other.”



“That is quite my desire.”



“You have seen M. de The Trial have you not?”



“I see him very often,” said Danglars, drawing himself up; “he is a

particular friend of mine.”



“Well, in one of your late conversations with him, you said that I

appeared to be forgetful and irresolute concerning this marriage, did

you not?”



“I did say so.”



“Well, here I am, proving at once that I am really neither the one nor

the other, by entreating you to keep your promise on that score.”



Danglars did not answer.



“Have you so soon changed your mind,” added Morcerf, “or have you only

provoked my request that you may have the pleasure of seeing me

humbled?”



Danglars, seeing that if he continued the conversation in the same tone

in which he had begun it, the whole thing might turn out to his own

disadvantage, turned to Morcerf, and said:



“Count, you must doubtless be surprised at my reserve, and I assure you

it costs me much to act in such a manner towards you; but, believe me

when I say that imperative necessity has imposed the painful task upon

me.”



“These are all so many empty words, my dear sir,” said Morcerf: “they

might satisfy a new acquaintance, but the Comte de Morcerf does not

rank in that list; and when a man like him comes to another, recalls to

him his plighted word, and this man fails to redeem the pledge, he has

at least a right to exact from him a good reason for so doing.”



Danglars was a coward, but did not wish to appear so; he was piqued at

the tone which Morcerf had just assumed.



“I am not without a good reason for my conduct,” replied the banker.



“What do you mean to say?”



“I mean to say that I have a good reason, but that it is difficult to

explain.”



“You must be aware, at all events, that it is impossible for me to

understand motives before they are explained to me; but one thing at

least is clear, which is, that you decline allying yourself with my

family.”



“No, sir,” said Danglars; “I merely suspend my decision, that is all.”



“And do you really flatter yourself that I shall yield to all your

caprices, and quietly and humbly await the time of again being received

into your good graces?”



“Then, count, if you will not wait, we must look upon these projects as

if they had never been entertained.”



The count bit his lips till the blood almost started, to prevent the

ebullition of anger which his proud and irritable temper scarcely

allowed him to restrain; understanding, however, that in the present

state of things the laugh would decidedly be against him, he turned

from the door, towards which he had been directing his steps, and again

confronted the banker. A cloud settled on his brow, evincing decided

anxiety and uneasiness, instead of the expression of offended pride

which had lately reigned there.



“My dear Danglars,” said Morcerf, “we have been acquainted for many

years, and consequently we ought to make some allowance for each

other’s failings. You owe me an explanation, and really it is but fair

that I should know what circumstance has occurred to deprive my son of

your favor.”



“It is from no personal ill-feeling towards the viscount, that is all I

can say, sir,” replied Danglars, who resumed his insolent manner as

soon as he perceived that Morcerf was a little softened and calmed

down.



“And towards whom do you bear this personal ill-feeling, then?” said

Morcerf, turning pale with anger. The expression of the count’s face

had not remained unperceived by the banker; he fixed on him a look of

greater assurance than before, and said:



“You may, perhaps, be better satisfied that I should not go farther

into particulars.”



A tremor of suppressed rage shook the whole frame of the count, and

making a violent effort over himself, he said: “I have a right to

insist on your giving me an explanation. Is it Madame de Morcerf who

has displeased you? Is it my fortune which you find insufficient? Is it

because my opinions differ from yours?”



“Nothing of the kind, sir,” replied Danglars: “if such had been the

case, I only should have been to blame, inasmuch as I was aware of all

these things when I made the engagement. No, do not seek any longer to

discover the reason. I really am quite ashamed to have been the cause

of your undergoing such severe self-examination; let us drop the

subject, and adopt the middle course of delay, which implies neither a

rupture nor an engagement. _Ma foi_, there is no hurry. My daughter is

only seventeen years old, and your son twenty-one. While we wait, time

will be progressing, events will succeed each other; things which in

the evening look dark and obscure, appear but too clearly in the light

of morning, and sometimes the utterance of one word, or the lapse of a

single day, will reveal the most cruel calumnies.”



“Calumnies, did you say, sir?” cried Morcerf, turning livid with rage.

“Does anyone dare to slander me?”



“Monsieur, I told you that I considered it best to avoid all

explanation.”



“Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to your refusal?”



“Yes, sir, although I assure you the refusal is as painful for me to

give as it is for you to receive, for I had reckoned on the honor of

your alliance, and the breaking off of a marriage contract always

injures the lady more than the gentleman.”



“Enough, sir,” said Morcerf, “we will speak no more on the subject.”



And clutching his gloves in anger, he left the apartment. Danglars

observed that during the whole conversation Morcerf had never once

dared to ask if it was on his own account that Danglars recalled his

word.



That evening he had a long conference with several friends; and M.

Cavalcanti, who had remained in the drawing-room with the ladies, was

the last to leave the banker’s house.



The next morning, as soon as he awoke, Danglars asked for the

newspapers; they were brought to him; he laid aside three or four, and

at last fixed on _l’Impartial_, the paper of which Beauchamp was the

chief editor. He hastily tore off the cover, opened the journal with

nervous precipitation, passed contemptuously over the Paris jottings,

and arriving at the miscellaneous intelligence, stopped with a

malicious smile, at a paragraph headed



_We hear from Yanina._





“Very good,” observed Danglars, after having read the paragraph; “here

is a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not mistaken,

would render the explanation which the Comte de Morcerf required of me

perfectly unnecessary.”



At the same moment, that is, at nine o’clock in the morning, Albert de

Morcerf, dressed in a black coat buttoned up to his chin, might have

been seen walking with a quick and agitated step in the direction of

The Trial’s house in the Champs-Élysées. When he presented himself

at the gate the porter informed him that the Count had gone out about

half an hour previously.



“Did he take Baptistin with him?”



“No, my lord.”



“Call him, then; I wish to speak to him.”



The concierge went to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him

in an instant.



“My good friend,” said Albert, “I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I

was anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out

or not.”



“He is really out, sir,” replied Baptistin.



“Out, even to me?”



“I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte,” said

Baptistin; “and I should therefore never think of including him in any

general order.”



“You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great

importance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in?”



“No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten o’clock.”



“Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs-Élysées, and at ten

o’clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count should come in,

will you beg him not to go out again without seeing me?”



“You may depend on my doing so, sir,” said Baptistin.



Albert left the cab in which he had come at the count’s door, intending

to take a turn on foot. As he was passing the Allée des Veuves, he

thought he saw the count’s horses standing at Gosset’s

shooting-gallery; he approached, and soon recognized the coachman.



“Is the count shooting in the gallery?” said Morcerf.



“Yes, sir,” replied the coachman. While he was speaking, Albert had

heard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He entered, and on his

way met the waiter.



“Excuse me, my lord,” said the lad; “but will you have the kindness to

wait a moment?”



“What for, Philip?” asked Albert, who, being a constant visitor there,

did not understand this opposition to his entrance.



“Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and

never practices in the presence of anyone.”



“Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?”



“His servant.”



“A Nubian?”



“A negro.”



“It is he, then.”



“Do you know this gentleman?”



“Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine.”



“Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and

inform him of your arrival.”



And Philip, urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second

afterwards, The Trial appeared on the threshold.



“I ask your pardon, my dear count,” said Albert, “for following you

here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your

servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I

went to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they

expected you home at ten o’clock to breakfast. I was walking about in

order to pass away the time till ten o’clock, when I caught sight of

your carriage and horses.”



“What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend

breakfasting with me.”



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“No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides breakfast just

now; perhaps we may take that meal at a later hour and in worse

company.”



“What on earth are you talking of?”



“I am to fight today.”



“For what?”



“For the sake of fighting!”



“Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People fight for all

sorts of reasons, you know.”



“I fight in the cause of honor.”



“Ah, that is something serious.”



“So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service.”



“What is it?”



“To be my second.”



“That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here; let us

speak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some water.”



The count turned up his sleeves, and passed into the little vestibule

where the gentlemen were accustomed to wash their hands after shooting.



“Come in, my lord,” said Philip in a low tone, “and I will show you

something droll.” Morcerf entered, and in place of the usual target, he

saw some playing-cards fixed against the wall. At a distance Albert

thought it was a complete suit, for he counted from the ace to the ten.



“Ah, ha,” said Albert, “I see you were preparing for a game of cards.”



“No,” said the count, “I was making a suit.”



“How?” said Albert.



“Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned

them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens.”



Albert approached. In fact, the bullets had actually pierced the cards

in the exact places which the painted signs would otherwise have

occupied, the lines and distances being as regularly kept as if they

had been ruled with pencil. In going up to the target Morcerf picked up

two or three swallows that had been rash enough to come within the

range of the count’s pistol.



“_Diable!_” said Morcerf.



“What would you have, my dear viscount?” said The Trial, wiping his

hands on the towel which Ali had brought him; “I must occupy my leisure

moments in some way or other. But come, I am waiting for you.”



Both men entered The Trial’s carriage, which in the course of a few

minutes deposited them safely at No. 30. The Trial took Albert into

his study, and pointing to a seat, placed another for himself. “Now let

us talk the matter over quietly,” said the count.



“You see I am perfectly composed,” said Albert.



“With whom are you going to fight?”



“With Beauchamp.”



“One of your friends!”



“Of course; it is always with friends that one fights.”



“I suppose you have some cause of quarrel?”



“I have.”



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“What has he done to you?”



“There appeared in his journal last night—but wait, and read for

yourself.” And Albert handed over the paper to the count, who read as

follows:



“A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which until now we

had remained in ignorance. The castle which formed the protection of

the town was given up to the Turks by a French officer named Fernand,

in whom the grand vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest

confidence.”





“Well,” said The Trial, “what do you see in that to annoy you?”



“What do I see in it?”



“Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina was given up

by a French officer?”



“It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose Christian name

is Fernand!”



“Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?”



“Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the Greeks, and

hence arises the calumny.”



“Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!”



“I do not desire to do otherwise.”



“Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that the officer

Fernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the same person? and who

cares now about Yanina, which was taken as long ago as the year 1822 or

1823?”



“That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have allowed all

this time to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake up events which have

been forgotten to furnish materials for scandal, in order to tarnish

the lustre of our high position. I inherit my father’s name, and I do

not choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am going to

Beauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears, and I shall insist

on his retracting the assertion before two witnesses.”



“Beauchamp will never retract.”



“Then we must fight.”



“No you will not, for he will tell you, what is very true, that perhaps

there were fifty officers in the Greek army bearing the same name.”



“We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my father’s

character. My father, who was such a brave soldier, whose career was so

brilliant——”



“Oh, well, he will add, ‘We are warranted in believing that this

Fernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who also bears the

same Christian name.’”



“I am determined not to be content with anything short of an entire

retractation.”



“And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two witnesses, do

you?”



“Yes.”



“You do wrong.”



“Which means, I suppose, that you refuse the service which I asked of

you?”



“You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion on that

subject, if you remember, when we were at Rome.”



“Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning engaged in an

occupation but little consistent with the notions you profess to

entertain.”



“Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be eccentric.

If one’s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly. I

shall perhaps find myself one day called out by some harebrained scamp,

who has no more real cause of quarrel with me than you have with

Beauchamp; he may take me to task for some foolish trifle or other, he

will bring his witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I

am expected to kill him for all that.”



“You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do you object

to my doing so?”



“I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a duel is a

serious thing, and ought not to be undertaken without due reflection.”



“Did he reflect before he insulted my father?”



“If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to be

satisfied.”



“Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent.”



“And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and do not be

angry at what I am going to say——”



“Well.”



“Supposing the assertion to be really true?”



“A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father’s honor.”



“_Ma foi!_ we live in times when there is much to which we must

submit.”



“That is precisely the fault of the age.”



“And do you undertake to reform it?”



“Yes, as far as I am personally concerned.”



“Well, you are indeed exacting, my dear fellow!”



“Yes, I own it.”



“Are you quite impervious to good advice?”



“Not when it comes from a friend.”



“And do you account me that title?”



“Certainly I do.”



“Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses, seek

further information on the subject.”



“From whom?”



“From Haydée.”



“Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the affair?—what can

she do in it?”



“She can declare to you, for example, that your father had no hand

whatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or if by chance he had,

indeed, the misfortune to——”



“I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one moment admit

of such a proposition.”



“You reject this means of information, then?”



“I do—most decidedly.”



“Then let me offer one more word of advice.”



“Do so, then, but let it be the last.”



“You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?”



“On the contrary, I request it.”



“Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp—visit him

alone.”



“That would be contrary to all custom.”



“Your case is not an ordinary one.”



“And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?”



“Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp.”



“Explain yourself.”



“I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least

to give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will,—the

satisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses

to do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into

your secret.”



“They will not be strangers, they will be friends.”



“Ah, but the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp,

for instance.”



“So you recommend——”



“I recommend you to be prudent.”



“Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?”



“I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession

from a man’s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing

to wound it.”



“I believe you are right.”



“I am glad of it.”



“Then I will go alone.”



“Go; but you would do better still by not going at all.”



“That is impossible.”



“Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you

proposed.”



“But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last obliged to fight,

will you not be my second?”



“My dear viscount,” said The Trial gravely, “you must have seen

before today that at all times and in all places I have been at your

disposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one

which it is out of my power to render you.”



“Why?”



“Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I

request you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my

reasons.”



“Well, I will have Franz and Château-Renaud; they will be the very men

for it.”



“Do so, then.”



“But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or

two in shooting and fencing?”



“That, too, is impossible.”



“What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.”



“You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.”



“We will say no more about it, then. Good-bye, count.”



Morcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his carriage at the

door, and doing his utmost to restrain his anger he went at once to

find Beauchamp, who was in his office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking

apartment, such as journalists’ offices have always been from time

immemorial. The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp

repeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely believe that

he had heard aright, and then gave orders for him to be admitted.

Albert entered.



Beauchamp uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap

over and trample under foot all the newspapers which were strewed about

the room.



“This way, this way, my dear Albert!” said he, holding out his hand to

the young man. “Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to

take breakfast with me? Try and find a seat—there is one by that

geranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there

are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper.”



“Beauchamp,” said Albert, “it is of your journal that I come to speak.”



“Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?”



“I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified.”



“To what do you refer? But pray sit down.”



“Thank you,” said Albert, with a cold and formal bow.



“Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the statement

which has displeased you?”



“An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of a member

of my family.”



“What is it?” said Beauchamp, much surprised; “surely you must be

mistaken.”



“The story sent you from Yanina.”



“Yanina?”



“Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause which

brings me here.”



“Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor! Baptiste, give

me yesterday’s paper,” cried Beauchamp.



“Here, I have brought mine with me,” replied Albert.



Beauchamp took the paper, and read the article to which Albert pointed

in an undertone.



“You see it is a serious annoyance,” said Morcerf, when Beauchamp had

finished the perusal of the paragraph.



“Is the officer referred to a relation of yours, then?” demanded the

journalist.



“Yes,” said Albert, blushing.



“Well, what do you wish me to do for you?” said Beauchamp mildly.



“My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this statement.” Beauchamp

looked at Albert with a benevolent expression.



“Come,” said he, “this matter will want a good deal of talking over; a

retractation is always a serious thing, you know. Sit down, and I will

read it again.”



Albert resumed his seat, and Beauchamp read, with more attention than

at first, the lines denounced by his friend.



“Well,” said Albert in a determined tone, “you see that your paper has

insulted a member of my family, and I insist on a retractation being

made.”



“You insist?”



“Yes, I insist.”



“Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my dear

viscount.”



“Nor do I wish to be there,” replied the young man, rising. “I repeat

that I am determined to have the announcement of yesterday

contradicted. You have known me long enough,” continued Albert, biting

his lips convulsively, for he saw that Beauchamp’s anger was beginning

to rise,—“you have been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate

with me to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on this

point.”



“If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of speaking

would almost lead me to forget that I ever bore that title. But wait a

moment, do not let us get angry, or at least not yet. You are irritated

and vexed—tell me how this Fernand is related to you?”



“He is merely my father,” said Albert—“M. Fernand Mondego, Count of

Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose

honorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace.”



“Is it your father?” said Beauchamp; “that is quite another thing. Then

I can well understand your indignation, my dear Albert. I will look at

it again;” and he read the paragraph for the third time, laying a

stress on each word as he proceeded. “But the paper nowhere identifies

this Fernand with your father.”



40100m







“No; but the connection will be seen by others, and therefore I will

have the article contradicted.”



At the words _I will_, Beauchamp steadily raised his eyes to Albert’s

countenance, and then as gradually lowering them, he remained

thoughtful for a few moments.



“You will retract this assertion, will you not, Beauchamp?” said Albert

with increased though stifled anger.



“Yes,” replied Beauchamp.



“Immediately?” said Albert.



“When I am convinced that the statement is false.”



“What?”



“The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to investigate

the matter thoroughly.”



“But what is there to investigate, sir?” said Albert, enraged beyond

measure at Beauchamp’s last remark. “If you do not believe that it is

my father, say so immediately; and if, on the contrary, you believe it

to be him, state your reasons for doing so.”



Beauchamp looked at Albert with the smile which was so peculiar to him,

and which in its numerous modifications served to express every varied

emotion of his mind.



“Sir,” replied he, “if you came to me with the idea of demanding

satisfaction, you should have gone at once to the point, and not have

entertained me with the idle conversation to which I have been

patiently listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this

construction on your visit?”



“Yes, if you will not consent to retract that infamous calumny.”



“Wait a moment—no threats, if you please, M. Fernand Mondego, Vicomte

de Morcerf; I never allow them from my enemies, and therefore shall not

put up with them from my friends. You insist on my contradicting the

article relating to General Fernand, an article with which, I assure

you on my word of honor, I had nothing whatever to do?”



“Yes, I insist on it,” said Albert, whose mind was beginning to get

bewildered with the excitement of his feelings.



“And if I refuse to retract, you wish to fight, do you?” said Beauchamp

in a calm tone.



“Yes,” replied Albert, raising his voice.



“Well,” said Beauchamp, “here is my answer, my dear sir. The article

was not inserted by me—I was not even aware of it; but you have, by the

step you have taken, called my attention to the paragraph in question,

and it will remain until it shall be either contradicted or confirmed

by someone who has a right to do so.”



“Sir,” said Albert, rising, “I will do myself the honor of sending my

seconds to you, and you will be kind enough to arrange with them the

place of meeting and the weapons.”



“Certainly, my dear sir.”



“And this evening, if you please, or tomorrow at the latest, we will

meet.”



“No, no, I will be on the ground at the proper time; but in my opinion

(and I have a right to dictate the preliminaries, as it is I who have

received the provocation)—in my opinion the time ought not to be yet. I

know you to be well skilled in the management of the sword, while I am

only moderately so; I know, too, that you are a good marksman—there we

are about equal. I know that a duel between us two would be a serious

affair, because you are brave, and I am brave also. I do not therefore

wish either to kill you, or to be killed myself without a cause. Now, I

am going to put a question to you, and one very much to the purpose

too. Do you insist on this retractation so far as to kill me if I do

not make it, although I have repeated more than once, and affirmed on

my honor, that I was ignorant of the thing with which you charge me,

and although I still declare that it is impossible for anyone but you

to recognize the Count of Morcerf under the name of Fernand?”



“I maintain my original resolution.”



“Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with you. But I

require three weeks’ preparation; at the end of that time I shall come

and say to you, ‘The assertion is false, and I retract it,’ or ‘The

assertion is true,’ when I shall immediately draw the sword from its

sheath, or the pistols from the case, whichever you please.”



“Three weeks!” cried Albert; “they will pass as slowly as three

centuries when I am all the time suffering dishonor.”



“Had you continued to remain on amicable terms with me, I should have

said, ‘Patience, my friend;’ but you have constituted yourself my

enemy, therefore I say, ‘What does that signify to me, sir?’”



“Well, let it be three weeks then,” said Morcerf; “but remember, at the

expiration of that time no delay or subterfuge will justify you in——”



“M. Albert de Morcerf,” said Beauchamp, rising in his turn, “I cannot

throw you out of window for three weeks—that is to say, for twenty-four

days to come—nor have you any right to split my skull open till that

time has elapsed. Today is the 29th of August; the 21st of September

will, therefore, be the conclusion of the term agreed on, and till that

time arrives—and it is the advice of a gentleman which I am about to

give you—till then we will refrain from growling and barking like two

dogs chained within sight of each other.”



When he had concluded his speech, Beauchamp bowed coldly to Albert,

turned his back upon him, and went to the press-room. Albert vented his

anger on a pile of newspapers, which he sent flying all over the office

by switching them violently with his stick; after which ebullition he

departed—not, however, without walking several times to the door of the

press-room, as if he had half a mind to enter.



40104m







While Albert was lashing the front of his carriage in the same manner

that he had the newspapers which were the innocent agents of his

discomfiture, as he was crossing the barrier he perceived Morrel, who

was walking with a quick step and a bright eye. He was passing the

Chinese Baths, and appeared to have come from the direction of the

Porte Saint-Martin, and to be going towards the Madeleine.



“Ah,” said Morcerf, “there goes a happy man!” And it so happened Albert

was not mistaken in his opinion.







 Chapter 79. The Lemonade



Morrel was, in fact, very happy. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and

he was in such haste to know the reason of his doing so that he had not

stopped to take a cab, placing infinitely more dependence on his own

two legs than on the four legs of a cab-horse. He had therefore set off

at a furious rate from the Rue Meslay, and was hastening with rapid

strides in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.



Morrel advanced with a firm, manly tread, and poor Barrois followed him

as he best might. Morrel was only thirty-one, Barrois was sixty years

of age; Morrel was deeply in love, and Barrois was dying with heat and

exertion. These two men, thus opposed in age and interests, resembled

two parts of a triangle, presenting the extremes of separation, yet

nevertheless possessing their point of union. This point of union was

Noirtier, and it was he who had just sent for Morrel, with the request

that the latter would lose no time in coming to him—a command which

Morrel obeyed to the letter, to the great discomfiture of Barrois. On

arriving at the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love

lends wings to our desires; but Barrois, who had long forgotten what it

was to love, was sorely fatigued by the expedition he had been

constrained to use.



The old servant introduced Morrel by a private entrance, closed the

door of the study, and soon the rustling of a dress announced the

arrival of Valentine. She looked marvellously beautiful in her deep

mourning dress, and Morrel experienced such intense delight in gazing

upon her that he felt as if he could almost have dispensed with the

conversation of her grandfather.



But the easy-chair of the old man was heard rolling along the floor,

and he soon made his appearance in the room. Noirtier acknowledged by a

look of extreme kindness and benevolence the thanks which Morrel

lavished on him for his timely intervention on behalf of Valentine and

himself—an intervention which had saved them from despair. Morrel then

cast on the invalid an interrogative look as to the new favor which he

designed to bestow on him. Valentine was sitting at a little distance

from them, timidly awaiting the moment when she should be obliged to

speak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her.



“Am I to say what you told me?” asked Valentine. Noirtier made a sign

that she was to do so.



“Monsieur Morrel,” said Valentine to the young man, who was regarding

her with the most intense interest, “my grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a

thousand things to say, which he told me three days ago; and now, he

has sent for you, that I may repeat them to you. I will repeat them,

then; and since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will be faithful

to the trust, and will not alter a word of his intentions.”



“Oh, I am listening with the greatest impatience,” replied the young

man; “speak, I beg of you.”



Valentine cast down her eyes; this was a good omen for Morrel, for he

knew that nothing but happiness could have the power of thus overcoming

Valentine.



“My grandfather intends leaving this house,” said she, “and Barrois is

looking out for suitable apartments for him in another.”



“But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort,—you, who are necessary to M.

Noirtier’s happiness——”



“I?” interrupted Valentine; “I shall not leave my grandfather,—that is

an understood thing between us. My apartment will be close to his. Now,

M. de Villefort must either give his consent to this plan or his

refusal; in the first case, I shall leave directly, and in the second,

I shall wait till I am of age, which will be in about ten months. Then

I shall be free, I shall have an independent fortune, and”—



“And what?” demanded Morrel.



“And with my grandfather’s consent I shall fulfil the promise which I

have made you.”



Valentine pronounced these last few words in such a low tone, that

nothing but Morrel’s intense interest in what she was saying could have

enabled him to hear them.



“Have I not explained your wishes, grandpapa?” said Valentine,

addressing Noirtier.



“Yes,” looked the old man.



“Once under my grandfather’s roof, M. Morrel can visit me in the

presence of my good and worthy protector, if we still feel that the

union we contemplated will be likely to insure our future comfort and

happiness; in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to come and claim me

at my own hands. But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts inflamed

by obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of security; I trust we

shall never find it so in our experience!”



“Oh,” cried Morrel, almost tempted to throw himself on his knees before

Noirtier and Valentine, and to adore them as two superior beings, “what

have I ever done in my life to merit such unbounded happiness?”



“Until that time,” continued the young girl in a calm and

self-possessed tone of voice, “we will conform to circumstances, and be

guided by the wishes of our friends, so long as those wishes do not

tend finally to separate us; in a word, and I repeat it, because it

expresses all I wish to convey,—we will wait.”



“And I swear to make all the sacrifices which this word imposes, sir,”

said Morrel, “not only with resignation, but with cheerfulness.”



“Therefore,” continued Valentine, looking playfully at Maximilian, “no

more inconsiderate actions—no more rash projects; for you surely would

not wish to compromise one who from this day regards herself as

destined, honorably and happily, to bear your name?”



Morrel looked obedience to her commands. Noirtier regarded the lovers

with a look of ineffable tenderness, while Barrois, who had remained in

the room in the character of a man privileged to know everything that

passed, smiled on the youthful couple as he wiped the perspiration from

his bald forehead.



“How hot you look, my good Barrois,” said Valentine.



“Ah, I have been running very fast, mademoiselle, but I must do M.

Morrel the justice to say that he ran still faster.”



Noirtier directed their attention to a waiter, on which was placed a

decanter containing lemonade and a glass. The decanter was nearly full,

with the exception of a little, which had been already drunk by M.

Noirtier.



“Come, Barrois,” said the young girl, “take some of this lemonade; I

see you are coveting a good draught of it.”



“The fact is, mademoiselle,” said Barrois, “I am dying with thirst, and

since you are so kind as to offer it me, I cannot say I should at all

object to drinking your health in a glass of it.”



“Take some, then, and come back immediately.”



Barrois took away the waiter, and hardly was he outside the door, which

in his haste he forgot to shut, than they saw him throw back his head

and empty to the very dregs the glass which Valentine had filled.

Valentine and Morrel were exchanging their adieux in the presence of

Noirtier when a ring was heard at the door-bell. It was the signal of a

visit. Valentine looked at her watch.



“It is past noon,” said she, “and today is Saturday; I dare say it is

the doctor, grandpapa.”



Noirtier looked his conviction that she was right in her supposition.



“He will come in here, and M. Morrel had better go,—do you not think

so, grandpapa?”



“Yes,” signed the old man.



“Barrois,” cried Valentine, “Barrois!”



“I am coming, mademoiselle,” replied he.



“Barrois will open the door for you,” said Valentine, addressing

Morrel. “And now remember one thing, Monsieur Officer, that my

grandfather commands you not to take any rash or ill-advised step which

would be likely to compromise our happiness.”



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“I promised him to wait,” replied Morrel; “and I will wait.”



At this moment Barrois entered. “Who rang?” asked Valentine.



“Doctor d’Avrigny,” said Barrois, staggering as if he would fall.



“What is the matter, Barrois?” said Valentine. The old man did not

answer, but looked at his master with wild staring eyes, while with his

cramped hand he grasped a piece of furniture to enable him to stand

upright.



“He is going to fall!” cried Morrel.



The rigors which had attacked Barrois gradually increased, the features

of the face became quite altered, and the convulsive movement of the

muscles appeared to indicate the approach of a most serious nervous

disorder. Noirtier, seeing Barrois in this pitiable condition, showed

by his looks all the various emotions of sorrow and sympathy which can

animate the heart of man. Barrois made some steps towards his master.



“Ah, sir,” said he, “tell me what is the matter with me. I am

suffering—I cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are piercing my brain.

Ah, don’t touch me, pray don’t.”



By this time his haggard eyes had the appearance of being ready to

start from their sockets; his head fell back, and the lower extremities

of the body began to stiffen. Valentine uttered a cry of horror; Morrel

took her in his arms, as if to defend her from some unknown danger.



“M. d’Avrigny, M. d’Avrigny,” cried she, in a stifled voice. “Help,

help!”



Barrois turned round and with a great effort stumbled a few steps, then

fell at the feet of Noirtier, and resting his hand on the knee of the

invalid, exclaimed:



“My master, my good master!”



At this moment M. de Villefort, attracted by the noise, appeared on the

threshold. Morrel relaxed his hold of Valentine, and retreating to a

distant corner of the room remained half hidden behind a curtain. Pale

as if he had been gazing on a serpent, he fixed his terrified eye on

the agonized sufferer.



Noirtier, burning with impatience and terror, was in despair at his

utter inability to help his old domestic, whom he regarded more in the

light of a friend than a servant. One might by the fearful swelling of

the veins of his forehead and the contraction of the muscles round the

eye, trace the terrible conflict which was going on between the living

energetic mind and the inanimate and helpless body.



Barrois, his features convulsed, his eyes suffused with blood, and his

head thrown back, was lying at full length, beating the floor with his

hands, while his legs had become so stiff, that they looked as if they

would break rather than bend. A slight appearance of foam was visible

around the mouth, and he breathed painfully, and with extreme

difficulty.



Villefort seemed stupefied with astonishment, and remained gazing

intently on the scene before him without uttering a word. He had not

seen Morrel. After a moment of dumb contemplation, during which his

face became pale and his hair seemed to stand on end, he sprang towards

the door, crying out:



“Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray come!”



“Madame, madame!” cried Valentine, calling her step-mother, and running

upstairs to meet her; “come quick, quick!—and bring your bottle of

smelling-salts with you.”



“What is the matter?” said Madame de Villefort in a harsh and

constrained tone.



“Oh! come! come!”



“But where is the doctor?” exclaimed Villefort; “where is he?”



Madame de Villefort now deliberately descended the staircase. In one

hand she held her handkerchief, with which she appeared to be wiping

her face, and in the other a bottle of English smelling-salts. Her

first look on entering the room was at Noirtier, whose face,

independent of the emotion which such a scene could not fail of

producing, proclaimed him to be in possession of his usual health; her

second glance was at the dying man. She turned pale, and her eye passed

quickly from the servant and rested on the master.



“In the name of heaven, madame,” said Villefort, “where is the doctor?

He was with you just now. You see this is a fit of apoplexy, and he

might be saved if he could but be bled!”



“Has he eaten anything lately?” asked Madame de Villefort, eluding her

husband’s question.



“Madame,” replied Valentine, “he has not even breakfasted. He has been

running very fast on an errand with which my grandfather charged him,

and when he returned, took nothing but a glass of lemonade.”



“Ah,” said Madame de Villefort, “why did he not take wine? Lemonade was

a very bad thing for him.”



“Grandpapa’s bottle of lemonade was standing just by his side; poor

Barrois was very thirsty, and was thankful to drink anything he could

find.”



Madame de Villefort started. Noirtier looked at her with a glance of

the most profound scrutiny.



“He has such a short neck,” said she.



“Madame,” said Villefort, “I ask where is M. d’Avrigny? In God’s name

answer me!”



“He is with Edward, who is not quite well,” replied Madame de

Villefort, no longer being able to avoid answering.



Villefort rushed upstairs to fetch him.



“Take this,” said Madame de Villefort, giving her smelling-bottle to

Valentine. “They will, no doubt, bleed him; therefore I will retire,

for I cannot endure the sight of blood;” and she followed her husband

upstairs. Morrel now emerged from his hiding-place, where he had

remained quite unperceived, so great had been the general confusion.



“Go away as quick as you can, Maximilian,” said Valentine, “and stay

till I send for you. Go.”



Morrel looked towards Noirtier for permission to retire. The old man,

who had preserved all his usual coolness, made a sign to him to do so.

The young man pressed Valentine’s hand to his lips, and then left the

house by a back staircase.



At the same moment that he quitted the room, Villefort and the doctor

entered by an opposite door. Barrois was now showing signs of returning

consciousness. The crisis seemed past, a low moaning was heard, and he

raised himself on one knee. D’Avrigny and Villefort laid him on a

couch.



“What do you prescribe, doctor?” demanded Villefort.



“Give me some water and ether. You have some in the house, have you

not?”



“Yes.”



“Send for some oil of turpentine and tartar emetic.”



Villefort immediately despatched a messenger. “And now let everyone

retire.”



“Must I go too?” asked Valentine timidly.



“Yes, mademoiselle, you especially,” replied the doctor abruptly.



Valentine looked at M. d’Avrigny with astonishment, kissed her

grandfather on the forehead, and left the room. The doctor closed the

door after her with a gloomy air.



“Look, look, doctor,” said Villefort, “he is quite coming round again;

I really do not think, after all, it is anything of consequence.”



M. d’Avrigny answered by a melancholy smile.



“How do you feel, Barrois?” asked he.



“A little better, sir.”



“Will you drink some of this ether and water?”



“I will try; but don’t touch me.”



“Why not?”



“Because I feel that if you were only to touch me with the tip of your

finger the fit would return.”



“Drink.”



Barrois took the glass, and, raising it to his purple lips, took about

half of the liquid offered him.



“Where do you suffer?” asked the doctor.



“Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole body.”



“Do you find any dazzling sensation before the eyes?”



“Yes.”



“Any noise in the ears?”



“Frightful.”



40112m







“When did you first feel that?”



“Just now.”



“Suddenly?”



“Yes, like a clap of thunder.”



“Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before?”



“Nothing.”



“No drowsiness?”



“None.”



“What have you eaten today?”



“I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master’s

lemonade—that’s all.” And Barrois turned towards Noirtier, who,

immovably fixed in his armchair, was contemplating this terrible scene

without allowing a word or a movement to escape him.



“Where is this lemonade?” asked the doctor eagerly.



“Downstairs in the decanter.”



“Whereabouts downstairs?”



“In the kitchen.”



“Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?” inquired Villefort.



“No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of this glass of

ether and water. I will go myself and fetch the lemonade.”



D’Avrigny bounded towards the door, flew down the back staircase, and

almost knocked down Madame de Villefort, in his haste, who was herself

going down to the kitchen. She cried out, but d’Avrigny paid no

attention to her; possessed with but one idea, he cleared the last four

steps with a bound, and rushed into the kitchen, where he saw the

decanter about three parts empty still standing on the waiter, where it

had been left. He darted upon it as an eagle would seize upon its prey.

Panting with loss of breath, he returned to the room he had just left.

Madame de Villefort was slowly ascending the steps which led to her

room.



“Is this the decanter you spoke of?” asked d’Avrigny.



“Yes, doctor.”



“Is this the same lemonade of which you partook?”



“I believe so.”



“What did it taste like?”



“It had a bitter taste.”



The doctor poured some drops of the lemonade into the palm of his hand,

put his lips to it, and after having rinsed his mouth as a man does

when he is tasting wine, he spat the liquor into the fireplace.



“It is no doubt the same,” said he. “Did you drink some too, M.

Noirtier?”



“Yes.”



“And did you also discover a bitter taste?”



“Yes.”



“Oh, doctor,” cried Barrois, “the fit is coming on again. Oh, do

something for me.” The doctor flew to his patient.



“That emetic, Villefort—see if it is coming.”



Villefort sprang into the passage, exclaiming, “The emetic! the

emetic!—is it come yet?” No one answered. The most profound terror

reigned throughout the house.



“If I had anything by means of which I could inflate the lungs,” said

d’Avrigny, looking around him, “perhaps I might prevent suffocation.

But there is nothing which would do!—nothing!”



40114m







“Oh, sir,” cried Barrois, “are you going to let me die without help?

Oh, I am dying! Oh, save me!”



“A pen, a pen!” said the doctor. There was one lying on the table; he

endeavored to introduce it into the mouth of the patient, who, in the

midst of his convulsions, was making vain attempts to vomit; but the

jaws were so clenched that the pen could not pass them. This second

attack was much more violent than the first, and he had slipped from

the couch to the ground, where he was writhing in agony. The doctor

left him in this paroxysm, knowing that he could do nothing to

alleviate it, and, going up to Noirtier, said abruptly:



“How do you find yourself?—well?”



“Yes.”



“Have you any weight on the chest; or does your stomach feel light and

comfortable—eh?”



“Yes.”



“Then you feel pretty much as you generally do after you have had the

dose which I am accustomed to give you every Sunday?”



“Yes.”



“Did Barrois make your lemonade?”



“Yes.”



“Was it you who asked him to drink some of it?”



“No.”



“Was it M. de Villefort?”



“No.”



“Madame?”



“No.”



“It was your granddaughter, then, was it not?”



“Yes.”



A groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which seemed to crack the

very jawbones, attracted the attention of M. d’Avrigny; he left M.

Noirtier, and returned to the sick man.



“Barrois,” said the doctor, “can you speak?” Barrois muttered a few

unintelligible words. “Try and make an effort to do so, my good man.”

said d’Avrigny. Barrois reopened his bloodshot eyes.



“Who made the lemonade?”



“I did.”



“Did you bring it to your master directly it was made?”



“No.”



“You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime?”



“Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away.”



“Who brought it into this room, then?”



“Mademoiselle Valentine.” D’Avrigny struck his forehead with his hand.



“Gracious heaven,” exclaimed he.



“Doctor, doctor!” cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming.



“Will they never bring that emetic?” asked the doctor.



“Here is a glass with one already prepared,” said Villefort, entering

the room.



“Who prepared it?”



“The chemist who came here with me.”



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“Drink it,” said the doctor to Barrois.



“Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am

choking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head!—Oh, what agony!—Shall I suffer like

this long?”



“No, no, friend,” replied the doctor, “you will soon cease to suffer.”



“Ah, I understand you,” said the unhappy man. “My God, have mercy upon

me!” and, uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell back as if he had been

struck by lightning. D’Avrigny put his hand to his heart, and placed a

glass before his lips.



“Well?” said Villefort.



“Go to the kitchen and get me some syrup of violets.”



Villefort went immediately.



“Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier,” said d’Avrigny; “I am going to take

my patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of attack is very

frightful to witness.”



And taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an adjoining

room; but almost immediately he returned to fetch the lemonade.

Noirtier closed his right eye.



“You want Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you.”



Villefort returned, and d’Avrigny met him in the passage.



“Well, how is he now?” asked he.



“Come in here,” said d’Avrigny, and he took him into the chamber where

the sick man lay.



“Is he still in a fit?” said the procureur.



“He is dead.”



Villefort drew back a few steps, and, clasping his hands, exclaimed,

with real amazement and sympathy, “Dead?—and so soon too!”



“Yes, it is very soon,” said the doctor, looking at the corpse before

him; “but that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur and Madame de

Saint-Méran died as soon. People die very suddenly in your house, M. de

Villefort.”



“What?” cried the magistrate, with an accent of horror and

consternation, “are you still harping on that terrible idea?”



“Still, sir; and I shall always do so,” replied d’Avrigny, “for it has

never for one instant ceased to retain possession of my mind; and that

you may be quite sure I am not mistaken this time, listen well to what

I am going to say, M. de Villefort.”



The magistrate trembled convulsively.



“There is a poison which destroys life almost without leaving any

perceptible traces. I know it well; I have studied it in all its forms

and in the effects which it produces. I recognized the presence of this

poison in the case of poor Barrois as well as in that of Madame de

Saint-Méran. There is a way of detecting its presence. It restores the

blue color of litmus-paper reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup of

violets green. We have no litmus-paper, but, see, here they come with

the syrup of violets.”



The doctor was right; steps were heard in the passage. M. d’Avrigny

opened the door, and took from the hands of the chambermaid a cup which

contained two or three spoonfuls of the syrup, he then carefully closed

the door.



“Look,” said he to the procureur, whose heart beat so loudly that it

might almost be heard, “here is in this cup some syrup of violets, and

this decanter contains the remainder of the lemonade of which M.

Noirtier and Barrois partook. If the lemonade be pure and inoffensive,

the syrup will retain its color; if, on the contrary, the lemonade be

drugged with poison, the syrup will become green. Look closely!”



The doctor then slowly poured some drops of the lemonade from the

decanter into the cup, and in an instant a light cloudy sediment began

to form at the bottom of the cup; this sediment first took a blue

shade, then from the color of sapphire it passed to that of opal, and

from opal to emerald. Arrived at this last hue, it changed no more. The

result of the experiment left no doubt whatever on the mind.



“The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned,” said d’Avrigny, “and I

will maintain this assertion before God and man.”



Villefort said nothing, but he clasped his hands, opened his haggard

eyes, and, overcome with his emotion, sank into a chair.







 Chapter 80. The Accusation



M. d’Avrigny soon restored the magistrate to consciousness, who had

looked like a second corpse in that chamber of death.



“Oh, death is in my house!” cried Villefort.



“Say, rather, crime!” replied the doctor.



“M. d’Avrigny,” cried Villefort, “I cannot tell you all I feel at this

moment,—terror, grief, madness.”



“Yes,” said M. d’Avrigny, with an imposing calmness, “but I think it is

now time to act. I think it is time to stop this torrent of mortality.

I can no longer bear to be in possession of these secrets without the

hope of seeing the victims and society generally revenged.”



Villefort cast a gloomy look around him. “In my house,” murmured he,

“in my house!”



“Come, magistrate,” said M. d’Avrigny, “show yourself a man; as an

interpreter of the law, do honor to your profession by sacrificing your

selfish interests to it.”



“You make me shudder, doctor. Do you talk of a sacrifice?”



“I do.”



“Do you then suspect anyone?”



“I suspect no one; death raps at your door—it enters—it goes, not

blindfolded, but circumspectly, from room to room. Well, I follow its

course, I track its passage; I adopt the wisdom of the ancients, and

feel my way, for my friendship for your family and my respect for you

are as a twofold bandage over my eyes; well——”



“Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have courage.”



“Well, sir, you have in your establishment, or in your family, perhaps,

one of the frightful monstrosities of which each century produces only

one. Locusta and Agrippina, living at the same time, were an exception,

and proved the determination of Providence to effect the entire ruin of

the Roman empire, sullied by so many crimes. Brunhilda and Fredegund

were the results of the painful struggle of civilization in its

infancy, when man was learning to control mind, were it even by an

emissary from the realms of darkness. All these women had been, or

were, beautiful. The same flower of innocence had flourished, or was

still flourishing, on their brow, that is seen on the brow of the

culprit in your house.”



40120m







Villefort shrieked, clasped his hands, and looked at the doctor with a

supplicating air. But the latter went on without pity:



“‘Seek whom the crime will profit,’ says an axiom of jurisprudence.”



“Doctor,” cried Villefort, “alas, doctor, how often has man’s justice

been deceived by those fatal words. I know not why, but I feel that

this crime——”



“You acknowledge, then, the existence of the crime?”



“Yes, I see too plainly that it does exist. But it seems that it is

intended to affect me personally. I fear an attack myself, after all

these disasters.”



“Oh, man!” murmured d’Avrigny, “the most selfish of all animals, the

most personal of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun

shines, and death strikes for him alone,—an ant cursing God from the

top of a blade of grass! And have those who have lost their lives lost

nothing?—M. de Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, M. Noirtier——”



“How? M. Noirtier?”



“Yes; think you it was the poor servant’s life was coveted? No, no;

like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the

lemonade was intended for—it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank

it. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead,

it was Noirtier whose death was wished for.”



“But why did it not kill my father?”



“I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-Méran’s

death—because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the

dose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no

one knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I

have given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the

assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent

poison.”



“Oh, have pity—have pity!” murmured Villefort, wringing his hands.



“Follow the culprit’s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-Méran——”



“Oh, doctor!”



“I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with

what I have seen in the other cases.” Villefort ceased to contend; he

only groaned. “He first kills M. de Saint-Méran,” repeated the doctor,

“then Madame de Saint-Méran,—a double fortune to inherit.” Villefort

wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Listen attentively.”



“Alas,” stammered Villefort, “I do not lose a single word.”



“M. Noirtier,” resumed M. d’Avrigny in the same pitiless tone,—“M.

Noirtier had once made a will against you—against your family—in favor

of the poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared, because nothing is

expected from him. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and

made a second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck

down. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe; you see

there has been no time lost.”



“Oh, mercy, M. d’Avrigny!”



“No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth; and to

fulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes down to the

mysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has been committed, and

God, doubtless in anger, turns away his face, it is for the physician

to bring the culprit to justice.”



40122m







“Have mercy on my child, sir,” murmured Villefort.



“You see it is yourself who have first named her—you, her father.”



“Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it is impossible. I would as willingly

accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure as a diamond or a lily!”



“No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed

all the medicines which were sent to M. de Saint-Méran; and M. de

Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared all the cooling

draughts which Madame de Saint-Méran took, and Madame de Saint-Méran is

dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois, who was

sent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every morning, and he has

escaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit—she is

the poisoner! To you, as the king’s attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle

de Villefort, do your duty.”



“Doctor, I resist no longer—I can no longer defend myself—I believe

you; but, for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honor!”



“M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with increased vehemence, “there

are occasions when I dispense with all foolish human circumspection. If

your daughter had committed only one crime, and I saw her meditating

another, I would say ‘Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder

of her life in a convent, weeping and praying.’ If she had committed

two crimes, I would say, ‘Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that the

prisoner is not acquainted with,—one that has no known antidote, quick

as thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her

that poison, recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your

life, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her approaching

your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations.

Woe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do not strike first!’ This is what

I would say had she only killed two persons but she has seen three

deaths,—has contemplated three murdered persons,—has knelt by three

corpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner—to the scaffold! Do you talk

of your honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you!”



Villefort fell on his knees.



“Listen,” said he; “I have not the strength of mind you have, or rather

that which you would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your

daughter Madeleine were concerned.” The doctor turned pale. “Doctor,

every son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I am content to suffer

and to await death.”



“Beware,” said M. d’Avrigny, “it may come slowly; you will see it

approach after having struck your father, your wife, perhaps your son.”



Villefort, suffocating, pressed the doctor’s arm.



40124m







“Listen,” cried he; “pity me—help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. If

you drag us both before a tribunal I will still say, ‘No, my daughter

is not guilty;—there is no crime in my house. I will not acknowledge a

crime in my house; for when crime enters a dwelling, it is like

death—it does not come alone.’ Listen. What does it signify to you if I

am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a heart? No,

you are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not drag my daughter

before a tribunal, and give her up to the executioner! The bare idea

would kill me—would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my

finger-nails! And if you were mistaken, doctor—if it were not my

daughter—if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to you,

‘Assassin, you have killed my child!’—hold—if that should happen,

although I am a Christian, M. d’Avrigny, I should kill myself.”



“Well,” said the doctor, after a moment’s silence, “I will wait.”



Villefort looked at him as if he had doubted his words.



“Only,” continued M. d’Avrigny, with a slow and solemn tone, “if anyone

falls ill in your house, if you feel yourself attacked, do not send for

me, for I will come no more. I will consent to share this dreadful

secret with you, but I will not allow shame and remorse to grow and

increase in my conscience, as crime and misery will in your house.”



“Then you abandon me, doctor?”



“Yes, for I can follow you no farther, and I only stop at the foot of

the scaffold. Some further discovery will be made, which will bring

this dreadful tragedy to a close. Adieu.”



“I entreat you, doctor!”



“All the horrors that disturb my thoughts make your house odious and

fatal. Adieu, sir.”



“One word—one single word more, doctor! You go, leaving me in all the

horror of my situation, after increasing it by what you have revealed

to me. But what will be reported of the sudden death of the poor old

servant?”



“True,” said M. d’Avrigny; “we will return.”



The doctor went out first, followed by M. de Villefort. The terrified

servants were on the stairs and in the passage where the doctor would

pass.



“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, so loud that all might hear, “poor

Barrois has led too sedentary a life of late; accustomed formerly to

ride on horseback, or in the carriage, to the four corners of Europe,

the monotonous walk around that armchair has killed him—his blood has

thickened. He was stout, had a short, thick neck; he was attacked with

apoplexy, and I was called in too late. By the way,” added he in a low

tone, “take care to throw away that cup of syrup of violets in the

ashes.”



The doctor, without shaking hands with Villefort, without adding a word

to what he had said, went out, amid the tears and lamentations of the

whole household. The same evening all Villefort’s servants, who had

assembled in the kitchen, and had a long consultation, came to tell

Madame de Villefort that they wished to leave. No entreaty, no

proposition of increased wages, could induce them to remain; to every

argument they replied, “We must go, for death is in this house.”



They all left, in spite of prayers and entreaties, testifying their

regret at leaving so good a master and mistress, and especially

Mademoiselle Valentine, so good, so kind, and so gentle.



Villefort looked at Valentine as they said this. She was in tears, and,

strange as it was, in spite of the emotions he felt at the sight of

these tears, he looked also at Madame de Villefort, and it appeared to

him as if a slight gloomy smile had passed over her thin lips, like a

meteor seen passing inauspiciously between two clouds in a stormy sky.







 Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker



The evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had left Danglars’

house with feelings of shame and anger at the rejection of the

projected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with curled hair, moustaches

in perfect order, and white gloves which fitted admirably, had entered

the courtyard of the banker’s house in Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He

had not been more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew

Danglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after an ingenious

preamble, related to him all his anxieties and cares since his noble

father’s departure. He acknowledged the extreme kindness which had been

shown him by the banker’s family, in which he had been received as a

son, and where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object on

which to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars.



Danglars listened with the most profound attention; he had expected

this declaration for the last two or three days, and when at last it

came his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered on listening to

Morcerf. He would not, however, yield immediately to the young man’s

request, but made a few conscientious objections.



“Are you not rather young, M. Andrea, to think of marrying?”



“I think not, sir,” replied M. Cavalcanti; “in Italy the nobility

generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that we ought to secure

happiness while it is within our reach.”



“Well, sir,” said Danglars, “in case your proposals, which do me honor,

are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom shall the preliminary

arrangements be settled? So important a negotiation should, I think, be

conducted by the respective fathers of the young people.”



“Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence. Thinking that

I might wish to settle in France, he left me at his departure, together

with the papers establishing my identity, a letter promising, if he

approved of my choice, 150,000 livres per annum from the day I was

married. So far as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my

father’s revenue.”



“I,” said Danglars, “have always intended giving my daughter 500,000

francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole heiress.”



“All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her daughter are

willing. We should command an annuity of 175,000 livres. Supposing,

also, I should persuade the marquis to give me my capital, which is not

likely, but still is possible, we would place these two or three

millions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize ten per

cent.”



“I never give more than four per cent, and generally only three and a

half; but to my son-in-law I would give five, and we would share the

profits.”



“Very good, father-in-law,” said Cavalcanti, yielding to his low-born

nature, which would escape sometimes through the aristocratic gloss

with which he sought to conceal it. Correcting himself immediately, he

said, “Excuse me, sir; hope alone makes me almost mad,—what will not

reality do?”



“But,” said Danglars, who, on his part, did not perceive how soon the

conversation, which was at first disinterested, was turning to a

business transaction, “there is, doubtless, a part of your fortune your

father could not refuse you?”



“Which?” asked the young man.



“That you inherit from your mother.”



“Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari.”



“How much may it amount to?”



“Indeed, sir,” said Andrea, “I assure you I have never given the

subject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at least two

millions.”



Danglars felt as much overcome with joy as the miser who finds a lost

treasure, or as the shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid

ground instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him up.



“Well, sir,” said Andrea, bowing to the banker respectfully, “may I

hope?”



“You may not only hope,” said Danglars, “but consider it a settled

thing, if no obstacle arises on your part.”



“I am, indeed, rejoiced,” said Andrea.



“But,” said Danglars thoughtfully, “how is it that your patron, M. de

The Trial, did not make his proposal for you?”



Andrea blushed imperceptibly.



“I have just left the count, sir,” said he; “he is, doubtless, a

delightful man but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me

highly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that my father

would give me the capital instead of the interest of my property. He

has promised to use his influence to obtain it for me; but he also

declared that he never had taken on himself the responsibility of

making proposals for another, and he never would. I must, however, do

him the justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted the

repugnance he felt to such a step it was on this occasion, because he

thought the projected union would be a happy and suitable one. Besides,

if he will do nothing officially, he will answer any questions you

propose to him. And now,” continued he, with one of his most charming

smiles, “having finished talking to the father-in-law, I must address

myself to the banker.”



“And what may you have to say to him?” said Danglars, laughing in his

turn.



“That the day after tomorrow I shall have to draw upon you for about

four thousand francs; but the count, expecting my bachelor’s revenue

could not suffice for the coming month’s outlay, has offered me a draft

for twenty thousand francs. It bears his signature, as you see, which

is all-sufficient.”



“Bring me a million such as that,” said Danglars, “I shall be well

pleased,” putting the draft in his pocket. “Fix your own hour for

tomorrow, and my cashier shall call on you with a check for eighty

thousand francs.”



“At ten o’clock then, if you please; I should like it early, as I am

going into the country tomorrow.”



“Very well, at ten o’clock; you are still at the Hôtel des Princes?”



“Yes.”



The following morning, with the banker’s usual punctuality, the eighty

thousand francs were placed in the young man’s hands, as he was on the

point of starting, after having left two hundred francs for Caderousse.

He went out chiefly to avoid this dangerous enemy, and returned as late

as possible in the evening.



But scarcely had he stepped out of his carriage when the porter met him

with a parcel in his hand.



“Sir,” said he, “that man has been here.”



“What man?” said Andrea carelessly, apparently forgetting him whom he

but too well recollected.



“Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity.”



“Oh,” said Andrea, “my father’s old servant. Well, you gave him the two

hundred francs I had left for him?”



“Yes, your excellency.” Andrea had expressed a wish to be thus

addressed. “But,” continued the porter, “he would not take them.”



Andrea turned pale, but as it was dark his pallor was not perceptible.

“What? he would not take them?” said he with slight emotion.



40130m







“No, he wished to speak to your excellency; I told him you were gone

out, and after some dispute he believed me and gave me this letter,

which he had brought with him already sealed.”



“Give it me,” said Andrea, and he read by the light of his

carriage-lamp:



“‘You know where I live; I expect you tomorrow morning at nine

o’clock.’”



Andrea examined it carefully, to ascertain if the letter had been

opened, or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its contents; but it was so

carefully folded, that no one could have read it, and the seal was

perfect.



“Very well,” said he. “Poor man, he is a worthy creature.” He left the

porter to ponder on these words, not knowing which most to admire, the

master or the servant.



“Take out the horses quickly, and come up to me,” said Andrea to his

groom. In two seconds the young man had reached his room and burnt

Caderousse’s letter. The servant entered just as he had finished.



“You are about my height, Pierre,” said he.



“I have that honor, your excellency.”



“You had a new livery yesterday?”



“Yes, sir.”



“I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this evening, and

do not wish to be known; lend me your livery till tomorrow. I may

sleep, perhaps, at an inn.”



Pierre obeyed. Five minutes after, Andrea left the hotel, completely

disguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered the driver to take him to the

Cheval Rouge, at Picpus. The next morning he left that inn as he had

left the Hôtel des Princes, without being noticed, walked down the

Faubourg Saint-Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue Ménilmontant, and

stopping at the door of the third house on the left looked for someone

of whom to make inquiry in the porter’s absence.



“For whom are you looking, my fine fellow?” asked the fruiteress on the

opposite side.



“Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman,” replied Andrea.



“A retired baker?” asked the fruiteress.



“Exactly.”



“He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third story.”



40132m







Andrea went as she directed him, and on the third floor he found a

hare’s paw, which, by the hasty ringing of the bell, it was evident he

pulled with considerable ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse’s face

appeared at the grating in the door.



“Ah! you are punctual,” said he, as he drew back the door.



“Confound you and your punctuality!” said Andrea, throwing himself into

a chair in a manner which implied that he would rather have flung it at

the head of his host.



“Come, come, my little fellow, don’t be angry. See, I have thought

about you—look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but

what you are fond of.”



Andrea, indeed, inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not

unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of fat and

garlic peculiar to Provençal kitchens of an inferior order, added to

that of dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of musk and

cloves. These odors escaped from two deep dishes which were covered and

placed on a stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In

an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table prepared for

two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with green, the other with

yellow, a supply of brandy in a decanter, and a measure of fruit in a

cabbage-leaf, cleverly arranged on an earthenware plate.



“What do you think of it, my little fellow?” said Caderousse. “Ay, that

smells good! You know I used to be a good cook; do you recollect how

you used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any

of my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably.” While speaking,

Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of onions.



“But,” said Andrea, ill-temperedly, “by my faith, if it was only to

breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken

you!”



“My boy,” said Caderousse sententiously, “one can talk while eating.

And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old

friend? I am weeping with joy.”



He was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether

joy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands

of the old innkeeper of the Pont-du-Gard.



“Hold your tongue, hypocrite,” said Andrea; “you love me!”



“Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness,” said

Caderousse, “but it overpowers me.”



“And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some

trick.”



“Come,” said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron, “if I did

not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead

me? Think for a moment. You have your servant’s clothes on—you

therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own

meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d’hôte of the

Hôtel des Princes, or the Café de Paris. Well, I too could keep a

servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but

why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just

acknowledge that I could, eh?”



This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult

to understand.



“Well,” said Andrea, “admitting your love, why do you want me to

breakfast with you?”



“That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow.”



“What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?”



“Eh, dear friend,” said Caderousse, “are wills ever made without

codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down,

and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I

have put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you

look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each.

But what do you expect? This is not the Hôtel des Princes.”



“Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who

only wish to live like a retired baker.”



Caderousse sighed.



“Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized.”



“I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is

rich—he has an annuity.”



“Well, you have an annuity.”



“I have?”



40134m







“Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs.”



Caderousse shrugged his shoulders.



“It is humiliating,” said he, “thus to receive money given

grudgingly,—an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am

obliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my

friend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I

know your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the

daughter of Danglars.”



“What? of Danglars?”



“Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well say Count

Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he had not so bad a

memory he ought to invite me to your wedding, seeing he came to mine.

Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he was not so proud then,—he was an under-clerk

to the good M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count

of Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I to

cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same drawing-rooms.”



“Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the wrong light.”



“That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am saying.

Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and presenting myself at the

great gate, introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit down and eat.”



Caderousse set the example and attacked the breakfast with good

appetite, praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter

seemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and partook largely

of the fish with the garlic and fat.



“Ah, mate,” said Caderousse, “you are getting on better terms with your

old landlord!”



“Faith, yes,” replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over every other

feeling.



“So you like it, you rogue?”



“So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can complain of hard

living.”



“Do you see,” said Caderousse, “all my happiness is marred by one

thought?”



“What is that?”



“That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own

livelihood honestly.”



“Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two.”



“No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I

am tormented by remorse.”



“Good Caderousse!”



“So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs.”



“Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me?”



“True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me.”



Andrea shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse’s ideas.



“It is miserable—do you see?—always to wait till the end of the month.”



“Oh,” said Andrea philosophically, determined to watch his companion

narrowly, “does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare

better? Well, I wait patiently, do I not?”



“Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you

expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you

take care not to let anyone know the utmost. Down there, you always had

little presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your

poor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend

Caderousse.”



“There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of

the past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that

again?”



“Ah, you are only one-and-twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty,

and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business.”



“Yes.”



“I was going to say, if I were in your place——”



“Well.”



“I would realize——”



“How would you realize?”



“I would ask for six months’ in advance, under pretence of being able

to purchase a farm, then with my six months I would decamp.”



“Well, well,” said Andrea, “that isn’t a bad idea.”



“My dear friend,” said Caderousse, “eat of my bread, and take my

advice; you will be none the worse off, physically or morally.”



“But,” said Andrea, “why do you not act on the advice you gave me? Why

do you not realize a six months’, a year’s advance even, and retire to

Brussels? Instead of living the retired baker, you might live as a

bankrupt, using his privileges; that would be very good.”



“But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve hundred francs?”



“Ah, Caderousse,” said Andrea, “how covetous you are! Two months ago

you were dying with hunger.”



“The appetite grows by what it feeds on,” said Caderousse, grinning and

showing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a tiger growling. “And,”

added he, biting off with his large white teeth an enormous mouthful of

bread, “I have formed a plan.”



Caderousse’s plans alarmed Andrea still more than his ideas; ideas were

but the germ, the plan was reality.



“Let me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one.”



“Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the establishment of

M——! eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one I believe, since here we

are!”



“I do not say,” replied Andrea, “that you never make a good one; but

let us see your plan.”



“Well,” pursued Caderousse, “can you without expending one sou, put me

in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs? No, fifteen thousand are

not enough,—I cannot again become an honest man with less than thirty

thousand francs.”



“No,” replied Andrea, dryly, “no, I cannot.”



“I do not think you understand me,” replied Caderousse, calmly; “I said

without your laying out a sou.”



“Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good fortune—and

yours with mine—and both of us to be dragged down there again?”



“It would make very little difference to me,” said Caderousse, “if I

were retaken, I am a poor creature to live alone, and sometimes pine

for my old comrades; not like you, heartless creature, who would be

glad never to see them again.”



Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned pale.



“Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!” said he.



“Don’t alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point out to me

some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs without your

assistance, and I will contrive it.”



“Well, I’ll see—I’ll try to contrive some way,” said Andrea.



“Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five hundred francs,

my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean to get a housekeeper.”



“Well, you shall have your five hundred francs,” said Andrea; “but it

is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse—you take advantage——”



“Bah,” said Caderousse, “when you have access to countless stores.”



One would have said Andrea anticipated his companion’s words, so did

his eye flash like lightning, but it was but for a moment.



“True,” he replied, “and my protector is very kind.”



“That dear protector,” said Caderousse; “and how much does he give you

monthly?”



“Five thousand francs.”



“As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards

who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil

can you do with all that?”



“Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want

capital.”



“Capital?—yes—I understand—everyone would like capital.”



“Well, and I shall get it.”



“Who will give it to you—your prince?”



“Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait.”



40138m







“You must wait for what?” asked Caderousse.



“For his death.”



“The death of your prince?”



“Yes.”



“How so?”



“Because he has made his will in my favor.”



“Indeed?”



“On my honor.”



“For how much?”



“For five hundred thousand.”



“Only that? It’s little enough.”



“But so it is.”



“No, it cannot be!”



“Are you my friend, Caderousse?”



“Yes, in life or death.”



“Well, I will tell you a secret.”



“What is it?”



“But remember——”



“Ah! _pardieu!_ mute as a carp.”



“Well, I think——”



Andrea stopped and looked around.



“You think? Do not fear; _pardieu!_ we are alone.”



“I think I have discovered my father.”



“Your true father?”



“Yes.”



“Not old Cavalcanti?”



“No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.”



“And that father is——”



“Well, Caderousse, it is The Trial.”



“Bah!”



“Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me

openly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him

fifty thousand francs for it.”



“Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have done it for

half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen thousand; why did you not

think of me, ungrateful man?”



“Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I was down

there?”



“Ah, truly? And you say that by his will——”



“He leaves me five hundred thousand livres.”



“Are you sure of it?”



“He showed it me; but that is not all—there is a codicil, as I said

just now.”



“Probably.”



“And in that codicil he acknowledges me.”



“Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest father!” said

Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air between his two hands.



“Now, say if I conceal anything from you?”



“No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion; and your

princely father, is he rich, very rich?”



“Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his fortune.”



“Is it possible?”



“It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The other day

a banker’s clerk brought him fifty thousand francs in a portfolio about

the size of your plate; yesterday his banker brought him a hundred

thousand francs in gold.”



Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man’s words sounded to him

like metal, and he thought he could hear the rushing of cascades of

louis.



“And you go into that house?” cried he briskly.



“When I like.”



Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to perceive he was

revolving some unfortunate idea in his mind. Then suddenly,—



“How I should like to see all that,” cried he; “how beautiful it must

be!”



“It is, in fact, magnificent,” said Andrea.



“And does he not live in the Champs-Élysées?”



“Yes, No. 30.”



“Ah,” said Caderousse, “No. 30.”



“Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a courtyard and a

garden,—you must know it.”



“Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior.

What beautiful furniture there must be in it!”



“Have you ever seen the Tuileries?”



“No.”



“Well, it surpasses that.”



“It must be worth one’s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte

Cristo lets fall his purse.”



“It is not worthwhile to wait for that,” said Andrea; “money is as

plentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard.”



“But you should take me there one day with you.”



“How can I? On what plea?”



“You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see

it; I shall find a way.”



“No nonsense, Caderousse!”



“I will offer myself as floor-polisher.”



“The rooms are all carpeted.”



“Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it.”



“That is the best plan, believe me.”



“Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is.”



“How can I?”



“Nothing is easier. Is it large?”



“Middling.”



“How is it arranged?”



“Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan.”



“They are all here,” said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched from an old

secretaire a sheet of white paper and pen and ink. “Here,” said

Caderousse, “draw me all that on the paper, my boy.”



Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible smile and began.



“The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this

way, do you see?” Andrea drew the garden, the court and the house.



40142m







“High walls?”



“Not more than eight or ten feet.”



“That is not prudent,” said Caderousse.



“In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers.”



“And no steel-traps?”



“No.”



“The stables?”



“Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.” And Andrea

continued his plan.



“Let us see the ground floor,” said Caderousse.



“On the ground floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room,

staircase in the hall, and a little back staircase.”



“Windows?”



“Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of

your size should pass through each frame.”



“Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?”



“Luxury has everything.”



“But shutters?”



“Yes, but they are never used. That Count of The Trial is an

original, who loves to look at the sky even at night.”



“And where do the servants sleep?”



“Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty

coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well,

over that coach-house are the servants’ rooms, with bells corresponding

with the different apartments.”



“Ah, _diable!_ bells did you say?”



“What do you mean?”



“Oh, nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is

the use of them, I should like to know?”



“There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been

taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know.”



“Yes.”



“I was saying to him only yesterday, ‘You are imprudent, Monsieur

Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is

left unprotected.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what next?’ ‘Well, next, some day

you will be robbed.’”



“What did he answer?”



“He quietly said, ‘What do I care if I am?’”



“Andrea, he has some secretaire with a spring.”



“How do you know?”



“Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told

there were such at the last exhibition.”



“He has simply a mahogany secretaire, in which the key is always kept.”



“And he is not robbed?”



“No; his servants are all devoted to him.”



“There ought to be some money in that secretaire?”



“There may be. No one knows what there is.”



“And where is it?”



“On the first floor.”



“Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the ground

floor, my boy.”



“That is very simple.” Andrea took the pen. “On the first story, do you

see, there is the anteroom and the drawing-room; to the right of the

drawing-room, a library and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a

dressing-room. The famous secretaire is in the dressing-room.”



“Is there a window in the dressing-room?”



“Two,—one here and one there.” Andrea sketched two windows in the room,

which formed an angle on the plan, and appeared as a small square added

to the rectangle of the bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful.



“Does he often go to Auteuil?” added he.



“Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for instance, he is going to

spend the day and night there.”



“Are you sure of it?”



“He has invited me to dine there.”



“There’s a life for you,” said Caderousse; “a town house and a country

house.”



“That is what it is to be rich.”



“And shall you dine there?”



“Probably.”



“When you dine there, do you sleep there?”



“If I like; I am at home there.”



Caderousse looked at the young man, as if to get at the truth from the

bottom of his heart. But Andrea drew a cigar-case from his pocket, took

a Havana, quietly lit it, and began smoking.



“When do you want your twelve hundred francs?” said he to Caderousse.



“Now, if you have them.” Andrea took five-and-twenty louis from his

pocket.



“Yellow boys?” said Caderousse; “no, I thank you.”



“Oh, you despise them.”



“On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them.”



“You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous.”



“Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend Caderousse, lay

hands on him, and demand what farmers pay him their rent in gold. No

nonsense, my good fellow; silver simply, round coins with the head of

some monarch or other on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece.”



“But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with me? I should

want a porter.”



“Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I will call

for them.”



“Today?”



“No, tomorrow; I shall not have time today.”



“Well, tomorrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil.”



“May I depend on it?”



“Certainly.”



“Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of it.”



“Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not torment me any

more?”



“Never.”



Caderousse had become so gloomy that Andrea feared he should be obliged

to notice the change. He redoubled his gayety and carelessness.



“How sprightly you are,” said Caderousse; “One would say you were

already in possession of your property.”



“No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it——”



“Well?”



“I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that.”



“Yes, since you have such a good memory.”



“What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece me?”



“I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece of good

advice.”



“What is it?”



“To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We shall both

get into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and me by your folly.”



“How so?” said Andrea.



“How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a servant, and yet

keep a diamond on your finger worth four or five thousand francs.”



“You guess well.”



“I know something of diamonds; I have had some.”



“You do well to boast of it,” said Andrea, who, without becoming angry,

as Caderousse feared, at this new extortion, quietly resigned the ring.

Caderousse looked so closely at it that Andrea well knew that he was

examining to see if all the edges were perfect.



“It is a false diamond,” said Caderousse.



“You are joking now,” replied Andrea.



“Do not be angry, we can try it.” Caderousse went to the window,

touched the glass with it, and found it would cut.



“_Confiteor!_” said Caderousse, putting the diamond on his little

finger; “I was mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers imitate so well

that it is no longer worthwhile to rob a jeweller’s shop—it is another

branch of industry paralyzed.”



“Have you finished?” said Andrea,—“do you want anything more?—will you

have my waistcoat or my hat? Make free, now you have begun.”



“No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain you, and

will try to cure myself of my ambition.”



“But take care the same thing does not happen to you in selling the

diamond you feared with the gold.”



“I shall not sell it—do not fear.”



“Not at least till the day after tomorrow,” thought the young man.



“Happy rogue,” said Caderousse; “you are going to find your servants,

your horses, your carriage, and your betrothed!”



“Yes,” said Andrea.



“Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the day you

marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”



“I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in your head.”



“What fortune has she?”



“But I tell you——”



“A million?”



Andrea shrugged his shoulders.



“Let it be a million,” said Caderousse; “you can never have so much as

I wish you.”



“Thank you,” said the young man.



“Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!” added Caderousse with his hoarse

laugh. “Stop, let me show you the way.”



“It is not worthwhile.”



“Yes, it is.”



“Why?”



“Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it desirable

to take, one of Huret & Fichet’s locks, revised and improved by Gaspard

Caderousse; I will manufacture you a similar one when you are a

capitalist.”



“Thank you,” said Andrea; “I will let you know a week beforehand.”



They parted. Caderousse remained on the landing until he had not only

seen Andrea go down the three stories, but also cross the court. Then

he returned hastily, shut his door carefully, and began to study, like

a clever architect, the plan Andrea had left him.



“Dear Benedetto,” said he, “I think he will not be sorry to inherit his

fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can touch his five hundred

thousand will not be his worst friend.”







 Chapter 82. The Burglary



The day following that on which the conversation we have related took

place, The Trial set out for Auteuil, accompanied by

Ali and several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whose

qualities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake

this journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and which

had not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio from

Normandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house

was ready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor

in a small creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the

requisite formalities and were ready again to put to sea.



The count praised Bertuccio’s zeal, and ordered him to prepare for a

speedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more

than a month.



“Now,” said he, “I may require to go in one night from Paris to

Tréport; let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will

enable me to go fifty leagues in ten hours.”



“Your highness had already expressed that wish,” said Bertuccio, “and

the horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at

the most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally

stops.”



“That’s well,” said The Trial; “I remain here a day or two—arrange

accordingly.”



As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders,

Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.



“What are you doing here?” asked the count, seeing him covered with

dust; “I did not send for you, I think?”



Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented the

letter. “Important and urgent,” said he.



The count opened the letter, and read:



“‘M. de The Trial is apprised that this night a man will enter his

house in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off some

papers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. The

count’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the

police, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends this

advice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing

himself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property

himself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the

villain from the attempt, and M. de The Trial would lose the

opportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who

now sends this warning to the count,—a warning he might not be able to

send another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be

made.’”





The count’s first idea was that this was an artifice—a gross deception,

to draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to a

greater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary of

police, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhaps

because of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that it

might be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and over

whom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, as

Fiesco17 had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the

count’s vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,

with that energy which marks the great man.



From his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the

count had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which he

had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, and

sometimes against the world, that is, against the devil.



“They do not want my papers,” said The Trial, “they want to kill me;

they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of

police to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough,

forsooth, to distribute his authority on this occasion.”



The count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering

the letter.



“Return to Paris,” said he; “assemble the servants who remain there. I

want all my household at Auteuil.”



“But will no one remain in the house, my lord?” asked Baptistin.



“Yes, the porter.”



“My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house.”



“Well?”



“The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise.”



“By whom?”



“By thieves.”



“You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house—it would

annoy me less than to be disobeyed.” Baptistin bowed.



40150m







“You understand me?” said the count. “Bring your comrades here, one and

all; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of the

ground floor.”



“And those of the first floor?”



“You know they are never closed. Go!”



The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but

Ali should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and

moderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out

by the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned,

apparently without design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself

opposite his house in the Champs-Élysées. All was dark; one solitary,

feeble light was burning in the porter’s lodge, about forty paces

distant from the house, as Baptistin had said.



The Trial leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing glance

which was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the avenue, examined

the passers-by, and carefully looked down the neighboring streets, to

see that no one was concealed. Ten minutes passed thus, and he was

convinced that no one was watching him. He hastened to the side-door

with Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the servants’ staircase, of which

he had the key, gained his bedroom without opening or disarranging a

single curtain, without even the porter having the slightest suspicion

that the house, which he supposed empty, contained its chief occupant.



Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then he

passed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared

as usual—the precious secretaire in its place, and the key in the

secretaire. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom

door, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali

had procured the arms the count required—namely, a short carbine and a

pair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might be

taken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held the

lives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine.



The count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass of

Spanish wine; then The Trial slipped aside one of the movable

panels, which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had within

his reach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one

of the small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since the

Crusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with

that in the dressing-room, the count could see into the street.



Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to his

wild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement,

could distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees.

The little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might be

expected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be

made from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; in

The Trial’s opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. It

would be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by the

back staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room.



The clock of the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west wind

bore on its moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.



40152m







As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise

in the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding,

was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew

what to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting

the four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his

heart beat more rapidly.



Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril,

they understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of

the frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality,

between the project and the execution. However, The Trial only made

a sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger was approaching

from the other side, drew nearer to his master. The Trial was eager

to ascertain the strength and number of his enemies.



The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which

the count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that

window—he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes

became quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,

then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was

passed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its

hinges, and a man entered. He was alone.



“That’s a daring rascal,” whispered the count.



At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali

pointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the

street.



“I see!” said he, “there are two of them; one does the work while the

other stands guard.” He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man

in the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room.



The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms

stretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himself

familiar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them

both.



When he drew near to the bedroom door, The Trial expected that he

was coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the

sound of the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a

precaution. The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count

had removed the staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue

his purpose with full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the

man then drew from his pocket something which the count could not

discern, placed it on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire,

felt the lock, and contrary to his expectation found that the key was

missing. But the glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for

all emergencies. The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of

skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a

lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of

their nightly song when they grind against the bolt.



“Ah, ha,” whispered The Trial with a smile of disappointment, “he is

only a thief.”



But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the

instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and

immediately a pale light, just bright enough to render objects

distinct, was reflected on his hands and countenance.



“By heavens,” exclaimed The Trial, starting back, “it is——”



Ali raised his hatchet.



“Don’t stir,” whispered The Trial, “and put down your hatchet; we

shall require no arms.”



40154m







Then he added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation which

surprise had drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startled

the man who remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder.



It was an order the count had just given, for immediately Ali went

noiselessly, and returned, bearing a black dress and a three-cornered

hat. Meanwhile The Trial had rapidly taken off his greatcoat,

waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the glimmering

through the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of steel mail, of

which the last in France, where daggers are no longer dreaded, was worn

by King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose head

was cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a long

cassock, as did his hair under a priest’s wig; the three-cornered hat

over this effectually transformed the count into an abbé.



The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while The Trial was

completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretaire, whose

lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.



“Try again,” whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,

which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be—“try again,

you have a few minutes’ work there.”



And he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen seated on a

fence had got down, and was still pacing the street; but, strange as it

appeared, he cared not for those who might pass from the avenue of the

Champs-Élysées or by the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; his attention was

engrossed with what was passing at the count’s, and his only aim

appeared to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room.



The Trial suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile

passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered:



“Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear,

whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.”



Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. The Trial then drew a

lighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with

his lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should

shine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief

heard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly

illuminated. He turned.



“Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said The Trial; “what are

you doing here, at such an hour?”



40156m







“The Abbé Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this

strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he

let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The

count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting

off from the thief his only chance of retreat.



“The Abbé Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the

count.



“Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself,” replied The Trial. “And

I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have

a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.”



This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness,

staggered Caderousse.



“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth

chattering.



“So you would rob The Trial?” continued the false abbé.



“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window,

which the count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe

me—I take my oath——”



“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of

false keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident——”



Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in,

some way of escape.



“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—an

assassin.”



“Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it was

La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned

to the galleys.”



“Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return

there?”



“No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone.”



“That someone has done society a great kindness.”



“Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised——”



“And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted The Trial.



“Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily.



“A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de

Grève. So much the worse, so much the worse—_diavolo!_ as they say in

my country.”



“Reverend sir, I am impelled——”



“Every criminal says the same thing.”



“Poverty——”



“Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal a

loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretaire

in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had

just paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you

killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also

poverty?”



“Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once,

save me again!”



“That is but poor encouragement.”



“Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize

me?”



“I am alone,” said the abbé, “and I will again have pity on you, and

will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may

lead to, if you tell me the truth.”



“Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing

nearer to The Trial, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!”



“You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?”



“Yes, that is true, reverend sir.”



“Who was your liberator?”



“An Englishman.”



“What was his name?”



“Lord Wilmore.”



“I know him; I shall know if you lie.”



“Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.”



“Was this Englishman protecting you?”



“No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.”



“What was this young Corsican’s name?”



“Benedetto.”



“Is that his Christian name?”



“He had no other; he was a foundling.”



“Then this young man escaped with you?”



“He did.”



“In what way?”



“We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know

Saint-Mandrier?”



“I do.”



“In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock——”



“Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor

fellows!” said the abbé.



“Nay,” said Caderousse, “one can’t always work—one is not a dog.”



“So much the better for the dogs,” said The Trial.



“While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed

our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.”



“And what is become of this Benedetto?”



“I don’t know.”



“You ought to know.”



“No, in truth; we parted at Hyères.” And, to give more weight to his

protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbé, who

remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his

interrogation.



“You lie,” said the Abbé Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.



“Reverend sir!”



“You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of

him as your accomplice.”



40160m







“Oh, reverend sir!”



“Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!”



“On what I could get.”



“You lie,” repeated the abbé a third time, with a still more imperative

tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on

the money he has given you.”



“True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great

lord.”



“How can he be the son of a great lord?”



“A natural son.”



“And what is that great lord’s name?”



“The Trial, the very same in whose house we are.”



“Benedetto the count’s son?” replied The Trial, astonished in his

turn.



“Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false

father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and

leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.”



“Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbé, who began to understand; “and what

name does the young man bear meanwhile?”



“Andrea Cavalcanti.”



“Is it, then, that young man whom my friend The Trial

has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle

Danglars?”



“Exactly.”



“And you suffer that, you wretch!—you, who know his life and his

crime?”



“Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse.



“You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.”



“Do not do so, reverend sir.”



“Why not?”



“Because you would bring us to ruin.”



“And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an

abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?”



“Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.



“I will expose all.”



“To whom?”



“To M. Danglars.”



“By Heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open

knife, and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose

nothing, reverend sir!”



To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the

count’s breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seized

with his left hand the assassin’s wrist, and wrung it with such

strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse

uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued

to wring the bandit’s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell

first on his knees, then flat on the floor.



The count then placed his foot on his head, saying, “I know not what

restrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.”



“Ah, mercy—mercy!” cried Caderousse.



The count withdrew his foot.



40162m







“Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose.



“What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse, stroking his

arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what a

wrist!”



“Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in

the name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee at

this moment is still serving him.”



“Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain.



“Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.”



“I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.”



“You lie! Take this pen, and write!”



Caderousse, awed by the superior power of the abbé, sat down and wrote:



“Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you

intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from

confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called

Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his

parents.”





“Sign it!” continued the count.



“But would you ruin me?”



“If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first

guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability

you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then!”



Caderousse signed it.



“The address, ‘To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de la

Chaussée d’Antin.’”



Caderousse wrote the address. The abbé took the note.



“Now,” said he, “that suffices—begone!”



“Which way?”



“The way you came.”



“You wish me to get out at that window?”



“You got in very well.”



“Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir.”



“Idiot! what design can I have?”



“Why, then, not let me out by the door?”



“What would be the advantage of waking the porter?”



“Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?”



“I wish what God wills.”



“But swear that you will not strike me as I go down.”



“Cowardly fool!”



“What do you intend doing with me?”



“I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you

have turned out a murderer.”



“Oh, monsieur,” said Caderousse, “make one more attempt—try me once

more!”



“I will,” said the count. “Listen—you know if I may be relied on.”



“Yes,” said Caderousse.



“If you arrive safely at home——”



“What have I to fear, except from you?”



“If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever

you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a

small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then——”



“Then?” asked Caderousse, shuddering.



40164m







“Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you

too.”



“As true as I am a Christian,” stammered Caderousse, “you will make me

die of fright!”



“Now begone,” said the count, pointing to the window.



Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of

the window and stood on the ladder.



“Now go down,” said the abbé, folding his arms. Understanding he had

nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then the

count brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the

Champs-Élysées that a man was getting out of the window while another

held a light.



“What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?” And

he blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt

his foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety.



The Trial returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the

garden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the

end of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different

part from where he came in. The count then looking over into the

street, saw the man who appeared to be waiting run in the same

direction, and place himself against the angle of the wall where

Caderousse would come over. Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and

looked over the coping to see if the street was quiet. No one could be

seen or heard. The clock of the Invalides struck one. Then Caderousse

sat astride the coping, and drawing up his ladder passed it over the

wall; then he began to descend, or rather to slide down by the two

stanchions, which he did with an ease which proved how accustomed he

was to the exercise. But, once started, he could not stop. In vain did

he see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway down—in vain did

he see an arm raised as he touched the ground.



Before he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in the

back that he let go the ladder, crying, “Help!” A second blow struck

him almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, “Help,

murder!” Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by

the hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest.



This time Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter

a groan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds.

The assassin, finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up

by the hair; his eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The

murderer, supposing him dead, let fall his head and disappeared.



Then Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving him, raised himself on his

elbow, and with a dying voice cried with great effort:



“Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir,—help!”



This mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the

back-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and

his master were on the spot with lights.







 Chapter 83. The Hand of God



Caderousse continued to call piteously, “Help, reverend sir, help!”



“What is the matter?” asked The Trial.



“Help,” cried Caderousse; “I am murdered!”



“We are here;—take courage.”



“Ah, it’s all over! You are come too late—you are come to see me die.

What blows, what blood!”



He fainted. Ali and his master conveyed the wounded man into a room.

The Trial motioned to Ali to undress him, and he then examined his

dreadful wounds.



“My God!” he exclaimed, “thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only

that it may fall the more effectually.” Ali looked at his master for

further instructions. “Bring here immediately the king’s attorney, M.

de Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. As you pass the

lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a surgeon.”



Ali obeyed, leaving the abbé alone with Caderousse, who had not yet

revived.



When the wretched man again opened his eyes, the count looked at him

with a mournful expression of pity, and his lips moved as if in prayer.

“A surgeon, reverend sir—a surgeon!” said Caderousse.



“I have sent for one,” replied the abbé.



“I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my

evidence.”



“Against whom?”



“Against my murderer.”



“Did you recognize him?”



“Yes; it was Benedetto.”



“The young Corsican?”



“Himself.”



“Your comrade?”



“Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should

kill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would

kill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered

me.”



“I have also sent for the procureur.”



“He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing.”



“Wait a moment,” said The Trial. He left the room, and returned in

five minutes with a phial. The dying man’s eyes were all the time

riveted on the door, through which he hoped succor would arrive.



“Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again!” The Trial

approached, and dropped on his purple lips three or four drops of the

contents of the phial. Caderousse drew a deep breath. “Oh,” said he,

“that is life to me; more, more!”



“Two drops more would kill you,” replied the abbé.



“Oh, send for someone to whom I can denounce the wretch!”



“Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it.”



“Yes, yes,” said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the thought of

this posthumous revenge. The Trial wrote:



“I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys

at Toulon, No. 59.”





“Quick, quick!” said Caderousse, “or I shall be unable to sign it.”



The Trial gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all his

strength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying:



“You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls

himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hôtel des Princes. Oh, I am

dying!” He again fainted. The abbé made him smell the contents of the

phial, and he again opened his eyes. His desire for revenge had not

forsaken him.



“Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir?”



“Yes, and much more.”



“What more will you say?”



“I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the

hope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised

the count, by a note, of your intention, and, the count being absent, I

read the note and sat up to await you.”



“And he will be guillotined, will he not?” said Caderousse. “Promise me

that, and I will die with that hope.”



“I will say,” continued the count, “that he followed and watched you

the whole time, and when he saw you leave the house, ran to the angle

of the wall to conceal himself.”



“Did you see all that?”



“Remember my words: ‘If you return home safely, I shall believe God has

forgiven you, and I will forgive you also.’”



“And you did not warn me!” cried Caderousse, raising himself on his

elbows. “You knew I should be killed on leaving this house, and did not

warn me!”



40168m







“No; for I saw God’s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and

should have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of Providence.”



“God’s justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were just, you

know how many would be punished who now escape.”



“Patience,” said the abbé, in a tone which made the dying man shudder;

“have patience!”



Caderousse looked at him with amazement.



“Besides,” said the abbé, “God is merciful to all, as he has been to

you; he is first a father, then a judge.”



“Do you then believe in God?” said Caderousse.



“Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now,” said Monte

Cristo, “I must believe on seeing you.”



Caderousse raised his clenched hands towards heaven.



“Listen,” said the abbé, extending his hand over the wounded man, as if

to command him to believe; “this is what the God in whom, on your

death-bed, you refuse to believe, has done for you—he gave you health,

strength, regular employment, even friends—a life, in fact, which a man

might enjoy with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts,

rarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course—you have given

yourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in a fit of intoxication have

ruined your best friend.”



“Help!” cried Caderousse; “I require a surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I

am not mortally wounded—I may not die; perhaps they can yet save my

life.”



“Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops I gave

you, you would now be dead. Listen, then.”



“Ah,” murmured Caderousse, “what a strange priest you are; you drive

the dying to despair, instead of consoling them.”



“Listen,” continued the abbé. “When you had betrayed your friend, God

began not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty overtook you. You had

already passed half your life in coveting that which you might have

honorably acquired; and already you contemplated crime under the excuse

of want, when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my

hands, a fortune—brilliant, indeed, for you, who had never possessed

any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune sufficed you

no longer when you once possessed it; you wished to double it, and

how?—by a murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you, and

brought you to justice.”



“It was not I who wished to kill the Jew,” said Caderousse; “it was La

Carconte.”



“Yes,” said The Trial, “and God,—I cannot say in justice, for his

justice would have slain you,—but God, in his mercy, spared your life.”



“_Pardieu!_ to transport me for life, how merciful!”



“You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward who feared

death rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like all galley-slaves, you

said, ‘I may escape from prison, I cannot from the grave.’ And you said

truly; the way was opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited

Toulon, who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice

fell on you and your companion. You received a second fortune, money

and tranquillity were restored to you, and you, who had been condemned

to a felon’s life, might live as other men. Then, wretched creature,

then you tempted God a third time. ‘I have not enough,’ you said, when

you had more than you before possessed, and you committed a third

crime, without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has punished

you.”



Caderousse was fast sinking. “Give me drink,” said he: “I thirst—I

burn!” The Trial gave him a glass of water. “And yet that villain,

Benedetto, will escape!”



“No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be punished.”



“Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your duty as a

priest—you should have prevented Benedetto from killing me.”



“I?” said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying man, “when

you had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected

my breast! Yet perhaps if I had found you humble and penitent, I might

have prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and

blood-thirsty, and I left you in the hands of God.”



“I do not believe there is a God,” howled Caderousse; “you do not

believe it; you lie—you lie!”



“Silence,” said the abbé; “you will force the last drop of blood from

your veins. What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you

dead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a

tear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin’s

dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter

of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent.”



“No,” said Caderousse, “no; I will not repent. There is no God; there

is no Providence—all comes by chance.”



“There is a Providence; there is a God,” said The Trial, “of whom

you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him,

while I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in

whom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe

in him.”



“But who are you, then?” asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the

count.



“Look well at me!” said The Trial, putting the light near his face.



“Well, the abbé—the Abbé Busoni.” The Trial took off the wig which

disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the

beauty of his pallid features.



“Oh?” said Caderousse, thunderstruck, “but for that black hair, I

should say you were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore.”



“I am neither the Abbé Busoni nor Lord Wilmore,” said The Trial;

“think again,—do you not recollect me?”



There was a magic effect in the count’s words, which once more revived

the exhausted powers of the miserable man.



“Yes, indeed,” said he; “I think I have seen you and known you

formerly.”



“Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once.”



“Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die?”



“Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been

possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of

God’s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear

by my father’s tomb.”



“By your father’s tomb!” said Caderousse, supported by a supernatural

power, and half-raising himself to see more distinctly the man who had

just taken the oath which all men hold sacred; “who, then, are you?”



The count had watched the approach of death. He knew this was the last

struggle. He approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a

calm and melancholy look, he whispered, “I am—I am——”



And his almost closed lips uttered a name so low that the count himself

appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, who had raised himself on his

knees, and stretched out his arm, tried to draw back, then clasping his

hands, and raising them with a desperate effort, “Oh, my God, my God!”

said he, “pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art

indeed man’s father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord,

I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God; receive me, Oh, my Lord!”



Caderousse sighed deeply, and fell back with a groan. The blood no

longer flowed from his wounds. He was dead.



“_One!_” said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse,

disfigured by so awful a death.



Ten minutes afterwards the surgeon and the procureur arrived, the one

accompanied by the porter, the other by Ali, and were received by the

Abbé Busoni, who was praying by the side of the corpse.







 Chapter 84. Beauchamp



The daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of conversation

throughout Paris for the next fortnight. The dying man had signed a

deposition declaring Benedetto to be the assassin. The police had

orders to make the strictest search for the murderer. Caderousse’s

knife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the

waistcoat, which could not be found, were deposited at the registry;

the corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told everyone that

this adventure had happened during his absence at Auteuil, and that he

only knew what was related by the Abbé Busoni, who that evening, by

mere chance, had requested to pass the night in his house, to examine

some valuable books in his library.



Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever Benedetto’s name was mentioned in

his presence, but there was no reason why anyone should notice his

doing so.



Villefort, being called on to prove the crime, was preparing his brief

with the same ardor that he was accustomed to exercise when required to

speak in criminal cases.



But three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent search had

been unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the murder of the robber

by his comrade were almost forgotten in anticipation of the approaching

marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It

was expected that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young

man was received at the banker’s as the betrothed.



Letters had been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count’s father,

who highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to leave

Parma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a hundred and fifty

thousand livres. It was agreed that the three millions should be

intrusted to Danglars to invest; some persons had warned the young man

of the circumstances of his future father-in-law, who had of late

sustained repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and

confidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a single

doubt to the baron.



The baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti; not so Mademoiselle Eugénie

Danglars. With an instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered

Andrea’s attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea

urged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The baron might

possibly have perceived it, but, attributing it to a caprice, feigned

ignorance.



The delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated

the advice of The Trial to let things die away of their own accord.

No one had taken up the remark about the general, and no one had

recognized in the officer who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble

count in the House of Peers.



Albert, however, felt no less insulted; the few lines which had

irritated him were certainly intended as an insult. Besides, the manner

in which Beauchamp had closed the conference left a bitter recollection

in his heart. He cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal

its true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen since

the day he visited Albert, and those of whom the latter inquired always

told him he was out on a journey which would detain him some days.

Where he was no one knew.



One morning Albert was awakened by his valet de chambre, who announced

Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his servant to introduce him

into the small smoking-room on the ground floor, dressed himself

quickly, and went down.



He found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp

stopped.



“Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house today, looks

well, sir,” said Albert. “Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying,

‘Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship,’

or must I simply propose to you a choice of arms?”



“Albert,” said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow which stupefied the

young man, “let us first sit down and talk.”



“Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer.”



“Albert,” said the journalist, “these are questions which it is

difficult to answer.”



“I will facilitate it by repeating the question, ‘Will you, or will you

not, retract?’”



“Morcerf, it is not enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to questions which

concern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as

Lieutenant-général the Count of Morcerf, peer of France.”



“What must then be done?”



40174m







“What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus—money, time, and fatigue are

nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family;

probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat

with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of

a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of

intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a

heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own

arm must save his life.”



“Well,” said Morcerf, impatiently, “what does all this mean?”



“It means that I have just returned from Yanina.”



“From Yanina?”



“Yes.”



“Impossible!”



“Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste,

Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a

kingdom, and an empire?” Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then

raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp.



“You have been to Yanina?” said he.



“Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that

Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since,

and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble;

but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to

go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours

to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here

I am.”



“What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most

wish to know?”



“Because, in truth, Albert——”



“You hesitate?”



“Yes,—I fear.”



“You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh,

no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot

be doubted.”



“Not so,” murmured the journalist; “on the contrary——”



Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words

died on his lips.



“My friend,” said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone, “I should

gladly make an apology; but, alas!——”



“But what?”



“The paragraph was correct, my friend.”



“What? That French officer——”



“Yes.”



“Fernand?”



“Yes.”



“The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he

was——”



“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!”



Albert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained

him more by a mild look than by his extended hand.



“My friend,” said he, “here is a proof of it.”



40176m







Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable

inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the

service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million

crowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell

overpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name

was fully given. After a moment’s mournful silence, his heart

overflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had

watched with sincere pity the young man’s paroxysm of grief, approached

him.



“Now, Albert,” said he, “you understand me—do you not? I wished to see

all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation

would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But,

on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand

Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no

other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you

had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you.”



Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands,

as if to prevent the light from reaching him.



“I hastened to you,” continued Beauchamp, “to tell you, Albert, that in

this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his

children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the

midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to

soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I

have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power

can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you

with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand

of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone

possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain

with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my

friend, do you wish it?”



Albert threw himself on Beauchamp’s neck.



“Ah, noble fellow!” cried he.



“Take these,” said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert.



Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and

trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to

confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for

cigars, and burned every fragment.



“Dear, excellent friend,” murmured Albert, still burning the papers.



“Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,” said Beauchamp; “let it

vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as

the smoke from those silent ashes.”



“Yes, yes,” said Albert, “and may there remain only the eternal

friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted

to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my

life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh,

Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I

could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my

country.”



“Dear Albert,” said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon

forsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief.



“Well,” said Beauchamp, “what still oppresses you, my friend?”



40178m







“I am broken-hearted,” said Albert. “Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus,

in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with

which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp,

Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead

from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched

of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!” said Albert, gazing through his

tears at his mother’s portrait; “if you know this, how much must you

suffer!”



“Come,” said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, “take courage, my

friend.”



“But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some

unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.”



“The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be

visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within

it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go,

my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall

come.”



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“You think, then, all is not over yet?” said Albert, horror-stricken.



“I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——”



“What?” said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.



“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”



“Why do you ask me now?”



“Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with

the person of whom we were speaking.”



“How?” said Albert, whose brow reddened; “you think M. Danglars——”



“I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on

my words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue

weight.”



“No.” said Albert, “the engagement is broken off.”



“Well,” said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about to relapse

into melancholy, “Let us go out, Albert,” said he; “a ride in the wood

in the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return

to breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine.”



“Willingly,” said Albert; “but let us walk. I think a little exertion

would do me good.”



The two friends walked out on the fortress. When they arrived at the

Madeleine:



“Since we are out,” said Beauchamp, “let us call on M. de The Trial;

he is admirably adapted to revive one’s spirits, because he never

interrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best

comforters.”



“Gladly,” said Albert; “let us call—I love him.”







 Chapter 85. The Journey



The Trial 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 The Trial; “I

introduce no 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 The Trial;

“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 The Trial; “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 Eugénie, 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 Eugénie?”



“I am not aware of it,” said Albert, smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp

turned to look at some paintings.



“But,” continued The Trial, “you are not in your usual spirits?”



“I have a dreadful headache,” said Albert.



“Well, my dear viscount,” said The Trial, “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 Provençal, 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 continues, every robber and assassin in France will

have the plan of my house at his fingers’ ends. 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 courtyard 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 Islands18.”



“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 The Trial, 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 The Trial?”



“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 The Trial 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 The Trial, 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 Tréport?”



“Yes; or in the neighborhood.”



“But can we travel forty-eight leagues in eight hours?”



“Easily,” said The Trial.



“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.”



The Trial 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 reverie, he rang the bell twice and Bertuccio

entered.



“Bertuccio,” said he, “I intend going this evening to Normandy, instead

of tomorrow 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 Haydée’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 The Trial, “with your post-horses 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 everyone 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

tonight 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 The Trial arms which were a mountain _or_,

on a sea _azure_, with a cross _gules_ in chief which might be an

allusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our

Lord’s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross

which his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal

remembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this

mysterious personage’s past life.



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 The Trial

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 The Trial 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 The Trial, was sleeping in an

armchair 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 The Trial.



40188m







“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he

hastened to the door. The Trial 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 The Trial 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 The Trial. 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. The Trial 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!”



40190m







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 _l’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,” Albert said.



“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 _ l’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. Everyone 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, everyone 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.



40194m







Business had already been going on for half an hour when he entered.

Everyone 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.



“Today I am at your service,” replied the count.



The president rang the bell. “Does the House approve that the

examination should take place today?”



40196m







“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.



Beauchamp related to the young man all the facts we have just narrated;

his story, however, had over ours all the advantage of the animation of

living things over the coldness of dead things.



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 anyone

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 Haydée 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 Haydée 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 clenched 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 Haydée. 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 anyone in the lobby?’ said the president.



“‘Yes, sir.’—‘Who is it?’—‘A woman, accompanied by a servant.’ Everyone

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?”



“Haydée.”



“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 Haydée, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of

Vasiliki, his beloved wife.’



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“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 Haydée, 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.



“Haydée, 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 Trial, an emerald

valued at eight hundred thousand francs; as the ransom of a young

Christian slave of eleven years of age, named Haydée, 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 Haydée, seemed one of fire and blood. ‘Madame,’ said

the president, ‘may reference be made to The Trial, who

is now, I believe, in Paris?’



“‘Sir,’ replied Haydée, ‘The Trial, 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 Haydée, ‘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 Trial 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.’



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“‘Then,’ remarked the president, ‘The Trial 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.’ Haydée, whose eyes had been fixed on the

door, as if expecting someone, 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 Haydée. ‘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?’



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“‘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.



“Haydée 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, if 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 banker of Paris, 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 everyone today;

but you have the first claim, M. Danglars.”



40212m







“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 anyone 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, The Trial.”



“The Trial 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

The Trial 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 would not fight.



In addition to this, everything forgotten or unperceived before

presented itself now to his recollection. The Trial 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 Haydée, and allowed the

conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed Haydée’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 Haydée? 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; The Trial 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 The Trial

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 Trial.”



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 The Trial

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-Élysées.

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 of duels. 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 anyone 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 Château-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 anyone, 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 Mercédès; 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?”



Mercédès 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 The Trial would eat nothing in our house.”



Mercédès raised herself on her feverish arm.



“M. de The Trial!” she exclaimed; “and how is he connected with the

question you asked me?”



40219m







“You know, mother, M. de The Trial 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 The Trial is our enemy?” replied Mercédès,

becoming paler than the sheet which covered her. “Who told you so? Why,

you are mad, Albert! M. de The Trial has only shown us kindness. M.

de The Trial 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 special reasons for telling

me to conciliate that man.”



“I?” said Mercédès, 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?”



Mercédès 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. Mercédès 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 Mercédès, 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 Mercédès 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 Château-Renaud, who

had promised to be in the orchestra before the curtain was raised. Both

got into Albert’s _coupé_; 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.



40221m







Château-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

Château-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 The Trial either in the lobby or on the

stairs. The bell summoned him to his seat, and he entered the orchestra

with Château-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 The Trial 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 The Trial, turning round, saw Albert, pale and

trembling, followed by Beauchamp and Château-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? “ said The Trial “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 The Trial; “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!”



The Trial 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 The Trial did not

lose sight of.



“Well, well,” said The Trial 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 everyone, 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 Château-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the

limits of a challenge, held him back. But The Trial, without rising,

and leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched out his arm and,

taking the damp, crushed glove from the clenched 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. The Trial 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 The Trial.



“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 Haydée 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 The Trial 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 tomorrow morning.”

Morrel, in his turn, took The Trial’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 The Trial, with the first

movement of anger he had betrayed; “I will make him suffer.”



Morrel, amazed, let fall The Trial’s hand. “Count, count!” said he.



“Dear Maximilian,” interrupted the count, “listen how adorably Duprez

is singing that line,—



‘O Mathilde! idole de mon âme!’





“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 The Trial with a voice that betrayed not the least

emotion; and immediately Beauchamp appeared. “Good-evening, M.

Beauchamp,” said The Trial, 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 The Trial, 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.”



The Trial 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 Trial

bows to none but The Trial 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 The Trial, 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

tomorrow, 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 The Trial, “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 The Trial, 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 The Trial. “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 The Trial, 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. Tomorrow 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. The Night



The Trial 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 _coupé_, 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 The Trial 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.



40227m







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 Mercédès.”



“Mercédès is dead, madame,” said The Trial; “I know no one now of

that name.”



“Mercédès 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 The Trial, with bitter irony; “since

we are recalling names, let us remember them all.” The Trial had

pronounced the name of Fernand with such an expression of hatred that

Mercédès 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 The Trial 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 Mercédès. “Why do you

remember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its vizier to you,

Edmond? What injury has Fernand Mondego done you in betraying Ali

Tepelini?”



“Ah, madame,” replied The Trial, “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 Mercédès 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 anyone, it is to me, who had not fortitude to

bear your absence and my solitude.”



“But,” exclaimed The Trial, “why was I absent? And why were you

alone?”



40231m







“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 Mercédès.



“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 Réserve,

the day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars wrote this

letter, which the fisherman Fernand himself posted.”



The Trial went to a secretaire, 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

Mercédès. It was Danglars’ letter to the king’s attorney, which the

Count of The Trial, disguised as a clerk from the house of Thomson &

French, had taken from the file against Edmond Dantès, on the day he

had paid the two hundred thousand francs to M. de Boville. Mercédès

read with terror the following lines:



“The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion

that one Edmond Dantès, 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 Dantès, 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 Dantès on board the

_Pharaon_.”





“How dreadful!” said Mercédès, 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 Château 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 Mercédès, 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 Mercédès 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 The Trial, 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 Mercédès?”



“Mercédès!” repeated The Trial; “Mercédès! 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, Mercédès, 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. Mercédès,

I must revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen years,—fourteen years I

wept, I cursed; now I tell you, Mercédès, 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 The Trial, “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 Mercédès, 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 Château 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 The Trial, 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 Mercédès, “but I have seen him whom I loved on the

point of murdering my son.”



Mercédès uttered these words with such deep anguish, with an accent of

such intense despair, that The Trial 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!”



Mercédès uttered a cry which made the tears start from The Trial’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 The Trial; “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, Mercédès, 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, Mercédès, 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 The Trial, in a most solemn tone; “but

instead of your son’s blood to stain the ground, mine will flow.”



Mercédès shrieked, and sprang towards The Trial, 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 The Trial, surprised that without

more emotion Mercédès had accepted the heroic sacrifice he made for

her. Mercédès 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 Mercédès 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, Mercédès?—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, Mercédès, you could not

imagine what I lose in sacrificing my life at this moment.”



Mercédès looked at the count in a way which expressed at the same time

her astonishment, her admiration, and her gratitude. The Trial

pressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his brain could no

longer bear alone the weight of its thoughts.



“Edmond,” said Mercédès, “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 Mercédès, 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. Mercédès opened the door of the study and

had disappeared before he had recovered from the painful and profound

reverie into which his thwarted vengeance had plunged him.



The clock of the Invalides struck one when the carriage which conveyed

Madame de Morcerf rolled away on the pavement of the Champs-Élysées,

and made The Trial 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 Mercédès had left The Trial, 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 Château d’If, and whom I had succeeded in making so

great, will be but a lump of clay tomorrow. 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 Mercédès

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 Mercédès 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, Oh, 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 Haydée,

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 The Trial 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 Haydée,” 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 someone.”



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 Julie 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 The Trial, of which Bertuccio knows the secret. If his

heart is free, and he will marry Haydée, 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 Haydée

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.”





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He was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made him start,

and the pen fell from his hand.



“Haydée,” 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial, “I wish

my daughter to be happy.” Haydée 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 Haydée 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. The Trial

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 anyone in

my house. I need to see you strong in your courageous assurance, to

recover myself.”



The Trial 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

Château-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 everyone 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 The Trial 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.” The Trial took the pistols he held in

his hand when Mercédès 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 The Trial performed this dexterous feat, and saw that they

were no larger than buckshot.



“It is astonishing,” said he. “Look, Emmanuel.” Then turning towards

The Trial, “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 The Trial; “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 The Trial.



“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. The Trial 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. The Trial 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.”



The Trial 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.”



The Trial drew Morrel a step or two behind his brother-in-law.



“Maximilian,” said he, “are your affections disengaged?” Morrel looked

at The Trial 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

Haydée!” 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 someone 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

Château-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 Château-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 Château-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 The Trial

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 Château-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 Château-Renaud, shaking hands with

each of them.



“Because,” said Debray, “Albert sent this morning to request us to

come.” Beauchamp and Château-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 Château-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

Château-Renaud. “Albert is ten minutes after time.”



“There he comes,” said Beauchamp, “on horseback, at full gallop,

followed by a servant.”



“How imprudent,” said Château-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.”



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“Sir,” said Maximilian, “you are not perhaps aware that I am M. de

The Trial’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 Château-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 The Trial.”



“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 The Trial.



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



“Ah?” said The Trial, “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 became 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 The Trial, 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 Mercédès, 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.”



The Trial, 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 The Trial 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 anyone 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 Château-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 Trial 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 The Trial, 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 Château-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 Trial bowed to the five young men with a melancholy

and dignified smile, and got into his carriage with Maximilian and

Emmanuel. Albert, Beauchamp, and Château-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. Château-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 today of rare chivalric generosity.”



“Oh, yes,” said Château-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

Château-Renaud, with most significant coolness.



“Gentlemen,” interrupted Albert, “I think you did not understand that

something very serious had passed between M. de The Trial 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 Château-Renaud?”



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“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.”



Château-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-bye, 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-bye,” said Château-Renaud in his turn, keeping his little cane in

his left hand, and saluting with his right.



Albert’s lips scarcely whispered “Good-bye,” 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 Feuchères or Barye;

examined the cupboards, and placed the key in each; threw into a drawer

of his secretaire, 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.”



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“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 Trial. 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 bedchamber, 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, Mercédès 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 Mercédès, “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 Mercédès, “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 is favorable to avoid an explanation.”



“I am ready, my son,” said Mercédès.



Albert ran to fetch a carriage. He recollected that there was a small

furnished house to let in the Rue des Saints-Pères, 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 Mercédès with tears in his eyes and heaving breast, and

without uttering a word he gave her the letter. Mercédès 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 Allées de Meilhan. 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. Mercédès 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 downstairs.







 Chapter 92. The Suicide



Meanwhile The Trial 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 Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there,

motionless as a sentinel at his post. The Trial 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, said

Morrel, 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 The Trial; “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-Élysées.”



“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 The Trial; “for that reason I wished to keep you near

me.”



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



“What?” said The Trial.



“What has just happened.”



“Yes,” said the Count, “you are right—it is miraculous.”



“For Albert is brave,” resumed Morrel.



“Very brave,” said The Trial; “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 The Trial, 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 today 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.”



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“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-bye, then.”



“Good-bye, till we meet again.”



They had arrived in the Champs-Élysées. The Trial 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.” The Trial took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the

letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward. “Go,” said he quickly.

“But first, let Haydée be informed that I have returned.”



“Here I am,” said the young girl, who at the sound of the carriage had

run downstairs 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 Haydée during the first moments of this meeting, which she had so

eagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, The Trial’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 beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing is

outwardly apparent.



The Trial was beginning to think, what he had not for a long time

dared to believe, that there were two Mercédès in the world, and he

might yet be happy. His eye, elate with happiness, was reading eagerly

the tearful gaze of Haydée, 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 Haydée, “is it not yet over?”



“I know not if it is finished, my beloved child,” said The Trial,

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, Haydée,” said The Trial; “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.”



The Trial smiled. “By my father’s tomb,” said he, extending his hand

over the head of the young girl, “I swear to you, Haydée, 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. The Trial

pressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss which made two hearts

throb at once, the one violently, the other secretly.



“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 The Trial, is

unexpected to our readers. While Mercédès, 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 courtyard. 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-Élysées,” 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 Haydée aside, ordered that Morcerf be

asked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing the room the third

time when, in turning, he perceived The Trial at the door.



“Ah, it is M. de Morcerf,” said The Trial 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 The Trial 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 The Trial.



“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 The Trial 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 clenched with rage.



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“Until one of us dies,” repeated The Trial, moving his head slightly

up and down.



“Let us start, then; we need no witnesses.”



“Very true,” said The Trial; “it is unnecessary, we know each other

so well!”



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



“Indeed?” said The Trial, 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 if 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 Trial; 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 Trial 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

clenched 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 today a face which the happiness of revenge makes young

again—a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your

marriage with Mercédès, my betrothed!”



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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 Dantès!”



Then, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself

to the door, reeled across the courtyard, 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 Mercédès 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 Mercédès 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 Mercédès 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.



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 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 The Trial 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 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

The Trial’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.



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“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 Saint-Honoré 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 everyone 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 courtyard?” 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-bye;—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.”



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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 Eugénie 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.”



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“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 Eugénie, 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 Eugénie 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.”



Eugénie 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 The Trial at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground

today.”



“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.”



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“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 Eugénie, “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 Eugénie, 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; Eugénie 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. Ha, 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 Eugénie were going out at

that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.



“I told you so!” exclaimed Madame de Villefort. “Poor child!”



40278m









 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-Méran’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 The Trial’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-Élysées.



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 upstairs 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!”



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“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 The Trial’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, everyone 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 The Trial.



“No,” said Morrel; “is someone dead in his house?”



“The general has just blown his brains out,” replied The Trial with

great coolness.



“Oh, what a dreadful event!” cried Maximilian.



“Not for the countess, or for Albert,” said The Trial; “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?”



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“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 The Trial.



“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 The Trial, 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 someone

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 The Trial, seeing Morrel return.



“Yes, and now I shall be more calm.”



“You know I am waiting,” said The Trial, 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. Someone 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial.



“He replied—he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must

be attributed”—



“To what?”



“To poison.”



“Indeed!” said The Trial 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.”



The Trial 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 The Trial, “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?” The Trial 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-Méran’s death.

You heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d’Avrigny about the death of M.

de Saint-Méran, 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. We

are no longer in the Middle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or

Free Tribunals; what do you want to ask these people? ‘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 The Trial’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;19 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-Méran; Madame de

Saint-Méran two months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the

old Noirtier, or young Valentine.”



“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 The Trial, 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 The Trial, 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?”



The Trial 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial.

“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 tomorrow 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?”



The Trial 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.



The Trial 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 The Trial with

indescribable terror. But The Trial 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 The Trial 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

everyone, and you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no one

deviates from them.”



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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 Eugénie

Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This formal 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.



“Étienne,” said he, “see why Mademoiselle Eugénie 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. Étienne 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 Eugénie appeared, attired in a figured black

satin dress, her hair dressed and gloves on, as if she were going to

the Italian Opera.



“Well, Eugénie, 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 Eugénie, 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

Eugénie, 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.



40298m







“Yes, indeed, sir,” continued Eugénie, 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 Eugénie, “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, Eugénie? 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 Phædrus, 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 Eugénie, “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 Gaîté, 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.”



Eugénie 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.”



Eugénie 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 Eugénie; “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.” Eugénie became

uneasy.



40302m







“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 Eugénie, 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 Eugénie.



“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 Eugénie, “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 Eugénie, 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 Eugénie 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 Eugénie, “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 them on returning from the mayor’s20.”



“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 Eugénie.



“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 Eugénie, 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 Étienne entered, and announced to

Eugénie that the horses were to 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.



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VOLUME FIVE



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50019m









 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 Eugénie 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 first 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 The Trial.



“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 The Trial, “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 The Trial, “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 The Trial, “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 Valère reply to Alceste21 at the Théâtre Français.



“Is your love returned?”



“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 The Trial 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 The Trial coldly, who felt

the perfidious manœuvre 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 Abbé 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 The Trial.



“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 reverie:



“Now, sir, I have one request to make to you, which you will

understand, even if it should be disagreeable to you.”



“Proceed,” said The Trial.



“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.”



“I understand; 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 Trial 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.



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“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 The Trial, “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 The Trial, 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.



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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 Eugénie 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 Château-Renaud. Debray was admitted to the house for

this grand ceremony, but on the same plane with everyone 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 Trial 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 Eugénie 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

Eugénie, 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, The Trial 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 The Trial, 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 _style

énergique_) commented on the feverish agitation of Andrea, on M.

Danglars’ riveted attention, Eugénie’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

The Trial’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 The Trial, 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.”



Everyone listened eagerly; The Trial 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 today, 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial; “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 The Trial

and disappeared in the second drawing-room.



“Possibly,” said Danglars; “was not this murdered man an old

galley-slave?”



50025m







“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 The Trial; “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, _quærens 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial.”



The Trial 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, everyone 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

Eugénie, 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 Café 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

Eugénie 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

Eugénie 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 Eugénie. “In truth, I was fated,”

said she. “I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.”



“Oh, do not confound the two, Eugénie.”



“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 Eugénie, with her usual precision, opened a printed paper, and

read:



“M. Léon 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 The Trial 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.’”



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“Well,” said Eugénie 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, Eugénie!”



“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

secretaire a small portfolio with a lock, in which she counted

twenty-three bank-notes.



“Twenty-three thousand francs,” said she.



“And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,” said Eugénie.

“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, Eugénie!” And the two young girls began to

heap into a trunk all the things they thought they should require.



“There now,” said Eugénie, “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 Eugénie, 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, Eugénie 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, Eugénie 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 Eugénie. 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.



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“Oh, the magnificent hair!” said Louise, with regret.



“And am I not a hundred times better thus?” cried Eugénie, 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, Liège, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the Rhine to Strasbourg. 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, Eugénie.”



And the two young girls, whom everyone 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,—Eugénie

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. Eugénie approached softly, and saw the old man

sleeping soundly in an armchair 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.



Eugénie 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 Eugénie 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. Eugénie, 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

Eugénie, she was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at

the appointed spot. Eugénie 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 Eugénie 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 Eugénie, “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 Eugénie with an almost masculine voice.



“What do you say?” said Louise.



“I am giving them the slip,” said Eugénie; “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 britzka, 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

Barrière Saint-Martin.



“Ah,” said Louise, breathing freely, “here we are out of Paris.”



“Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,” replied Eugénie.



“Yes, and without violence,” said Louise.



“I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,” replied

Eugénie.



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 veils,

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_.22 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.



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 du Mont-Blanc, guided by the instinct which

leads thieves always to take the safest path, he found himself at the

end of the Rue La Fayette. 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 Poissonnière.

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 tomorrow 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-pla!”



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. Everyone 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 britzka, 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 _Cheval Rouge_, 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 hotel of the _Cheval Rouge_, 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 antechamber 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 Mortefontaine to Senlis,

when my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me.

I must reach Compiègne tonight, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my

family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?”



An innkeeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or bad. The

host called the stable-boy, and ordered him to saddle _Le Blanc_ 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

innkeeper twenty francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a

visiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the Café 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 Mauléon, 25 Rue

Saint-Dominique, that being the name and address on the card.



_Le Blanc_ 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 Compiègne, and four o’clock struck as he reached the

place where the coaches stop. There is an excellent tavern at

Compiègne, 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-aux-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 Compiègne.

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 Hotel, 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 he 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

pretence 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 wake 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.”



50047m







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. “_Diable!_”



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, after replacing the chimney-board,

which represented Achilles with Deidamia, and effacing the very marks

of his feet upon the ashes, he commenced climbing the hollow tunnel,

which afforded him the only means of escape left.



At this precise time, the first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked

upstairs, preceded by the commissary of police, and supported by the

second gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself reinforced 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. Compiègne, 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 Hôtel 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, oh,” 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.



50049m







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 Hôtel de Ville, a massive

sixteenth century building, was on his right; anyone 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

anyone. At the same minute, one of the little windows of the Hôtel 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.



“Aha!” 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.



“Eugénie! 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 Eugénie.



“Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly alarmed;

you can turn their suspicions and save my life!”



50053m







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 Eugénie; “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

clenched hand.



“Fly, then!” cried Mademoiselle d’Armilly, whose pity returned as her

fears diminished; “fly!”



“Or kill yourself!” said Eugénie (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.”



50055m







“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 two 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?”



Eugénie covered her face with her hands.



“Oh, oh!” said Andrea, “you need not be ashamed, even though you did

post after me. Was I not nearly your husband?”



50056m







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.



Eugénie 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 Hôtel 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 everyone 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 Eugénie’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 Eugénie’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 Eugénie 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 Eugénie 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

Eugénie, 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 to 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 Eugénie used in

leaving it; she ran lightly upstairs, and with an aching heart entered

her apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugénie. She was

fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter’s

innocence and fidelity to the paternal roof. She listened at Eugénie’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 Eugénie,” 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 everyone 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 Mercédès, who had been

afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.



“Eugénie,” 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

Eugénie 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 someone 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

downstairs, 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 today 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 anyone, 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 tomorrow, if not today—in a week, if not tomorrow; 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 months 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 prisons 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.



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“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. Has

mankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared

me? Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands?

No, madame, they struck me, always struck me!



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“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 with a

threatening gesture.



“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 Compiègne, 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 Eugénie 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 downstairs 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, The Trial 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 Trial 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 Eugénie 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 antechambers 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 Trial!” 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 The Trial 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 anyone—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?”



50071m







“Hush, my child,” said The Trial, 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 tonight.”



Valentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely had she touched the

glass when she drew back in fear. The Trial 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-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, 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 The Trial. “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 anyone 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?”



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“No,” said Valentine; “who could desire my death?”



“You shall know it now, then,” said The Trial, listening.



“How do you mean?” said Valentine, looking anxiously around.



“Because you are not feverish or delirious tonight, 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-bye, 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 anyone 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 someone 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 The Trial 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-hour.



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.



Someone 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.



The girl shuddered to the heart but did not reply.



“Valentine,” repeated the same voice.



Still silent: Valentine had promised not to wake. 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 The Trial;

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.



50077m







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 Trial 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-Méran 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 Hôtel 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 anyone—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 who love me and will die if I die—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 be seen through the lace of her

nightdress. The Trial 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.” Valentine gave him a look

full of gratitude, and remained as docile as a child.



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.”



The Trial 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 at the feet of the Lord.







 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 anyone 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,”23 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.



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.



The minutes passed; Madame de Villefort could not drop the curtain

which she held like a funeral pall over the head of Valentine. She was

lost in reverie, and the reverie of crime is remorse.



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 armchair 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!”



50083m







“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 calmness.



50085m







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 drunk; 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.”



50087m







“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; The Trial 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 armchair 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 anyone 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.



50089m







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!”



50090m









 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 armchair containing Noirtier upstairs. When he reached

the landing he placed the armchair 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.”



50093m







“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. Now, M. le Procureur du Roi,” 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.



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“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-Méran’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.” While uttering these words with this expression

of joy, his teeth clashed together violently.



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!”



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“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 abbé, 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.”



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“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 abbé 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 abbé, 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 abbé 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 Abbé Busoni had watched till daylight, and then left without

calling anyone. 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 armchair,

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 work. 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 eleven o’clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and

the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré 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, Château-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, Château-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, Château-Renaud, when we saw her, at the

most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract?”



“Indeed, no,” said Château-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.”



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“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 Château-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 Trial” 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 Château-Renaud

of Debray.



“I believe so,” replied the secretary with slight uneasiness. “But

The Trial is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel.”



“Morrel? Do they know him?” asked Château-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 tonight; 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 The Trial, who was directing his steps towards the Rue de la

Chaussée d’Antin, to M. Danglars’. The banker saw the carriage of the

count enter the courtyard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though

affable smile.



“Well,” said he, extending his hand to The Trial, “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?”



“Eugénie 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 Eugénie;

for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France.”



“Still, baron,” said The Trial, “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 The Trial examined the gilt mouldings on

the ceiling.



“Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?” said The Trial.



“No,” said Danglars, smiling, “they are bonds on the bank of France,

payable to bearer. Stay, count,” he added, “you, who may be 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 The Trial; “five millions—why

what a Crœsus 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 The Trial 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 today.”



And The Trial 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 The Trial, “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.



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“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.”



The Trial replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable

expression which seemed to say, “Come, reflect; if you repent there is

still 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 The Trial 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 The Trial. “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 The Trial 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 The Trial; “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.

The Trial 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 serious 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.”



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“My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by

waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de The Trial whom you just saw

leaving here—you did see him, I think?”



“Yes; well?”



“Well, M. de The Trial 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 The Trial

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.”



50113m







“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 tomorrow.”



“Tomorrow? 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 The Trial 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 tomorrow. 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 tomorrow.”



“Yes; but without fail.”



“Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow 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 Eugénie!” 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 Frédérick,24

exclaimed:



“Fool!”



Then enclosing The Trial’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.”



“I will place it on her table myself tonight,” he murmured. Then taking

a passport from his drawer he said,—“Good, it is available for two

months longer.”







 Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise



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

Père-Lachaise 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-Méran and

Villefort,” for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renée,

Valentine’s mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way

towards Père-Lachaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. 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.



50117m







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 The Trial. The count left the

carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Château-Renaud

perceived him and immediately alighting from his _coupé_, joined him;

Beauchamp did the same.



The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was

evidently watching for someone, but his search ended in disappointment.



50119m







“Where is Morrel?” he asked; “do either of these gentlemen know where

he is?”



“We have already asked that question,” said Château-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 The Trial glanced

through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all

anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, The Trial

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 The Trial had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of

Abélard and Héloïse, 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. The Trial 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, elaborate variations on the stanzas of

Malherbe to Du Périer.



The Trial 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 Château-Renaud’s attention to him.



“How pale he is!” said Château-Renaud, shuddering.



“He is cold,” said Debray.



“Not at all,” said Château-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?”



50121m







“No, I do not,” replied The Trial, 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,

unceremoniously.



And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went.



The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Château-Renaud

looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the

departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and

Château-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.



The Trial 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 The Trial 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.” The Trial 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.



50123m







“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 The Trial, “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.



The Trial 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.”



The Trial 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 The Trial less

with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.



“_Ma foi_,” said The Trial, 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.”



The Trial advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him

pass, but he followed him.



“You were writing?” said The Trial 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial 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?”



50125m







“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 The Trial 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial

my pretended benefactor—then, Count of The Trial, 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.”



50127m







“And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right

over free and rational beings?”



“Who am I?” repeated The Trial. “Listen; I am the only man in the

world having the right to say to you, ‘Morrel, your father’s son shall

not die today;’” and The Trial, 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 today—because I am the man who sent the purse to

your young sister, and the _Pharaon_ to old Morrel—because I am the

Edmond Dantès 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!”



The Trial 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 Dantès,” 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 Allées de

Meilhan. 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 wished 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 armchair, he 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. The Trial bent his head. Emmanuel

went towards the pistols.



“Leave them,” said The Trial. 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 The Trial, 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 The Trial, 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

The Trial 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 the-trial, 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 The Trial, 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

anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to

his head—if anyone 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 The Trial, 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 appellation 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 The Trial. “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 Trial 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 The Trial 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 is a sacred one,

Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of

September; it is ten years today 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!”



The Trial drew the young man towards him, and pressed him for some

time to his heart. “And now,” he said, “after today, you will come and

live with me; you can occupy Haydée’s apartment, and my daughter will

at least be replaced by my son.”



“Haydée?” 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-Élysées, and lead me out of this house without anyone seeing my

departure.”



Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike reverence.







 Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds



The apartment on the first floor of the house in the Rue

Saint-Germain-des-Prés, 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 upstairs 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 first 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 The Trial 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 upstairs. 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 tomorrow and

I intend leaving today, to escape that tomorrow, 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 everyone’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.



50137m







“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

downstairs, 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-Prés, 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.



Mercédès and Albert were in that room.



Mercédès 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 Mercédès 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. Mercédès, 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.”



50141m







Mercédès 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, Mercédès 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. Mercédès 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 Mercédès 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 Mercédès.



“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 Mercédès, 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 Allées de Meilhan, 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 _coupé_ to Châlons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for

thirty-five francs.”



Albert then took a pen, and wrote:





                                                         Frs. _Coupé_,

                                                         thirty-five

                                                         francs........

                                                         ..............

                                                         ........ 35.

                                                         From Châlons

                                                         to Lyons you

                                                         will go on by

                                                         the

                                                         steamboat..

                                                         6. From Lyons

                                                         to Avignon

                                                         (still by

                                                         steamboat)....

                                                         ......... 16.

                                                         From Avignon

                                                         to Marseilles,

                                                         seven

                                                         francs........

                                                         .......  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 Mercédès.



“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 Mercédès, 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.” Mercédès

sighed. “Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the

Spahis,”25 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.”



“Then these 1,000 francs——” said Mercédès, shuddering.



“Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in a year.”



Mercédès 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 Lamoricière, 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.”



Mercédès 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 Mercédès.



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.”



50145m







“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 Mercédès, 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. Dantès’ 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 Mercédès, 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.



Someone 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 Mercédès, “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

anyone. 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 downstairs.



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 _coupé_ 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 Mercédès 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 courtyard 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, the galleys! or solitary confinement.



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 nearly new, and his boots are brilliant. It is pleasant

to have such well-dressed brethren; and those gendarmes behaved

shamefully. What jealousy; 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 anyone 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;—“anyone 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!”



50151m







“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!”_26 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.



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 someone 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.



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“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.”



50155m







“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-Élysées.”



“Oh, the Champs-Élysées? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game of

pincette. The Champs-Élysées? 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-Élysées just now,

worthy foster-father.”



“Well?”



“Well, in the Champs-Élysées there resides a very rich gentleman.”



“At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?”



“I believe I did.”



“The Trial?”



“’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 Pixérécourt.”27



“Do not let us jest,” gravely replied Bertuccio, “and dare not to utter

that name again as you have pronounced it.”



“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.”



50157m







“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 tomorrow,” 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! Tomorrow, then!” he added, turning towards

Bertuccio.



“Tomorrow!” replied the steward.







 Chapter 108. The Judge



We remember that the Abbé 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 abbé, 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 Trial 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

greatcoat, 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.



“Today,” he said with an effort,—“today 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

everyone 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 servant 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-Méran, my mother-in-law, Madame de

Saint-Méran, 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-Méran, 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.”



50165m







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 poison.”



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!”



50169m







“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?’”



50170m







“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!”



50167m







“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 has 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 tonight 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 Café 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 everyone 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.



Everyone, 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 Château-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 _Divina Comedia_.”



“A nobility of the rope!” said Château-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 Château-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 Château-Renaud, “allow me to tell you that you do

not understand that manœuvre 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 Eugénie?” said Château-Renaud; “has she returned?”



“No, but her mother.”



“Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!” said Château-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 Château-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’ is good,” said Château-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 Château-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 Château-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 tomorrow, 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-Méran 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 Château-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 tomorrow, 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 Château-Renaud, “I will bet anything you do not

believe a word of all you have been telling us. But I do not see the

Count of The Trial 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 Château-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 Trial cannot appear in the

hall,” said Beauchamp.



“Why not?”



“Because he is an actor in the drama.”



“Has he assassinated anyone, 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

armchair and cast a tranquil glance around him. Everyone 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.



50181m







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 a 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.



50183m







“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; everyone

waited anxiously.



“My father is king’s attorney,” replied Andrea calmly.



50179m







“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 has

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.”



Everyone 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 Château-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-Honoré; the carriage drove on.



All the weight of his fallen fortune 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.



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“Oh!” he exclaimed, as though a red-hot 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.



50191m







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.



“Héloïse!” he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of

furniture being removed.



“Héloïse!” 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.



“Héloïse, Héloïse!” 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 downstairs, sir,” replied the valet.



“Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see.”



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“No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went

into her room, and has not been downstairs 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 anyone

determined to seek his father, that he might have someone to whom he

could relate his misfortunes,—someone by whose side he might weep.



50195m







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

Abbé Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving

the abbé, passed his hand across his brow. The past came to him like

one of those waves whose wrath foams fiercer than the others.



He recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at

Auteuil, and then the visit the abbé 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 Abbé Busoni!”



“No!” The abbé 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 Trial!” 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-Méran. Refer to

your papers.”



“You are not Busoni?—you are not The Trial? 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 Château

d’If. God gave that spectre the form of The Trial 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 Dantès!”



“You are Edmond Dantès,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the

wrist; “then come here!”



And up the stairs he dragged The Trial; who, ignorant of what had

happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new

catastrophe.



“There, Edmond Dantès!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and

child, “see, are you well avenged?”



The Trial 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!”



He tried to follow The Trial; 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 The Trial 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. The Trial

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!”



50197m







And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.



The Trial 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!”



The Trial 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

tomorrow.”



“Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel.



“No,” replied The Trial; “God grant I may not have done too much

already.”



The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Haydée

had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier.







 Chapter 112. The Departure



The recent events 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 anyone 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 The Trial appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a

cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again

immediately.



50201m







“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 The Trial; “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 The Trial,

“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 The Trial, 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 The Trial, “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 The Trial.



50203m







“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 The Trial—“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 the Lord.”



As we have before said, the post-chaise 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 The Trial. “Now let us go.”



50205m







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 dust and noise.



Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered. Morrel was

dreaming, and The Trial 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

Châlons, 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,28 the port with its

brick quays, where they had both played in childhood, and it was with

one accord that they stopped on the Canebière.



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.



“Here,” said he, leaning heavily on the arm of The Trial,—“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.”



The Trial 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. The Trial 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 The Trial, “I recognized him.”



“How so?—you were looking the other way.”



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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 Allées de Meilhan 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 Dantès 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 Mercédès 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

The Trial 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 anyone 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 Mercédès 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.



The Trial, 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,29 with its thick foliage and beautiful

long purple flowers, he saw Mercédès 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.



The Trial advanced a few steps, which were heard on the gravel.

Mercédès raised her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a

man before her.



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“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 Mercédès. “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 The Trial, “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 Mercédès, 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 Dantès, 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?”



The Trial 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.”



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Mercédès burst into tears; her woman’s heart was breaking under its

load of memories. The Trial 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, Mercédès,” said The Trial, “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,

Mercédès—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 a particular purpose. Not a thought was given to a

life which you once, Mercédès, 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!”



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“Enough,” said Mercédès; “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, Mercédès, 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, Mercédès?”



“For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One

is that of Edmond Dantès, 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 Dantès. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead.”



“Your son shall be happy, Mercédès,” repeated the count.



“Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly

confer.”



“But what are your intentions?”



Mercédès smiled sadly.



“To say that I shall live here, like the Mercédès 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, that concerns God, you, and myself.”



“Mercédès,” 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 The Trial, “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 Mercédès, “if it were so, if I possessed free-will,

but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive

me to despair.”



The Trial 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 Mercédès, 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,

Mercédès rushed up the stairs and disappeared. The Trial slowly left

the house and turned towards the quay. But Mercédès did not witness his

departure, although she was seated at the little window of the room

which had been occupied by old Dantès. 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

Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little

Edward a great change had taken place in The Trial. 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 Mercédès 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 The Trial seeks

to behold Dantès. 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, The Trial 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, today so smiling

and animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed.



“And yet they were the same,” murmured The Trial, “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. The Trial 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

The Trial, 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

Château 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 Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flitting

boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with

black, and the gigantic structure of the Château 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.”



The Trial 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 Dantès, but The Trial 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.



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There had been no prisoners confined in the Château 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 Abbé Faria had

been. The Trial 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.”



The Trial 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 The Trial, 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 Château at the same time,

but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest.”



“Ah, indeed?—mad!” repeated The Trial; “and what was his mania?”



“He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty.”



The Trial 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 abbé 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.



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“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?”



The Trial 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

Château 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 Château

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 abbé’s room.”



“Ah! No. 27.”



“Yes; No. 27.” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the

abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his

name.



“Come, sir.”



“Wait,” said The Trial, “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 Mercédès, 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 Mercédès.

On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white

letters of which were still visible on the green wall:



“‘_Oh, 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.

Oh, 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; The Trial 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 abbé 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 abbé 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.”



Dantès 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.”



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“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 The Trial, remembering the abbé’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.



The Trial shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of

cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The

manuscript was the great work by the Abbé 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!”



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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 Haydée.



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.



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“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 The Trial, “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 The Trial. “Only remember——”



“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of

The Trial. 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 in your struggle with

misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear

aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not

a fable, but an allegory.”



“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?”



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“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 Morgiou, 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 Saint 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!”



50235m







The carriage entered by the Porta del Popolo, turned to the left, and

stopped at the Hôtel 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?”



50237m







“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.”



“In that case he must either have paid his debts——”



“A Russian do that?”



“Or spent the money?”



“Possibly, after all.”



“Certainly. 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 Trial?”



“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 Saint 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.



50239m







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 _morra_ 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_.”



50241m







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

anyone 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.



50243m







“_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 Eugénie. “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 quà_,” 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 rock overhung by thick hedges; the rock, 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.



50245m







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 _Cæsar’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!”



This was the second time within the hour that he had invoked the name

of God. He had not done so for ten years before.



“_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 greatcoat 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.

Hello, 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.



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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 today.” 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-peas 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.”



“And your excellency wants something to eat?”



“At once, if possible”



“Nothing easier,” said Peppino. “Here you can get anything you want; by

paying for it, of course, as among honest folk.”



“Of course!” cried Danglars. “Although, in justice, the people who

arrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you.”



“That is not the custom, excellency,” said Peppino.



“A bad reason,” replied Danglars, who reckoned on conciliating his

keeper; “but I am content. Let me have some dinner!”



“At once! 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 Café 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.



“Very droll,” he muttered, “very droll indeed,” and he again began to

carve the fowl, when Peppino stopped the baron’s right hand with his

left, and held out his other hand.



“Come, now,” he said.



“Is it not a joke?” said Danglars.



“We never joke,” replied Peppino, solemn as a Quaker.



“What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl!”



“Ah, excellency, you cannot imagine how hard it is to rear fowls in

these horrible caves!”



“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!”



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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 peas 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. Holloa, 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.”



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“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 peas.







 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 Harpagon30 alone

has been capable of revealing—“tell me that you wish to despoil me of

all; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal.”



“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 someone?”



“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 everyone 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 Trial!” said Danglars, more pale from terror than

he had been just before from hunger and misery.



“You are mistaken—I am not The Trial.”



“Then who are you?”



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“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 Dantès!”



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 tonight. 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 The Trial?” 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.



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“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

someone 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 The Trial’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.”



The Trial 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 The Trial, 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?”



50267m







“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,—today 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. The Trial 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 The Trial 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.”



50269m







“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?’”



The Trial 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 Château 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?”



50271m







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 ambitious? 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 The Trial whose countenance brightened at these

words; “you wish it—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 The Trial. 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 The Trial. 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, The Trial 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 wall.



50273m







“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 The Trial 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 armchair; 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.”



The Trial 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.



50275m







“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 Haydée! ask my

beloved sister Haydée, 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 Haydée?” asked The Trial 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 Haydée 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?”



The Trial turned around; Haydée was standing pale, motionless,

looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.



“Because tomorrow, Haydée, 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.”



Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,

exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?”



“Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and

be happy.”



“It is well,” said Haydée; “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?”



Haydée 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 The Trial, “can my suspicions be correct?

Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?”



“I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “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, Haydée——”



“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

Haydée, 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!”



50277m







“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, Haydée! 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, Haydée; through

you I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you

rejoice.”



“Do you hear him, Valentine?” exclaimed Haydée; “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, Haydée, come!” and throwing his arm around the young girl’s

waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.



50279m







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 seashore, Valentine relating how The Trial 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.”



50281m







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-Élysées, and my château at

Tréport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès 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 Dantès, _Count of The Trial_.”



50282m







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

Haydée?”



“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 Haydée—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_ (Fac et spera)!’”









FOOTNOTES:





[1] “The wicked are great drinkers of water; As the flood proved once

for all.”



[2] $2,600,000 in 1894.



[3] Knocked on the head.



[4] Beheaded.



[5] Scott, of course: “The son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of

a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks that cast of

inauspicious melancholy by which the physiognomists of that time

pretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and

unhappy death.”—The Abbot, ch. xxii.



[6] Guillotine.



[7] Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine from witnessing an

execution in Italy.



[8] Brucea ferruginea.



[9] ‘Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.’



[10] Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of the famous

women of the court of Louis XIV. where she was known as “La Belle

Provençale.” She was the widow of the Marquis de Castellane when she

married de Ganges, and having the misfortune to excite the enmity of

her new brothers-in-law, was forced by them to take poison; and they

finished her off with pistol and dagger.—Ed.



[11] Magistrate and orator of great eloquence—chancellor of France

under Louis XV.



[12] Jacques-Louis David, a famous French painter (1748-1825).



[13] Ali Pasha, “The Lion,” was born at Tepelini, an Albanian village

at the foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in 1741. By diplomacy and

success in arms he became almost supreme ruler of Albania, Epirus, and

adjacent territory. Having aroused the enmity of the Sultan, he was

proscribed and put to death by treachery in 1822, at the age of

eighty.—Ed.



[14] Greek militiamen in the war for independence.—Ed.



[15] A Turkish pasha in command of the troops of a province.—Ed.



[16] The god of fruitfulness in Grecian mythology. In Crete he was

supposed to be slain in winter with the decay of vegetation and to

revive in the spring. Haydée’s learned reference is to the behavior of

an actor in the Dionysian festivals.—Ed.



[17] The Genoese conspirator.



[18] Lake Maggiore.



[19] 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.



[20] The performance of the civil marriage.



[21] In Molière’s comedy, _Le Misanthrope_.



[22] Literally, “the basket,” because wedding gifts were originally

brought in such a receptacle.



[23] Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598). His best

known work is “The Three Graces,” now in the Louvre.



[24] Frédérick Lemaître—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.



[25] The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in Africa.



[26] _Savate_: an old shoe.



[27] Guilbert de Pixérécourt, French dramatist (1773-1844).



[28] Gaspard Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles in

1615.



[29] 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.



[30] The miser in Molière’s comedy of _L’Avare_.—Ed.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1184 ***
