The recent event formed the theme of conversation throughout all Paris.
Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in their
little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive, sudden,
and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and Villefort.
Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their conversation,
or rather was present at it, plunged in his accustomed state of apathy.
"Indeed," said Julie, "might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that
those people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their
prosperity that an evil genius--like the wicked fairies in Perrault's
stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism--hovered
over them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal
neglect?"
"What a dire misfortune!" said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and
Danglars.
"What dreadful sufferings!" said Julie, remembering Valentine, but whom,
with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her brother.
"If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow," said Emmanuel, "it
must be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in the past
lives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment."
"Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?" said Julie. "When my
father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing
suicide, had any one then said, 'This man deserves his misery,' would
not that person have been deceived?"
"Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned
to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him."
Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell
was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had
arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened and the Count of
Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a
cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again
immediately. "Maximilian," said the count, without appearing to notice
the different impressions which his presence produced on the little
circle, "I come to seek you."
"To seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.
"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "has it not been agreed that I should take you
with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for departure?"
"I am ready," said Maximilian; "I came expressly to wish them farewell."
"Whither are you going, count?" asked Julie.
"In the first instance to Marseilles, madame."
"To Marseilles!" exclaimed the young couple.
"Yes, and I take your brother with me."
"Oh, count." said Julie, "will you restore him to us cured of his
melancholy?"--Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his
countenance.
"You perceive, then, that he is not happy?" said the count. "Yes,"
replied the young woman; "and fear much that he finds our home but a
dull one."
"I will undertake to divert him," replied the count.
"I am ready to accompany you, sir," said Maximilian. "Adieu, my kind
friends! Emmanuel--Julie--farewell!"
"How farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do you leave us thus, so suddenly,
without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?"
"Needless delays but increase the grief of parting," said Monte
Cristo, "and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything
requisite; at least, I advised him to do so."
"I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed," said Morrel in his
tranquil but mournful manner.
"Good," said Monte Cristo, smiling; "in these prompt arrangements we
recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier."
"And you leave us," said Julie, "at a moment's warning? you do not give
us a day--no, not even an hour before your departure?"
"My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in five
days."
"But does Maximilian go to Rome?" exclaimed Emmanuel.
"I am going wherever it may please the count to take me," said Morrel,
with a smile full of grief; "I am under his orders for the next month."
"Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!" said Julie.
"Maximilian goes with me," said the count, in his kindest and most
persuasive manner; "therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your
brother's account."
"Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!" Morrel repeated.
"His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart," said Julie.
"Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something from
us."
"Pshaw!" said Monte Cristo, "you will see him return to you gay,
smiling, and joyful."
Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count.
"We must leave you," said Monte Cristo.
"Before you quit us, count," said Julie, "will you permit us to express
to you all that the other day"--
"Madame," interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, "all that
you could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; the
thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors
in romances, I should have left you without seeing you again, but that
would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak
and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my
fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so far as
to say, 'Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you will never
see me again.'"
"Never see you again?" exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled
down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you again? It is not a man, then, but
some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returning
to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good."
"Say not so," quickly returned Monte Cristo--"say not so, my friends;
angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate is
not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcome
fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited
as your words are sacrilegious." And pressing his lips on the hand of
Julie, who rushed into his arms, he extended his other hand to Emmanuel;
then tearing himself from this abode of peace and happiness, he made a
sign to Maximilian, who followed him passively, with the indifference
which had been perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had
so stunned him. "Restore my brother to peace and happiness," whispered
Julie to Monte Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he
had done eleven years before on the staircase leading to Morrel's study.
"You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?" asked he, smiling.
"Oh, yes," was the ready answer.
"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in heaven." As we have
before said, the postchaise was waiting; four powerful horses were
already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali, apparently just
arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot of the steps, his
face bathed in perspiration. "Well," asked the count in Arabic, "have
you been to see the old man?" Ali made a sign in the affirmative.
"And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?"
The slave respectfully signalized that he had. "And what did he say, or
rather do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so that his master might
see him distinctly, and then imitating in his intelligent manner the
countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes, as Noirtier was in the
custom of doing when saying "Yes."
"Good; he accepts," said Monte Cristo. "Now let us go."
These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way,
and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement.
Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half
an hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had
just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali's finger.
The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door. It was
a lovely starlight night--they had just reached the top of the hill
Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its
millions of phosphoric waves into light--waves indeed more noisy, more
passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those
of the tempestuous ocean,--waves which never rest as those of the sea
sometimes do,--waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what
falls within their grasp. The count stood alone, and at a sign from his
hand, the carriage went on for a short distance. With folded arms, he
gazed for some time upon the great city. When he had fixed his piercing
look on this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation
of the religious enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,--"Great
city," murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in
prayer, "less than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy
gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he
also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my presence
within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had the power
to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee without pride
or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows that the power
confided to me has never been made subservient to my personal good or to
any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating bosom that
I have found that which I sought; like a patient miner, I have dug
deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence. Now my work is
accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst neither afford me
pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!"
His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the
night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the door
was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the other
side of the hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust.
Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.
Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer.
"Morrel," said the count to him at length, "do you repent having
followed me?"
"No, count; but to leave Paris"--
"If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have
left you there."
"Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like
losing her a second time."
"Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost do not
repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and
it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them. I
have two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one who gave
me being, and the other who conferred knowledge and intelligence on me.
Their spirits live in me. I consult them when doubtful, and if I ever do
any good, it is due to their beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice
of your heart, Morrel, and ask it whether you ought to preserve this
melancholy exterior towards me."
"My friend," said Maximilian, "the voice of my heart is very sorrowful,
and promises me nothing but misfortune."
"It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black
cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and
consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising."
"That may possibly be true," said Maximilian, and he again subsided into
his thoughtful mood.
The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the
unlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them like
shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn
seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating
as rapidly when once reached. The following morning they arrived at
Chalons, where the count's steamboat waited for them. Without the loss
of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers
embarked without delay. The boat was built for speed; her two
paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like
a bird. Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is
generally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind
which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the point
of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.
As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost
superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been
taken for an exile about to revisit his native land. Ere long Marseilles
presented herself to view,--Marseilles, white, fervid, full of life
and energy,--Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre and Carthage, the
successor to them in the empire of the Mediterranean,--Marseilles, old,
yet always young. Powerful memories were stirred within them by the
sight of the round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed
by Puget, [*] the port with its brick quays, where they had both played
in childhood, and it was with one accord that they stopped on the
Cannebiere. A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the
bustle usually attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their
relations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful
leave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the
whole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who
witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb the
current of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilian
from the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay.
* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at
Marseilles in 1622.
"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,--"here is
the spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered the port; it
was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and dishonor,
threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and
his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting
wept also." Monte Cristo gently smiled and said,--"I was there;" at the
same time pointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in the
very direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was
heard, and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the
vessel about to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that
must have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the
vessel.
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do not deceive myself--that young
man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, is
Albert de Morcerf!"
"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized him."
"How so?--you were looking the other way." the count smiled, as he was
in the habit of doing when he did not want to make any reply, and he
again turned towards the veiled woman, who soon disappeared at the
corner of the street. Turning to his friend,--"Dear Maximilian," said
the count, "have you nothing to do in this land?"
"I have to weep over the grave of my father," replied Morrel in a broken
voice.
"Well, then, go,--wait for me there, and I will soon join you."
"You leave me, then?"
"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to
him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he
quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte
Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he
then walked slowly towards the Allees de Meillan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of this
story. It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees,
which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,
covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened
branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the
south. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to the
door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been painted or
varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to
close again when the rains came on. The house, with all its crumbling
antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was
the same that old Dantes formerly inhabited--the only difference being
that the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house was
now placed at the command of Mercedes by the count.
The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regret
entered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her when
Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found and
lost her again almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were old
acquaintances of his; he knew better than any one else how to open that
weather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served to raise
the latch within. He entered without knocking, or giving any other
intimation of his presence, as if he had been a friend or the master
of the place. At the end of a passage paved with bricks, was a little
garden, bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this garden
Mercedes had found, at the place indicated by the count, the sum of
money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as having
been placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the garden
were easily seen from the steps of the street-door. Monte Cristo, on
stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost a deep sob; he
looked in the direction whence it came, and there under an arbor of
Virginia jessamine, [*] with its thick foliage and beautiful long purple
flowers, he saw Mercedes seated, with her head bowed, and weeping
bitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by her hands
was giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had been so long
restrained by the presence of her son. Monte Cristo advanced a few
steps, which were heard on the gravel. Mercedes raised her head, and
uttered a cry of terror on beholding a man before her.
* The Carolina--not Virginia--jessamine, gelsemium
sempervirens (properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has
yellow blossoms. The reference is no doubt to the Wistaria
frutescens.--Ed.
"Madame," said the count, "it is no longer in my power to restore you to
happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it as
coming from a friend?"
"I am, indeed, most wretched," replied Mercedes. "Alone in the world, I
had but my son, and he has left me!"
"He possesses a noble heart, madame," replied the count, "and he has
acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country;
some contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote their
blood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he remained
with you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor would he have
participated in your griefs. He will increase in strength and honor by
struggling with adversity, which he will convert into prosperity.
Leave him to build up the future for you, and I venture to say you will
confide it to safe hands."
"Oh," replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head, "the
prosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart, I
pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup of
adversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that the
grave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing me
back to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to meet
death on the same spot where happiness was once all my own."
"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "your words sear and embitter my heart, the
more so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause of
all your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? You
render me still more unhappy"--
"Hate you, blame you--you, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that has
spared my son's life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary intention
to destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh, look at me
closely, and discover if you can even the semblance of a reproach in
me." The count looked up and fixed his eyes on Mercedes, who arose
partly from her seat and extended both her hands towards him. "Oh, look
at me," continued she, with a feeling of profound melancholy, "my eyes
no longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has long fled since I
used to smile on Edmond Dantes, who anxiously looked out for me from
the window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his old father. Years
of grief have created an abyss between those days and the present. I
neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no, Edmond, it is
myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable creature that I
am!" cried she, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven. "I
once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the three ingredients of the
happiness of angels, and now what am I?" Monte Cristo approached her,
and silently took her hand. "No," said she, withdrawing it gently--"no,
my friend, touch me not. You have spared me, yet of all those who have
fallen under your vengeance I was the most guilty. They were influenced
by hatred, by avarice, and by self-love; but I was base, and for want
of courage acted against my judgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond;
you are thinking, I am sure, of some kind speech to console me, but do
not utter it to me, reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness.
See" (and she exposed her face completely to view)--"see, misfortune
has silvered my hair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are
encircled by a rim of purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on
the contrary,--you are still young, handsome, dignified; it is because
you have had faith; because you have had strength, because you have had
trust in God, and God has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a
coward; I have denied God and he has abandoned me."
Mercedes burst into tears; her woman's heart was breaking under its load
of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a kiss on it; but
she herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater warmth than he would
have bestowed on the hand of some marble statue of a saint. "It often
happens," continued she, "that a first fault destroys the prospects of a
whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you? What good has
it done me to mourn for you eternally in the secret recesses of my
heart?--only to make a woman of thirty-nine look like a woman of fifty.
Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to do so--why was I able
to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have rescued the man that I
had accepted for a husband, guilty though he were? Yet I let him die!
What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not accessory to his death by
my supine insensibility, by my contempt for him, not remembering, or not
willing to remember, that it was for my sake he had become a traitor and
a perjurer? In what am I benefited by accompanying my son so far, since
I now abandon him, and allow him to depart alone to the baneful climate
of Africa? Oh, I have been base, cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured
my affections, and like all renegades I am of evil omen to those who
surround me!"
"No, Mercedes," said Monte Cristo, "no; you judge yourself with too
much severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your grief
that disarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an invisible and
offended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal blow that I was
destined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at whose feet I have
prostrated myself daily for the last ten years, that I would have
sacrificed my life to you, and with my life the projects that were
indissolubly linked with it. But--and I say it with some pride,
Mercedes--God needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present,
and endeavor to dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not a
divine instrument. The most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful
sufferings, the abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecution
of those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth; when
suddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was restored to light
and liberty, and became the possessor of a fortune so brilliant,
so unbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to be
conscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his own great
designs. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something confided
to me for an especial purpose. Not a thought was given to a life which
you once, Mercedes, had the power to render blissful; not one hour
of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an
exterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on some
enterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my weapons,
I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my body to the
most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I taught my
arm to slay, my eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and my mouth
to smile at the most horrid spectacles. Good-natured, confiding, and
forgiving as I had been, I became revengeful, cunning, and wicked, or
rather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the path that was
opened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and reached the goal; but woe
to those who stood in my pathway!"
"Enough," said Mercedes; "enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she who alone
recognized you has been the only one to comprehend you; and had she
crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass, still, Edmond,
still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me and the past,
there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of mankind; and I
tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you and other men
will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is nothing in the
world to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must say farewell,
Edmond, and let us part."
"Before I leave you, Mercedes, have you no request to make?" said the
count.
"I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond,--the happiness of my
son."
"Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself to
promote his happiness."
"Thank you, Edmond."
"But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercedes?"
"For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One
is that of Edmond Dantes, lost to me long, long since. He had my love!
That word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to my
heart, and one that I would not lose for all that the world contains.
The other grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand of
Edmond Dantes. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead."
"Your son shall be happy, Mercedes," repeated the count.
"Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly
confer."
"But what are your intentions?"
"To say that I shall live here, like the Mercedes of other times,
gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you believe me.
I have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend my days in
prayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the little sum of
money buried by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned, will
be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy respecting me,
my occupations, my manner of living--that will signify but little."
"Mercedes," said the count, "I do not say it to blame you, but you
made an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the fortune
amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right belonged to you,
in virtue of your vigilance and economy."
"I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot accept
it, Edmond--my son would not permit it."
"Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de
Morcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and will
submit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you
oppose them?"
"You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I
have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so
overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I
am become passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the
talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die. If
succor be sent to me, I will accept it."
"Ah, madame," said Monte Cristo, "you should not talk thus! It is not so
we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the contrary,
we are all free agents."
"Alas!" exclaimed Mercedes, "if it were so, if I possessed free-will,
but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive me
to despair." Monte Cristo dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence
of her grief. "Will you not even say you will see me again?" he asked.
"On the contrary, we shall meet again," said Mercedes, pointing to
heaven with solemnity. "I tell you so to prove to you that I still
hope." And after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of the count,
Mercedes rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left
the house and turned towards the quay. But Mercedes did not witness
his departure, although she was seated at the little window of the room
which had been occupied by old Dantes. Her eyes were straining to see
the ship which was carrying her son over the vast sea; but still her
voice involuntarily murmured softly, "Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!"
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