During the daytime Valentine's perceptions remained tolerably clear,
owing to the constant presence of M. Noirtier, who caused himself to be
carried to his granddaughter's room, and watched her with his paternal
tenderness; Villefort also, on his return from the law courts,
frequently passed an hour or two with his father and child. At six
o'clock Villefort retired to his study, at eight M. d'Avrigny himself
arrived, bringing the night draught prepared for the young girl, and
then M. Noirtier was carried away. A nurse of the doctor's choice
succeeded them, and never left till about ten or eleven o'clock, when
Valentine was asleep. As she went down-stairs she gave the keys of
Valentine's room to M. de Villefort, so that no one could reach the
sick-room excepting through that of Madame de Villefort and little
Edward.

Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of Valentine,
and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found him less uneasy.
Certainly, though Valentine still labored under dreadful nervous
excitement, she was better; and moreover, Monte Cristo had told him
when, half distracted, he had rushed to the count's house, that if
she were not dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four days had
elapsed, and Valentine still lived.

The nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine even in her
sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence which succeeded her waking
hours; it was then, in the silence of night, in the dim light shed from
the alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass
and repass which hover over the bed of sickness, and fan the fever
with their trembling wings. First she fancied she saw her stepmother
threatening her, then Morrel stretched his arms towards her; sometimes
mere strangers, like the Count of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even
the very furniture, in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and
this state lasted till about three o'clock in the morning, when a deep,
heavy slumber overcame the young girl, from which she did not awake till
daylight. On the evening of the day on which Valentine had learned of
the flight of Eugenie and the arrest of Benedetto,--Villefort having
retired as well as Noirtier and d'Avrigny,--her thoughts wandered in a
confused maze, alternately reviewing her own situation and the events
she had just heard.

Eleven o'clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the beverage
prepared by the doctor within reach of the patient, and locked the
door, was listening with terror to the comments of the servants in the
kitchen, and storing her memory with all the horrible stories which had
for some months past amused the occupants of the ante-chambers in the
house of the king's attorney. Meanwhile an unexpected scene was passing
in the room which had been so carefully locked. Ten minutes had elapsed
since the nurse had left; Valentine, who for the last hour had
been suffering from the fever which returned nightly, incapable of
controlling her ideas, was forced to yield to the excitement which
exhausted itself in producing and reproducing a succession and
recurrence of the same fancies and images. The night-lamp threw out
countless rays, each resolving itself into some strange form to her
disordered imagination, when suddenly by its flickering light Valentine
thought she saw the door of her library, which was in the recess by the
chimney-piece, open slowly, though she in vain listened for the sound of
the hinges on which it turned.

At any other time Valentine would have seized the silken bell-pull
and summoned assistance, but nothing astonished her in her present
situation. Her reason told her that all the visions she beheld were but
the children of her imagination, and the conviction was strengthened
by the fact that in the morning no traces remained of the nocturnal
phantoms, who disappeared with the coming of daylight. From behind the
door a human figure appeared, but the girl was too familiar with
such apparitions to be alarmed, and therefore only stared, hoping to
recognize Morrel. The figure advanced towards the bed and appeared to
listen with profound attention. At this moment a ray of light glanced
across the face of the midnight visitor.

"It is not he," she murmured, and waited, in the assurance that this was
but a dream, for the man to disappear or assume some other form. Still,
she felt her pulse, and finding it throb violently she remembered that
the best method of dispelling such illusions was to drink, for a draught
of the beverage prepared by the doctor to allay her fever seemed to
cause a reaction of the brain, and for a short time she suffered less.
Valentine therefore reached her hand towards the glass, but as soon
as her trembling arm left the bed the apparition advanced more quickly
towards her, and approached the young girl so closely that she fancied
she heard his breath, and felt the pressure of his hand.

This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed anything
Valentine had before experienced; she began to believe herself really
alive and awake, and the belief that her reason was this time not
deceived made her shudder. The pressure she felt was evidently intended
to arrest her arm, and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from
whom she could not detach her eyes, and who appeared more protecting
than menacing, took the glass, and walking towards the night-light held
it up, as if to test its transparency. This did not seem sufficient;
the man, or rather the ghost--for he trod so softly that no sound was
heard--then poured out about a spoonful into the glass, and drank it.
Valentine witnessed this scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every
minute she had expected that it would vanish and give place to another
vision; but the man, instead of dissolving like a shadow, again
approached her, and said in an agitated voice, "Now you may drink."

Valentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these visions had
ever addressed her in a living voice, and she was about to utter an
exclamation. The man placed his finger on her lips. "The Count of Monte
Cristo!" she murmured.

It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young girl's mind
as to the reality of the scene; her eyes started with terror, her hands
trembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes closer to her. Still, the
presence of Monte Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and
extraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might well seem
impossibilities to her shattered reason. "Do not call any one--do not be
alarmed," said the Count; "do not let a shade of suspicion or uneasiness
remain in your breast; the man standing before you, Valentine (for this
time it is no ghost), is nothing more than the tenderest father and the
most respectful friend you could dream of."

Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the real presence
of a being in the room, alarmed her so much that she feared to utter a
syllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed to inquire, "If your
intentions are pure, why are you here?" The count's marvellous sagacity
understood all that was passing in the young girl's mind.

"Listen to me," he said, "or, rather, look upon me; look at my face,
paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness--for four days
I have not closed them, for I have been constantly watching you, to
protect and preserve you for Maximilian." The blood mounted rapidly
to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just announced by the count
dispelled all the fear with which his presence had inspired her.
"Maximilian!" she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound appear to her,
that she repeated it--"Maximilian!--has he then owned all to you?"

"Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have promised him that
you shall live."

"You have promised him that I shall live?"

"Yes."

"But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe me."

"But you say you have watched?" said Valentine uneasily; "where have
you been?--I have not seen you." The count extended his hand towards the
library. "I was hidden behind that door," he said, "which leads into the
next house, which I have rented." Valentine turned her eyes away, and,
with an indignant expression of pride and modest fear, exclaimed: "Sir,
I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled intrusion, and that what
you call protection is more like an insult."

"Valentine," he answered, "during my long watch over you, all I
have observed has been what people visited you, what nourishment was
prepared, and what beverage was served; then, when the latter appeared
dangerous to me, I entered, as I have now done, and substituted, in the
place of the poison, a healthful draught; which, instead of producing
the death intended, caused life to circulate in your veins."

"Poison--death!" exclaimed Valentine, half believing herself under the
influence of some feverish hallucination; "what are you saying, sir?"

"Hush, my child," said Monte Cristo, again placing his finger upon her
lips, "I did say poison and death. But drink some of this;" and the
count took a bottle from his pocket, containing a red liquid, of which
he poured a few drops into the glass. "Drink this, and then take nothing
more to-night." Valentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely had she
touched the glass when she drew back in fear. Monte Cristo took the
glass, drank half its contents, and then presented it to Valentine, who
smiled and swallowed the rest. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "I recognize
the flavor of my nocturnal beverage which refreshed me so much, and
seemed to ease my aching brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!"

"This is how you have lived during the last four nights, Valentine,"
said the count. "But, oh, how I passed that time! Oh, the wretched hours
I have endured--the torture to which I have submitted when I saw the
deadly poison poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest you should
drink it before I could find time to throw it away!"

"Sir," said Valentine, at the height of her terror, "you say you endured
tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my glass; but if you
saw this, you must also have seen the person who poured it?"

"Yes." Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which
appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still moist with the
cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those of terror. "You saw
the person?" repeated the young girl. "Yes," repeated the count.

"What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe
something too dreadful. What?--attempt to murder me in my father's
house, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you
are tempting me--you make me doubt the goodness of providence--it is
impossible, it cannot be!"

"Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not seen M.
de Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, all fall? would not M.
Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had not the treatment he has
been pursuing for the last three years neutralized the effects of the
poison?"

"Oh, heaven," said Valentine; "is this the reason why grandpapa has made
me share all his beverages during the last month?"

"And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like that of
dried orange-peel?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Then that explains all," said Monte Cristo. "Your grandfather knows,
then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects the person.
He has been fortifying you, his beloved child, against the fatal
effects of the poison, which has failed because your system was already
impregnated with it. But even this would have availed little against a
more deadly medium of death employed four days ago, which is generally
but too fatal."

"But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?"

"Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen any one enter your
room at night?"

"Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me, approach,
and disappear; but I took them for visions raised by my feverish
imagination, and indeed when you entered I thought I was under the
influence of delirium."

"Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life?"

"No," said Valentine; "who could desire my death?"

"You shall know it now, then," said Monte Cristo, listening.

"How do you mean?" said Valentine, looking anxiously around.

"Because you are not feverish or delirious to-night, but thoroughly
awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers choose."

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops which ran down
her forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every hour seemed to
strike with leaden weight upon the heart of the poor girl. "Valentine,"
said the count, "summon up all your courage; still the beatings of your
heart; do not let a sound escape you, and feign to be asleep; then you
will see." Valentine seized the count's hand. "I think I hear a noise,"
she said; "leave me."

"Good-by, for the present," replied the count, walking upon tiptoe
towards the library door, and smiling with an expression so sad and
paternal that the young girl's heart was filled with gratitude.
Before closing the door he turned around once more, and said, "Not a
movement--not a word; let them think you asleep, or perhaps you may be
killed before I have the power of helping you." And with this fearful
injunction the count disappeared through the door, which noiselessly
closed after him.

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.

Some one approached the bed and drew back the curtains. Valentine
summoned every effort, and breathed with that regular respiration which
announces tranquil sleep. "Valentine!" said a low voice. Still silent:
Valentine had promised not to awake. Then everything was still,
excepting that Valentine heard the almost noiseless sound of some liquid
being poured into the glass she had just emptied. Then she ventured to
open her eyelids, and glance over her extended arm. She saw a woman in a
white dressing-gown pouring a liquor from a phial into her glass. During
this short time Valentine must have held her breath, or moved in some
slight degree, for the woman, disturbed, stopped and leaned over the
bed, in order the better to ascertain whether Valentine slept--it was
Madame de Villefort.

On recognizing her step-mother, Valentine could not repress a shudder,
which caused a vibration in the bed. Madame de Villefort instantly
stepped back close to the wall, and there, shaded by the bed-curtains,
she silently and attentively watched the slightest movement of
Valentine. The latter recollected the terrible caution of Monte Cristo;
she fancied that the hand not holding the phial clasped a long sharp
knife. Then collecting all her remaining strength, she forced herself to
close her eyes; but this simple operation upon the most delicate organs
of our frame, generally so easy to accomplish, became almost impossible
at this moment, so much did curiosity struggle to retain the eyelid
open and learn the truth. Madame de Villefort, however, reassured by
the silence, which was alone disturbed by the regular breathing of
Valentine, again extended her hand, and half hidden by the curtains
succeeded in emptying the contents of the phial into the glass. Then she
retired so gently that Valentine did not know she had left the room. She
only witnessed the withdrawal of the arm--the fair round arm of a woman
but twenty-five years old, and who yet spread death around her.

It is impossible to describe the sensations experienced by Valentine
during the minute and a half Madame de Villefort remained in the room.
The grating against the library-door aroused the young girl from
the stupor in which she was plunged, and which almost amounted to
insensibility. She raised her head with an effort. The noiseless door
again turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo reappeared.
"Well," said he, "do you still doubt?"

"Oh," murmured the young girl.

"Have you seen?"

"Alas!"

"Did you recognize?" Valentine groaned. "Oh, yes;" she said, "I saw, but
I cannot believe!"

"Would you rather die, then, and cause Maximilian's death?"

"Oh," repeated the young girl, almost bewildered, "can I not leave the
house?--can I not escape?"

"Valentine, the hand which now threatens you will pursue you everywhere;
your servants will be seduced with gold, and death will be offered to
you disguised in every shape. You will find it in the water you drink
from the spring, in the fruit you pluck from the tree."

"But did you not say that my kind grandfather's precaution had
neutralized the poison?"

"Yes, but not against a strong dose; the poison will be changed, and the
quantity increased." He took the glass and raised it to his lips. "It
is already done," he said; "brucine is no longer employed, but a simple
narcotic! I can recognize the flavor of the alcohol in which it has been
dissolved. If you had taken what Madame de Villefort has poured into
your glass, Valentine--Valentine--you would have been doomed!"

"But," exclaimed the young girl, "why am I thus pursued?"

"Why?--are you so kind--so good--so unsuspicious of ill, that you cannot
understand, Valentine?"

"No, I have never injured her."

"But you are rich, Valentine; you have 200,000 livres a year, and you
prevent her son from enjoying these 200,000. livres."

"How so? The fortune is not her gift, but is inherited from my
relations."

"Certainly; and that is why M. and Madame de Saint-Meran have died; that
is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he made you his heir; that
is why you, in your turn, are to die--it is because your father would
inherit your property, and your brother, his only son, succeed to his."

"Edward? Poor child! Are all these crimes committed on his account?"

"Ah, then you at length understand?"

"Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him!"

"Valentine, you are an angel!"

"But why is my grandfather allowed to live?"

"It was considered, that you dead, the fortune would naturally revert
to your brother, unless he were disinherited; and besides, the crime
appearing useless, it would be folly to commit it."

"And is it possible that this frightful combination of crimes has been
invented by a woman?"

"Do you recollect in the arbor of the Hotel des Postes, at Perugia,
seeing a man in a brown cloak, whom your stepmother was questioning
upon aqua tofana? Well, ever since then, the infernal project has been
ripening in her brain."

"Ah, then, indeed, sir," said the sweet girl, bathed in tears, "I see
that I am condemned to die!"

"No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all their plots; no, your enemy is
conquered since we know her, and you will live, Valentine--live to
be happy yourself, and to confer happiness upon a noble heart; but to
insure this you must rely on me."

"Command me, sir--what am I to do?"

"You must blindly take what I give you."

"Alas, were it only for my own sake, I should prefer to die!"

"You must not confide in any one--not even in your father."

"My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?" asked
Valentine, clasping her hands.

"No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicial accusations,
ought to have known that all these deaths have not happened naturally;
it is he who should have watched over you--he should have occupied my
place--he should have emptied that glass--he should have risen against
the assassin. Spectre against spectre!" he murmured in a low voice, as
he concluded his sentence.

"Sir," said Valentine, "I will do all I can to live, for there are
two beings whose existence depends upon mine--my grandfather and
Maximilian."

"I will watch over them as I have over you."

"Well, sir, do as you will with me;" and then she added, in a low voice,
"oh, heavens, what will befall me?"

"Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not be alarmed; though you suffer;
though you lose sight, hearing, consciousness, fear nothing; though
you should awake and be ignorant where you are, still do not fear;
even though you should find yourself in a sepulchral vault or coffin.
Reassure yourself, then, and say to yourself: 'At this moment, a friend,
a father, who lives for my happiness and that of Maximilian, watches
over me!'"

"Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!"

"Valentine, would you rather denounce your stepmother?"

"I would rather die a hundred times--oh, yes, die!"

"No, you will not die; but will you promise me, whatever happens, that
you will not complain, but hope?"

"I will think of Maximilian!"

"You are my own darling child, Valentine! I alone can save you, and I
will." Valentine in the extremity of her terror joined her hands,--for
she felt that the moment had arrived to ask for courage,--and began to
pray, and while uttering little more than incoherent words, she forgot
that her white shoulders had no other covering than her long hair, and
that the pulsations of her heart could be seen through the lace of her
nightdress. Monte Cristo gently laid his hand on the young girl's arm,
drew the velvet coverlet close to her throat, and said with a paternal
smile,--"My child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the
goodness of providence and the love of Maximilian."

Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the little emerald box, raised
the golden lid, and took from it a pastille about the size of a pea,
which he placed in her hand. She took it, and looked attentively on the
count; there was an expression on the face of her intrepid protector
which commanded her veneration. She evidently interrogated him by her
look. "Yes," said he. Valentine carried the pastille to her mouth, and
swallowed it. "And now, my dear child, adieu for the present. I will try
and gain a little sleep, for you are saved."

"Go," said Valentine, "whatever happens, I promise you not to fear."

Monte Cristo for some time kept his eyes fixed on the young girl, who
gradually fell asleep, yielding to the effects of the narcotic the
count had given her. Then he took the glass, emptied three parts of the
contents in the fireplace, that it might be supposed Valentine had taken
it, and replaced it on the table; then he disappeared, after throwing
a farewell glance on Valentine, who slept with the confidence and
innocence of an angel.

If any one could have looked into the room just then he would have
noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the bed
and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound silence,
and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more by her own
conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the poisoner
was terrified at the contemplation of her own work. At length she
rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over the pillow gazed
intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed, no breath
issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no longer
quivered--the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the long black
lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort gazed upon
the face so expressive even in its stillness; then she ventured to raise
the coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl's heart. It was
cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her own fingers, and
withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging out of the bed;
from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of Germain
Pillon's "Graces," [*] but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly distorted
by convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was resting with
stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed. The nails, too,
were turning blue.

* Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598).
His best known work is "The Three Graces," now in the
Louvre.

Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over--she had
consummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was no
more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though
fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she
still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction
always exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely
mysterious and does not excite disgust. Just then the lamp again
flickered; the noise startled Madame de Villefort, who shuddered and
dropped the curtain. Immediately afterwards the light expired, and the
room was plunged in frightful obscurity, while the clock at that
minute struck half-past four. Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner
succeeded in groping her way to the door, and reached her room in an
agony of fear.

The darkness lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept
through the Venetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in
the room. About this time the nurse's cough was heard on the stairs and
the woman entered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye
of a father or a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal
Valentine's condition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to
sleep. "Good," she exclaimed, approaching the table, "she has taken part
of her draught; the glass is three-quarters empty."

Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she
had just left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered by
Valentine's sleep, so she threw herself into an arm-chair to snatch a
little more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the
prolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm was
still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and for
the first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the arm, but
it moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a sick-nurse.
She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed,--"Help, help!"

"What is the matter?" asked M. d'Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it
being the hour he usually visited her.

"What is it?" asked Villefort, rushing from his room. "Doctor, do you
hear them call for help?"

"Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine's room." But before the
doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants who were on the
same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale and motionless on her
bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven and stood transfixed, as
though struck by lightening. "Call Madame de Villefort!--wake Madame
de Villefort!" cried the procureur from the door of his chamber, which
apparently he scarcely dared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the
servants stood watching M. d'Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised
her in his arms. "What?--this one, too?" he exclaimed. "Oh, where will
be the end?" Villefort rushed into the room. "What are you saying,
doctor?" he exclaimed, raising his hands to heaven.

"I say that Valentine is dead!" replied d'Avrigny, in a voice terrible
in its solemn calm.

M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the
exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants all
fled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the stairs
and through the long passages, then there was a rush in the court,
afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the accursed
house. Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on
her dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood
motionless, as though interrogating the occupants of the room, while she
endeavored to call up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she stepped,
or rather bounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table. She saw
d'Avrigny curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain of
having emptied during the night. It was now a third full, just as it
was when she threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of Valentine
rising before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It was, indeed,
the same color as the draught she had poured into the glass, and which
Valentine had drank; it was indeed the poison, which could not deceive
M. d'Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it was doubtless a
miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her precautions, there should
be some trace, some proof remaining to reveal the crime. While Madame
de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue of terror, and
Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw nothing around
him, d'Avrigny approached the window, that he might the better examine
the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of his finger in, tasted
it. "Ah," he exclaimed, "it is no longer brucine that is used; let me
see what it is!"

Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine's room, which had been
transformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case a
small bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor,
which immediately changed to a blood-red color. "Ah," exclaimed
d'Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judge unveiling the truth
was mingled with the delight of a student making a discovery. Madame
de Villefort was overpowered, her eyes first flashed and then swam,
she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directly afterwards the
distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground was heard, but
no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged in watching
the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in grief. M.
d'Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his eyes, and
watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over the entrance
to Edward's room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de Villefort's
apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor. "Go to the
assistance of Madame de Villefort," he said to the nurse. "Madame de
Villefort is ill."

"But Mademoiselle de Villefort"--stammered the nurse.

"Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help," said d'Avrigny,
"since she is dead."

"Dead,--dead!" groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which
was the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron
heart of that man.

"Dead!" repeated a third voice. "Who said Valentine was dead?"

The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale and
terror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrel
had presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier's room.
Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring he
entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant to
conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants having,
as we know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason for
uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should live,
and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the count had
given him news, which was the next morning confirmed by Noirtier. Still
this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and he called a
second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined to go up.
Noirtier's room was opened, like all the rest. The first thing he saw
was the old man sitting in his arm-chair in his usual place, but his
eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor which overspread
his features.

"How are you, sir?" asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.

"Well," answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearance
manifested increasing uneasiness.

"You are thoughtful, sir," continued Morrel; "you want something; shall
I call one of the servants?"

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no one
answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressed
on his countenance momentarily increased.

"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, "why do they not come? Is any one ill in the
house?" The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start from
their sockets. "What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine? Valentine?"

"Yes, yes," signed Noirtier. Maximilian tried to speak, but he could
articulate nothing; he staggered, and supported himself against the
wainscot. Then he pointed to the door.

"Yes, yes, yes!" continued the old man. Maximilian rushed up the little
staircase, while Noirtier's eyes seemed to say,--"Quicker, quicker!"

In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at length
he reached Valentine's. There was no occasion to push the door, it was
wide open. A sob was the only sound he heard. He saw as though in a
mist, a black figure kneeling and buried in a confused mass of white
drapery. A terrible fear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice
exclaim "Valentine is dead!" and another voice which, like an echo
repeated,--"Dead,--dead!"

But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an
extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with superhuman
strength, the arm-chair containing Noirtier up-stairs. When he reached
the landing he placed the arm-chair on the floor and rapidly rolled it
into Valentine's room. This could only have been accomplished by means
of unnatural strength supplied by powerful excitement. But the most
fearful spectacle was Noirtier being pushed towards the bed, his face
expressing all his meaning, and his eyes supplying the want of every
other faculty. That pale face and flaming glance appeared to Villefort
like a frightful apparition. Each time he had been brought into contact
with his father, something terrible had happened. "See what they have
done!" cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the back of the chair, and
the other extended towards Valentine. "See, my father, see!"

Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who,
almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At this moment
the whole soul of the old man seemed centred in his eyes which became
bloodshot; the veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples
became purple, as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was
wanting to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry issued
from his pores, if we may thus speak--a cry frightful in its silence.
D'Avrigny rushed towards the old man and made him inhale a powerful
restorative.

"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic, "they ask
me who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you know it, tell
them, tell them!" And the young man's voice was choked by sobs. As for
the old man, his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One could
have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding death. At
length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping, tears
glistened in the eyes of Noirtier. "Tell them," said Morrel in a hoarse
voice, "tell them that I am her betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved,
my noble girl, my only blessing in the world. Tell them--oh, tell them,
that corpse belongs to me!"

The young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell heavily
on his knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with convulsive
energy. D'Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this touching emotion,
turned away; and Villefort, without seeking any further explanation,
and attracted towards him by the irresistible magnetism which draws us
towards those who have loved the people for whom we mourn, extended his
hand towards the young man. But Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the
hand of Valentine, and unable to weep vented his agony in groans as
he bit the sheets. For some time nothing was heard in that chamber but
sobs, exclamations, and prayers. At length Villefort, the most composed
of all, spoke: "Sir," said he to Maximilian, "you say you loved
Valentine, that you were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this
engagement, of this love, yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that
your grief is real and deep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for
anger to find a place in my heart. But you see that the angel whom
you hoped for has left this earth--she has nothing more to do with the
adoration of men. Take a last farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take
the hand you expected to possess once more within your own, and then
separate yourself from her forever. Valentine now requires only the
ministrations of the priest."

"You are mistaken, sir," exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on one knee,
his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had yet felt--"you
are mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only requires a priest,
but an avenger. You, M. de Villefort, send for the priest; I will be the
avenger."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Villefort, trembling at the new idea
inspired by the delirium of Morrel.

"I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned
sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office."

The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d'Avrigny approached.

"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all that passed through the minds of
the witnesses to the scene, "I know what I am saying, and you know as
well as I do what I am about to say--Valentine has been assassinated!"
Villefort hung his head, d'Avrigny approached nearer, and Noirtier said
"Yes" with his eyes. "Now, sir," continued Morrel, "in these days no one
can disappear by violent means without some inquiries being made as to
the cause of her disappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful,
and adorable creature like Valentine. Mr. Procureur," said Morrel with
increasing vehemence, "no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it
is your place to seek the assassin." The young man's implacable eyes
interrogated Villefort, who, on his side, glanced from Noirtier to
d'Avrigny. But instead of finding sympathy in the eyes of the doctor
and his father, he only saw an expression as inflexible as that of
Maximilian. "Yes," indicated the old man.

"Assuredly," said d'Avrigny.

"Sir," said Villefort, striving to struggle against this triple force
and his own emotion,--"sir, you are deceived; no one commits crimes
here. I am stricken by fate. It is horrible, indeed, but no one
assassinates."

The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with rage, and d'Avrigny prepared to
speak. Morrel, however, extended his arm, and commanded silence. "And I
say that murders are committed here," said Morrel, whose voice, though
lower in tone, lost none of its terrible distinctness: "I tell you
that this is the fourth victim within the last four months. I tell
you, Valentine's life was attempted by poison four days ago, though she
escaped, owing to the precautions of M. Noirtier. I tell you that the
dose has been double, the poison changed, and that this time it has
succeeded. I tell you that you know these things as well as I do, since
this gentleman has forewarned you, both as a doctor and as a friend."

"Oh, you rave, sir," exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape
the net in which he was taken.

"I rave?" said Morrel; "well, then, I appeal to M. d'Avrigny himself.
Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the garden of
this house on the night of Madame de Saint-Meran's death. You thought
yourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death, and the
fatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder
of Valentine." Villefort and d'Avrigny exchanged looks. "Yes, yes,"
continued Morrel; "recall the scene, for the words you thought were
only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears. Certainly, after
witnessing the culpable indolence manifested by M. de Villefort towards
his own relations, I ought to have denounced him to the authorities;
then I should not have been an accomplice to thy death, as I now am,
sweet, beloved Valentine; but the accomplice shall become the avenger.
This fourth murder is apparent to all, and if thy father abandon thee,
Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, that shall pursue the assassin."
And this time, as though nature had at least taken compassion on the
vigorous frame, nearly bursting with its own strength, the words of
Morrel were stifled in his throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so long
rebellious, gushed from his eyes; and he threw himself weeping on his
knees by the side of the bed.

Then d'Avrigny spoke. "And I, too," he exclaimed in a low voice, "I
unite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for crime; my blood boils at
the idea of having encouraged a murderer by my cowardly concession."

"Oh, merciful heavens!" murmured Villefort. Morrel raised his head,
and reading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed with unnatural
lustre,--"Stay," he said, "M. Noirtier wishes to speak."

"Yes," indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more terrible, from
all his faculties being centred in his glance.

"Do you know the assassin?" asked Morrel.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"And will you direct us?" exclaimed the young man. "Listen, M.
d'Avrigny, listen!" Noirtier looked upon Morrel with one of those
melancholy smiles which had so often made Valentine happy, and thus
fixed his attention. Then, having riveted the eyes of his interlocutor
on his own, he glanced towards the door.

"Do you wish me to leave?" said Morrel, sadly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier.

"Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!"

The old man's eyes remained fixed on the door.

"May I, at least, return?" asked Morrel.

"Yes."

"Must I leave alone?"

"No."

"Whom am I to take with me? The procureur?"

"No."

"The doctor?"

"Yes."

"You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort?"

"Yes."

"But can he understand you?"

"Yes."

"Oh," said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the
inquiries were to be made by him alone,--"oh, be satisfied, I can
understand my father." D'Avrigny took the young man's arm, and led
him out of the room. A more than deathlike silence then reigned in
the house. At the end of a quarter of an hour a faltering footstep
was heard, and Villefort appeared at the door of the apartment where
d'Avrigny and Morrel had been staying, one absorbed in meditation, the
other in grief. "You can come," he said, and led them back to Noirtier.
Morrel looked attentively on Villefort. His face was livid, large drops
rolled down his face, and in his fingers he held the fragments of a
quill pen which he had torn to atoms.

"Gentlemen," he said in a hoarse voice, "give me your word of honor that
this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst ourselves!" The
two men drew back.

"I entreat you."--continued Villefort.

"But," said Morrel, "the culprit--the murderer--the assassin."

"Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done," said Villefort. "My
father has revealed the culprit's name; my father thirsts for revenge as
much as you do, yet even he conjures you as I do to keep this secret. Do
you not, father?"

"Yes," resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an exclamation of
horror and surprise to escape him. "Oh, sir," said Villefort, arresting
Maximilian by the arm, "if my father, the inflexible man, makes this
request, it is because he knows, be assured, that Valentine will be
terribly revenged. Is it not so, father?" The old man made a sign in the
affirmative. Villefort continued: "He knows me, and I have pledged my
word to him. Rest assured, gentlemen, that within three days, in a less
time than justice would demand, the revenge I shall have taken for the
murder of my child will be such as to make the boldest heart tremble;"
and as he spoke these words he ground his teeth, and grasped the old
man's senseless hand.

"Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?" asked Morrel, while
d'Avrigny looked inquiringly.

"Yes," replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.

"Swear, then," said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel and
d'Avrigny, "swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and leave
me to avenge my child." D'Avrigny turned round and uttered a very feeble
"Yes," but Morrel, disengaging his hand, rushed to the bed, and after
having pressed the cold lips of Valentine with his own, hurriedly left,
uttering a long, deep groan of despair and anguish. We have before
stated that all the servants had fled. M. de Villefort was therefore
obliged to request M. d'Avrigny to superintend all the arrangements
consequent upon a death in a large city, more especially a death under
such suspicious circumstances.

It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute despair
of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks. Villefort
retired to his study, and d'Avrigny left to summon the doctor of the
mayoralty, whose office it is to examine bodies after decease, and who
is expressly named "the doctor of the dead." M. Noirtier could not be
persuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end of a quarter of an hour M.
d'Avrigny returned with his associate; they found the outer gate closed,
and not a servant remaining in the house; Villefort himself was obliged
to open to them. But he stopped on the landing; he had not the courage
to again visit the death chamber. The two doctors, therefore, entered
the room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless, and silent
as the corpse. The district doctor approached with the indifference of
a man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the dead; he then lifted
the sheet which was placed over the face, and just unclosed the lips.

"Alas," said d'Avrigny, "she is indeed dead, poor child!"

"Yes," answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet he had
raised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling sound; the old man's
eyes sparkled, and the good doctor understood that he wished to behold
his child. He therefore approached the bed, and while his companion was
dipping the fingers with which he had touched the lips of the corpse in
chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face, which looked like
that of a sleeping angel. A tear, which appeared in the old man's eye,
expressed his thanks to the doctor. The doctor of the dead then laid his
permit on the corner of the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was
conducted out by d'Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his
study; having in a few words thanked the district doctor, he turned to
d'Avrigny, and said,--"And now the priest."

"Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with Valentine?" asked
d'Avrigny.

"No." said Villefort; "fetch the nearest."

"The nearest," said the district doctor, "is a good Italian abbe, who
lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I pass?"

"D'Avrigny," said Villefort, "be so kind, I beseech you, as to accompany
this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so that you can go in and
out as you please; you will bring the priest with you, and will oblige
me by introducing him into my child's room."

"Do you wish to see him?"

"I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will you not? A priest
can understand a father's grief." And M. de Villefort, giving the key to
d'Avrigny, again bade farewell to the strange doctor, and retired to his
study, where he began to work. For some temperaments work is a remedy
for all afflictions. As the doctors entered the street, they saw a man
in a cassock standing on the threshold of the next door. "This is the
abbe of whom I spoke," said the doctor to d'Avrigny. D'Avrigny accosted
the priest. "Sir," he said, "are you disposed to confer a great
obligation on an unhappy father who has just lost his daughter? I mean
M. de Villefort, the king's attorney."

"Ah," said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; "yes, I have heard
that death is in that house."

"Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires of you."

"I was about to offer myself, sir," said the priest; "it is our mission
to forestall our duties."

"It is a young girl."

"I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed me. I
also know that her name is Valentine, and I have already prayed for
her."

"Thank you, sir," said d'Avrigny; "since you have commenced your sacred
office, deign to continue it. Come and watch by the dead, and all the
wretched family will be grateful to you."

"I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers will be
more fervent than mine." D'Avrigny took the priest's hand, and
without meeting Villefort, who was engaged in his study, they reached
Valentine's room, which on the following night was to be occupied by
the undertakers. On entering the room, Noirtier's eyes met those of the
abbe, and no doubt he read some particular expression in them, for he
remained in the room. D'Avrigny recommended the attention of the priest
to the living as well as to the dead, and the abbe promised to devote
his prayers to Valentine and his attentions to Noirtier. In order,
doubtless, that he might not be disturbed while fulfilling his sacred
mission, the priest rose as soon as d'Avrigny departed, and not only
bolted the door through which the doctor had just left, but also that
leading to Madame de Villefort's room.

"See," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, "nature knows how to alleviate the
deepest sorrow. No one can say that M. Noirtier did not love his child,
and yet he sleeps."

"Yes, you are right," replied Villefort, surprised; "he sleeps, indeed!
And this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him
awake all night."

"Grief has stunned him," replied d'Avrigny; and they both returned
thoughtfully to the procureur's study.

"See, I have not slept," said Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed;
"grief does not stun me. I have not been in bed for two nights; but
then look at my desk; see what I have written during these two days and
nights. I have filled those papers, and have made out the accusation
against the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work,--my passion, my joy, my
delight,--it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!" and he convulsively
grasped the hand of d'Avrigny.

"Do you require my services now?" asked d'Avrigny.

"No," said Villefort; "only return again at eleven o'clock; at twelve
the--the--oh, heavens, my poor, poor child!" and the procureur again
becoming a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned.

"Shall you be present in the reception room?"

"No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I shall work,
doctor--when I work I forget everything." And, indeed, no sooner had
the doctor left the room, than he was again absorbed in study. On the
doorsteps d'Avrigny met the cousin whom Villefort had mentioned, a
personage as insignificant in our story as in the world he occupied--one
of those beings designed from their birth to make themselves useful to
others. He was punctual, dressed in black, with crape around his hat,
and presented himself at his cousin's with a face made up for the
occasion, and which he could alter as might be required. At twelve
o'clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and the Rue du
Faubourg Saint-Honore was filled with a crowd of idlers, equally pleased
to witness the festivities or the mourning of the rich, and who rush
with the same avidity to a funeral procession as to the marriage of a
duchess.

Gradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old friends
made their appearance--we mean Debray, Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp,
accompanied by all the leading men of the day at the bar, in literature,
or the army, for M. de Villefort moved in the first Parisian circles,
less owing to his social position than to his personal merit. The cousin
standing at the door ushered in the guests, and it was rather a relief
to the indifferent to see a person as unmoved as themselves, and who did
not exact a mournful face or force tears, as would have been the case
with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those who were acquainted
soon formed into little groups. One of them was made of Debray,
Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp.

"Poor girl," said Debray, like the rest, paying an involuntary tribute
to the sad event,--"poor girl, so young, so rich, so beautiful! Could
you have imagined this scene, Chateau-Renaud, when we saw her, at the
most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract?"

"Indeed, no," said Chateau-Renaud--"Did you know her?"

"I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf's, among the rest;
she appeared to me charming, though rather melancholy. Where is her
stepmother? Do you know?"

"She is spending the day with the wife of the worthy gentleman who is
receiving us."

"Who is he?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"The gentleman who receives us? Is he a deputy?"

"Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those gentlemen every day," said
Beauchamp; "but he is perfectly unknown to me."

"Have you mentioned this death in your paper?"

"It has been mentioned, but the article is not mine; indeed, I doubt if
it will please M. Villefort, for it says that if four successive deaths
had happened anywhere else than in the house of the king's attorney, he
would have interested himself somewhat more about it."

"Still," said Chateau-Renaud, "Dr. d'Avrigny, who attends my mother,
declares he is in despair about it. But whom are you seeking, Debray?"

"I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo" said the young man.

"I met him on the boulevard, on my way here," said Beauchamp. "I think
he is about to leave Paris; he was going to his banker."

"His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?" asked Chateau-Renaud of
Debray.

"I believe so," replied the secretary with slight uneasiness. "But Monte
Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel."

"Morrel? Do they know him?" asked Chateau-Renaud. "I think he has only
been introduced to Madame de Villefort."

"Still, he ought to have been here," said Debray; "I wonder what will
be talked about to-night; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush,
here comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some
little speech to the cousin," and the three young men drew near to
listen. Beauchamp told the truth when he said that on his way to the
funeral he had met Monte Cristo, who was directing his steps towards the
Rue de la Chausse d'Antin, to M. Danglars'.

The banker saw the carriage of the count enter the court yard, and
advanced to meet him with a sad, though affable smile. "Well," said
he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo, "I suppose you have come to
sympathize with me, for indeed misfortune has taken possession of my
house. When I perceived you, I was just asking myself whether I had not
wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would have justified the
proverb of 'He who wishes misfortunes to happen to others experiences
them himself.' Well, on my word of honor, I answered, 'No!' I wished
no ill to Morcerf; he was a little proud, perhaps, for a man who like
myself has risen from nothing; but we all have our faults. Do you know,
count, that persons of our time of life--not that you belong to the
class, you are still a young man,--but as I was saying, persons of our
time of life have been very unfortunate this year. For example, look at
the puritanical procureur, who has just lost his daughter, and in fact
nearly all his family, in so singular a manner; Morcerf dishonored
and dead; and then myself covered with ridicule through the villany of
Benedetto; besides"--

"Besides what?" asked the Count.

"Alas, do you not know?"

"What new calamity?"

"My daughter"--

"Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Eugenie has left us!"

"Good heavens, what are you telling me?"

"The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having
either wife or children!"

"Do you think so?"

"Indeed I do."

"And so Mademoiselle Danglars"--

"She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she
asked permission to travel."

"And is she gone?"

"The other night she left."

"With Madame Danglars?"

"No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eugenie;
for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France."

"Still, baron," said Monte Cristo, "family griefs, or indeed any other
affliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure,
are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and practical
men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates many trials;
and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you ought to
be very easily consoled--you, the king of finance, the focus of
immeasurable power."

Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke
seriously. "Yes," he answered, "if a fortune brings consolation, I ought
to be consoled; I am rich."

"So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you
wished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you
would not dare!" Danglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the
count. "That reminds me," he said, "that when you entered I was on the
point of signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you
allow me to do the same to the others?"

"Pray do so."

There was a moment's silence, during which the noise of the banker's pen
was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on the
ceiling. "Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?" said Monte
Cristo. "No," said Danglars, smiling, "they are bonds on the bank of
France, payable to bearer. Stay, count," he added, "you, who may 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 Monte Cristo; "five millions--why
what a Croesus you are!"

"This is how I transact business," said Danglars.

"It is really wonderful," said the count; "above all, if, as I suppose,
it is payable at sight."

"It is, indeed, said Danglars.

"It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France
these things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper!--it
must be seen to be believed."

"You do not doubt it?"

"No!"

"You say so with an accent--stay, you shall be convinced; take my clerk
to the bank, and you will see him leave it with an order on the Treasury
for the same sum."

"No," said Monte Cristo folding the five notes, "most decidedly not; the
thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am credited
on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand francs, you
therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand francs. I
will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds, with your
signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six millions
between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in want of money
to-day." And Monte Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket with one
hand, while with the other he held out the receipt to Danglars. If
a thunderbolt had fallen at the banker's feet, he could not have
experienced greater terror.

"What," he stammered, "do you mean to keep that money? Excuse me,
excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund,--a deposit which I
promised to pay this morning."

"Oh, well, then," said Monte Cristo, "I am not particular about these
five notes, pay me in a different form; I wished, from curiosity, to
take these, that I might be able to say that without any advice or
preparation the house of Danglars had paid me five millions without a
minute's delay; it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds;
pay me differently;" and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who seized
them like a vulture extending its claws to withhold the food that is
being wrested from its grasp. Suddenly he rallied, made a violent effort
to restrain himself, and then a smile gradually widened the features of
his disturbed countenance.

"Certainly," he said, "your receipt is money."

"Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French
would make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than
you have just done."

"Pardon me, count, pardon me."

"Then I may keep this money?"

"Yes," said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of
his hair. "Yes, keep it--keep it."

Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable
expression which seemed to say, "Come, reflect; if you repent there is
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 Monte Cristo graciously, "and pocket
them." And he placed the bonds in his pocket-book.

"But," said Danglars, "there is still a sum of one hundred thousand
francs?"

"Oh, a mere nothing," said Monte Cristo. "The balance would come to
about that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits."

"Count." said Danglars, "are you speaking seriously?"

"I never joke with bankers," said Monte Cristo in a freezing manner,
which repelled impertinence; and he turned to the door, just as the
valet de chambre announced,--"M. de Boville, receiver-general of the
charities."

"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo; "I think I arrived just in time to obtain
your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me."

Danglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the count out. Monte
Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was standing
in the waiting-room, and who was introduced into Danglars' room as soon
as the count had left. The count's sad face was illumined by a faint
smile, as he noticed the portfolio which the receiver-general held in
his hand. At the door he found his carriage, and was immediately driven
to the bank. Meanwhile Danglars, repressing all emotion, advanced to
meet the receiver-general. We need not say that a smile of condescension
was stamped upon his lips. "Good-morning, creditor," said he; "for I
wager anything it is the creditor who visits me."

"You are right, baron," answered M. de Boville; "the charities present
themselves to you through me: the widows and orphans depute me to
receive alms to the amount of five millions from you."

"And yet they say orphans are to be pitied," said Danglars, wishing to
prolong the jest. "Poor things!"

"Here I am in their name," said M. de Boville; "but did you receive my
letter yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I have brought my receipt."

"My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by
waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo whom you just saw
leaving here--you did see him, I think?"

"Yes; well?"

"Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five millions."

"How so?"

"The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened by Thomson
& French, of Rome; he came to demand five millions at once, which I paid
him with checks on the bank. My funds are deposited there, and you
can understand that if I draw out ten millions on the same day it will
appear rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different
thing," said Danglars, smiling.

"Come," said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity, "five millions
to that gentleman who just left, and who bowed to me as though he knew
me?"

"Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de Monte Cristo
knows everybody."

"Five millions!"

"Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes." M. de Boville took the
paper Danglars presented him, and read:--

"Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one hundred thousand
francs, to be repaid on demand by the house of Thomson & French of
Rome."

"It is really true," said M. de Boville.

"Do you know the house of Thomson & French?"

"Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount of 200,000
francs; but since then I have not heard it mentioned."

"It is one of the best houses in Europe," said Danglars, carelessly
throwing down the receipt on his desk.

"And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this Count of Monte
Cristo must be a nabob?"

"Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited credits--one
on me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and, you see," he added
carelessly, "he has given me the preference, by leaving a balance
of 100,000 francs." M. de Boville manifested signs of extraordinary
admiration. "I must visit him," he said, "and obtain some pious grant
from him."

"Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to 20,000
francs a month."

"It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of Madame de
Morcerf and her son."

"What example?"

"They gave all their fortune to the hospitals."

"What fortune?"

"Their own--M. de Morcerf's, who is deceased."

"For what reason?"

"Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired."

"And what are they to live upon?"

"The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the army."

"Well, I must confess, these are scruples."

"I registered their deed of gift yesterday."

"And how much did they possess?"

"Oh, not much--from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand francs. But to
return to our millions."

"Certainly," said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the world. "Are
you then pressed for this money?"

"Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as good as a
century! At what hour does the examination take place?"

"At two o'clock."

"Send at twelve," said Danglars, smiling. M. de Boville said nothing,
but nodded his head, and took up the portfolio. "Now I think of it, you
can do better," said Danglars.

"How do you mean?"

"The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take it to
Rothschild's or Lafitte's, and they will take it off your hands at
once."

"What, though payable at Rome?"

"Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs."
The receiver started back. "Ma foi," he said, "I prefer waiting till
to-morrow. What a proposition!"

"I thought, perhaps," said Danglars with supreme impertinence, "that you
had a deficiency to make up?"

"Indeed," said the receiver.

"And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some
sacrifice."

"Thank you, no, sir."

"Then it will be to-morrow."

"Yes; but without fail."

"Ah, you are laughing at me; send to-morrow at twelve, and the bank
shall be notified."

"I will come myself."

"Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you." They
shook hands. "By the way," said M. de Boville, "are you not going to the
funeral of poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?"

"No," said the banker; "I have appeared rather ridiculous since that
affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background."

"Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?"

"Listen--when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather
sensitive."

"Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars!"

"Poor Eugenie!" said Danglars; "do you know she is going to embrace a
religious life?"

"No."

"Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the event, she
decided on leaving Paris with a nun of her acquaintance; they are gone
to seek a very strict convent in Italy or Spain."

"Oh, it is terrible!" and M. de Boville retired with this exclamation,
after expressing acute sympathy with the father. But he had scarcely
left before Danglars, with an energy of action those can alone
understand who have seen Robert Macaire represented by Frederic, [*]
exclaimed,--"Fool!" Then enclosing Monte Cristo's receipt in a little
pocket-book, he added:--"Yes, come at twelve o'clock; I shall then be
far away." Then he double-locked his door, emptied all his drawers,
collected about fifty thousand francs in bank-notes, burned several
papers, left others exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter
which he addressed:

"To Madame la Baronne Danglars."

* Frederic Lemaitre--French actor (1800-1876). Robert
Macaire is the hero of two favorite melodramas--"Chien de
Montargis" and "Chien d'Aubry"--and the name is applied to
bold criminals as a term of derision.

"I will place it on her table myself to-night," he murmured. Then taking
a passport from his drawer he said,--"Good, it is available for two
months longer."

These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine's death had
struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness
of the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the
memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the
flower of her youth. As they left Paris, an equipage with four horses,
at full speed, was seen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo.
The count left the carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on
foot. Chateau-Renaud perceived him and immediately alighting from his
coupe, joined him.

The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was
evidently watching for some one, but his search ended in disappointment.
"Where is Morrel?" he asked; "do either of these gentlemen know where he
is?"

"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-Renaud, "for none
of us has seen him." The count was silent, but continued to gaze around
him. At length they arrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte
Cristo glanced through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon
relieved from all anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the
yew-trees, Monte Cristo recognized him whom he sought. One funeral is
generally very much like another in this magnificent metropolis. Black
figures are seen scattered over the long white avenues; the silence
of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise made by the crackling
branches of hedges planted around the monuments; then follows the
melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then with a sob of
anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass of flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of
Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close to the heads of the horses
belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker's men, arrived
with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person's attention
was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one else
observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object of
his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the
procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with
his coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively
crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated
on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral
details could escape his observation. Everything was conducted in
the usual manner. A few men, the least impressed of all by the scene,
pronounced a discourse, some deploring this premature death, others
expatiating on the grief of the father, and one very ingenious person
quoting the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father for
criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall--until at length
they exhausted their stores of metaphor and mournful speeches.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose
calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in
his heart. "See," said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. "What
is he doing up there?" And they called Chateau-Renaud's attention to
him.

"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; "I think he is violently
agitated. He is very susceptible."

"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you
said so yourself."

"True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de
Morcerf's. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such an
effect?"

"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or
to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel, who
was holding his breath with emotion. "The discourse is over; farewell,
gentlemen," said the count. And he disappeared without anyone seeing
whither he went. The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris.
Chateau-Renaud looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were
watching the departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and
Chateau-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.

Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the
arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned
by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it
reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet
nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with
outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to
pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till
it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands,
he murmured,--"Oh, Valentine!" The count's heart was pierced by the
utterance of these two words; he stepped forward, and touching the young
man's shoulder, said,--"I was looking for you, my friend." Monte Cristo
expected a burst of passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning
round, said calmly,--

"You see I was praying." The scrutinizing glance of the count searched
the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.

"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

"Do you wish anything?"

"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew without opposition, but it was
only to place himself in a situation where he could watch every movement
of Morrel, who at length arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and
turned towards Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down
the Rue de la Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him
about a hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered
the Rue Meslay by the boulevards. Five minutes after the door had been
closed on Morrel's entrance, it was again opened for the count. Julie
was at the entrance of the garden, where she was attentively watching
Penelon, who, entering with zeal into his profession of gardener, was
very busy grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count," she exclaimed, with
the delight manifested by every member of the family whenever he visited
the Rue Meslay.

"Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?" asked the count.

"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel."

"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian's room this instant,"
replied Monte Cristo, "I have something of the greatest importance to
tell him."

"Go, then," she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until
he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting
from the ground-floor to Maximilian's room; when he reached the landing
he listened attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses
occupied by a single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but
it was locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see
what was passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the
glass. The count's anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom
appeared on the face of that imperturbable man.

"What shall I do!" he uttered, and reflected for a moment; "shall I
ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but accelerate
the resolution of one in Maximilian's situation, and then the bell would
be followed by a louder noise." Monte Cristo trembled from head to
foot and as if his determination had been taken with the rapidity of
lightning, he struck one of the panes of glass with his elbow; the glass
was shivered to atoms, then withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who
had been writing at his desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the
broken window.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the count, "there is nothing the
matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with
my elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your
room; do not disturb yourself--do not disturb yourself!" And passing
his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the door. Morrel,
evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less with the intention
of receiving him than to exclude his entry. "Ma foi," said Monte Cristo,
rubbing his elbow, "it's all your servant's fault; your stairs are so
polished, it is like walking on glass."

"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.

"I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing."

"I?"

"Your fingers are stained with ink."

"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am."

Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him
pass, but he followed him. "You were writing?" said Monte Cristo with a
searching look.

"I have already had the honor of telling you I was," said Morrel.

The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside your desk," said
Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger to the pistols on the table.

"I am on the point of starting on a journey," replied Morrel
disdainfully.

"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness.

"Sir?"

"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I
entreat you."

"I make a hasty resolution?" said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; "is
there anything extraordinary in a journey?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "let us both lay aside the mask we have
assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose
upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not,
that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have
intruded on the solitude of a friend--you can understand that, to have
done all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather
by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself!"

"Indeed, count," said Morrel, shuddering; "what has put this into your
head?"

"I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself," continued the
count, "and here is proof of what I say;" and, approaching the desk, he
removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he
had begun, and took the latter in his hands.

Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving
his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp. "You wish to
destroy yourself," said the count; "you have written it."

"Well," said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of
violence--"well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself,
who shall prevent me--who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are
blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is
sad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices
distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose
my reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of
heartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my
putting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have
the courage to do so?"

"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted
strangely with the young man's excitement; "yes, I would do so."

"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach--"you, who
have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with
vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen
her die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the
hidden sources of knowledge,--and who enact the part of a guardian angel
upon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison administered
to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with pity, were
you not hateful in my eyes."

"Morrel"--

"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be satisfied!
When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you--my heart was
softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But since
you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture after
I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo my
pretended benefactor--then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal
guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend;" and
Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.

"And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide."

"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like
the first, failed in releasing him from the count's iron grasp.

"I will prevent you."

"And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right
over free and rational beings?"

"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo. "Listen; I am the only man in the
world having the right to say to you, 'Morrel, your father's son shall
not die to-day;'" and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty
and sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who,
involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a
step.

"Why do you mention my father?" stammered he; "why do you mingle a
recollection of him with the affairs of today?"

"Because I am he who saved your father's life when he wished to destroy
himself, as you do to-day--because I am the man who sent the purse
to your young sister, and the Pharaon to old Morrel--because I am the
Edmond Dantes who nursed you, a child, on my knees." Morrel made another
step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then all his strength
give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte Cristo. Then his
admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden revulsion; he arose,
rushed out of the room and to the stairs, exclaiming energetically,
"Julie, Julie--Emmanuel, Emmanuel!"

Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died
rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed
upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in
alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands,
and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs, "On your
knees--on your knees--he is our benefactor--the saviour of our father!
He is"--

He would have added "Edmond Dantes," but the count seized his arm and
prevented him. Julie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel
embraced him as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and
struck the ground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his
heart swell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his
eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the
room but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful
hearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep
emotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor,
ran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal
globe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allees de
Meillan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count,
"Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown
benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his
memory,--how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to
us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and--dare I say it?--to you also."

"Listen, my friends," said the count--"I may call you so since we have
really been friends for the last eleven years--the discovery of this
secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know.
I wish to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your brother
Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now, I am
sure." Then turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees,
had thrown himself into an arm-chair, 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. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel
went towards the pistols. "Leave them," said Monte Cristo. Then walking
towards Morrel, he took his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young
man was succeeded by a profound stupor. Julie returned, holding the
silken purse in her hands, while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks,
like dewdrops on the rose.

"Here is the relic," she said; "do not think it will be less dear to us
now we are acquainted with our benefactor!"

"My child," said Monte Cristo, coloring, "allow me to take back that
purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone through
the affection I hope you will grant me.

"Oh," said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, "no, no, I beseech
you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you
not?"

"You have guessed rightly, madame," replied Monte Cristo, smiling; "in a
week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit the
vengeance of heaven lived happily, while my father perished of hunger
and grief." While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on
Morrel, and remarked that the words, "I shall have left this country,"
had failed to rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make
another struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands
of Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with
the mild authority of a father, "My kind friends, leave me alone with
Maximilian." Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious
relic, which Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the
door. "Let us leave them," she said. The count was alone with Morrel,
who remained motionless as a statue.

"Come," said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his finger, "are
you a man again, Maximilian?"

"Yes; for I begin to suffer again."

The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.

"Maximilian, Maximilian," he said, "the ideas you yield to are unworthy
of a Christian."

"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said Morrel, raising his head, and smiling
with a sweet expression on the count; "I shall no longer attempt my
life."

"Then we are to have no more pistols--no more despair?"

"No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or a
knife."

"Poor fellow, what is it?"

"My grief will kill me of itself."

"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal
to his own, "listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours,
since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one
day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If any
one had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to his
head--if any one had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the food I
had not tasted for three days--if anyone had said to either of us
then, 'Live--the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless
life!'--no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with
the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,--and yet how many
times has your father blessed life while embracing you--how often have I
myself"--

"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, "you had only lost
your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost
Valentine."

"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes
made him so eloquent and persuasive--"look at me. There are no tears
in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer--you,
Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you
that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to
beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in
the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your
life."

"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh, heavens--what are you saying,
count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!"

"Child!" replied the count.

"I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I attained
manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for none of
the feelings I before then experienced merit the 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 Monte Cristo. "I have confidence in the remedy I propose, and only
ask you to permit me to assure you of its efficacy."

"Count, you prolong my agony."

"Then," said the count, "your feeble spirit will not even grant me the
trial I request? Come--do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is
capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his control?
nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the miracle I
hope to accomplish, or"--

"Or?" repeated Morrel.

"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful."

"Have pity on me, count!"

"I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that--listen to me
attentively--if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very
hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you,
and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison--a poison more sure and prompt
than that which has killed Valentine."

"Will you promise me?"

"Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also
contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have
longed for the delights of an eternal sleep."

"But you are sure you will promise me this?" said Morrel, intoxicated.
"I not only promise, but swear it!" said Monte Cristo extending his
hand.

"In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let
me take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not
call me ungrateful?"

"In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date are sacred,
Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of
September; it is ten years to-day since I saved your father's life, who
wished to die." Morrel seized the count's hand and kissed it; the count
allowed him to pay the homage he felt due to him. "In a month you will
find on the table, at which we shall be then sitting, good pistols and
a delicious draught; but, on the other hand, you must promise me not to
attempt your life before that time."

"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo drew the young man towards him,
and pressed him for some time to his heart. "And now," he said,
"after to-day, you will come and live with me; you can occupy Haidee's
apartment, and my daughter will at least be replaced by my son."

"Haidee?" said Morrel, "what has become of her?"

"She departed last night."

"To leave you?"

"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the Champs
Elysees, and lead me out of this house without any one seeing my
departure." Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike
reverence.

His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he appeared
a little before or after his time, but generally, both in summer and
winter, he took possession of his apartment about four o'clock, though
he never spent the night there. At half-past three in the winter the
fire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence of
the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed on the table
at the same hour. At four o'clock, as we have already stated, the
mysterious personage arrived. Twenty minutes afterwards a carriage
stopped at the house, a lady alighted in a black or dark blue dress, and
always thickly veiled; she passed like a shadow through the lodge, and
ran up-stairs without a sound escaping under the touch of her light
foot. No one ever asked her where she was going. Her face, therefore,
like that of the gentleman, was perfectly unknown to the two concierges,
who were perhaps unequalled throughout the capital for discretion.
We need not say she stopped at the second floor. Then she tapped in a
peculiar manner at a door, which after being opened to admit her was
again fastened, and curiosity penetrated no farther. They used the same
precautions in leaving as in entering the house. The lady always left
first, and as soon as she had stepped into her carriage, it drove away,
sometimes towards the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about
twenty minutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in his
cravat or concealed by his handkerchief.

The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the mysterious
lodger entered at ten o'clock in the morning instead of four in the
afternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the usual interval of
time, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily up-stairs. The
door opened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed: "Oh,
Lucien--oh, my friend!" The concierge therefore heard for the first time
that the lodger's name was Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection
of a door-keeper, he made up his mind not to tell his wife. "Well,
what is the matter, my dear?" asked the gentleman whose name the lady's
agitation revealed; "tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?"

"Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter?
Your note of this morning has completely bewildered me. This
precipitation--this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my anxiety, or
else frighten me at once."

"Lucien, a great event has happened!" said the lady, glancing
inquiringly at Lucien,--"M. Danglars left last night!"

"Left?--M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?"

"Undoubtedly;--at ten o'clock at night his horses took him to the
barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him--he
entered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going to
Fontainebleau."

"Then what did you mean"--

"Stay--he left a letter for me."

"A letter?"

"Yes; read it." And the baroness took from her pocket a letter which she
gave to Debray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as if trying
to guess its contents, or perhaps while making up his mind how to act,
whatever it might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few
minutes, for he began reading the letter which caused so much uneasiness
in the heart of the baroness, and which ran as follows:--

"Madame and most faithful wife."

Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose face
became covered with blushes. "Read," she said.

Debray continued:--

"When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh, you
need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have lost your
daughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the thirty or
forty roads leading out of France. I owe you some explanations for my
conduct, and as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I will
give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five millions which I
paid away; almost directly afterwards another demand for the same sum
was presented to me; I put this creditor off till to-morrow and I intend
leaving to-day, to escape that to-morrow, which would be rather too
unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my most
precious wife? I say you understand this, because you are as conversant
with my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them better,
since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable portion of my
fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame, that you know
perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they can even
explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have invented;
but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing more than that
one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the rapidity of my
fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden fusion of my ingots?
I confess I have seen nothing but the fire; let us hope you have found
some gold among the ashes. With this consoling idea, I leave you,
madame, and most prudent wife, without any conscientious reproach for
abandoning you; you have friends left, and the ashes I have already
mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten to restore to you. And
here, madame, I must add another word of explanation. So long as I hoped
you were working for the good of our house and for the fortune of our
daughter, I philosophically closed my eyes; but as you have transformed
that house into a vast ruin I will not be the foundation of another
man's fortune. You were rich when I married you, but little respected.
Excuse me for speaking so very candidly, but as this is intended
only for ourselves, I do not see why I should weigh my words. I have
augmented our fortune, and it has continued to increase during the
last fifteen years, till extraordinary and unexpected catastrophes
have suddenly overturned it,--without any fault of mine, I can honestly
declare. You, madame, have only sought to increase your own, and I am
convinced that you have succeeded. I leave you, therefore, as I took
you,--rich, but little respected. Adieu! I also intend from this time
to work on my own account. Accept my acknowledgments for the example you
have set me, and which I intend following.

"Your very devoted husband,

"Baron Danglars."

The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and painful
letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control, change color
once or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he folded the letter and
resumed his pensive attitude. "Well?" asked Madame Danglars, with an
anxiety easy to be understood.

"Well, madame?" unhesitatingly repeated Debray.

"With what ideas does that letter inspire you?"

"Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea that M.
Danglars has left suspiciously."

"Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?"

"I do not understand you," said Debray with freezing coldness.

"He is gone! Gone, never to return!"

"Oh, madame, do not think that!"

"I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is inflexible
in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he could have made
any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he leaves me in Paris,
as our separation will conduce to his benefit;--therefore he has gone,
and I am free forever," added Madame Danglars, in the same supplicating
tone. Debray, instead of answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude
of nervous inquiry. "Well?" she said at length, "do you not answer me?"

"I have but one question to ask you,--what do you intend to do?"

"I was going to ask you," replied the baroness with a beating heart.

"Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?"

"Yes; I do wish to ask your advice," said Madame Danglars with anxious
expectation.

"Then if you wish to take my advice," said the young man coldly, "I
would recommend you to travel."

"To travel!" she murmured.

"Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In
my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the
double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars' broken contract and M.
Danglars' disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor,
for the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up
an appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a
fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the details
of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread the report.
Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and giving up your
jointure, and every one's mouth will be filled with praises of your
disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and think you also
poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and am quite ready
to give up my accounts as an honest partner." The dread with which the
pale and motionless baroness listened to this, was equalled by the calm
indifference with which Debray had spoken. "Deserted?" she repeated;
"ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are right, sir, and no one can
doubt my position." These were the only words that this proud and
violently enamoured woman could utter in response to Debray.

"But then you are rich,--very rich, indeed," continued Debray, taking
out some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon the table.
Madame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in stilling the
beatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which were ready to
gush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not
entirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in preventing the
fall of a single tear. "Madame," said Debray, "it is nearly six months
since we have been associated. You furnished a principal of 100,000
francs. Our partnership began in the month of April. In May we commenced
operations, and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs.
In June the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000
francs,--it was, you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we
lost 300,000 francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we
made up for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the
first day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed
a capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us. Now,
madame," said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the methodical
manner of a stockbroker, "there are still 80,000 francs, the interest of
this money, in my hands."

"But," said the baroness, "I thought you never put the money out to
interest."

"Excuse me, madame," said Debray coldly, "I had your permission to do
so, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs for your
share, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with, making in all
1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I took the precaution of
drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is not long ago, you
see, and I was in continual expectation of being called on to deliver up
my accounts. There is your money,--half in bank-notes, the other half
in checks payable to bearer. I say there, for as I did not consider
my house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently discreet, and as landed
property carries evidence with it, and moreover since you have no right
to possess anything independent of your husband, I have kept this sum,
now your whole fortune, in a chest concealed under that closet, and for
greater security I myself concealed it there.

"Now, madame," continued Debray, first opening the closet, then
the chest;--"now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000. francs each,
resembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a
certificate in the funds of 25,000. francs; then, for the odd cash,
making I think about 110,000. francs, here is a check upon my banker,
who, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest
assured." Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and the
heap of bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great appearance on
the table. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with her breast
heaving with concealed emotion, placed the bank-notes in her bag, put
the certificate and check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale
and mute, awaited one kind word of consolation. But she waited in vain.

"Now, madame," said Debray, "you have a splendid fortune, an income of
about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman who cannot
keep an establishment here for a year, at least. You will be able
to indulge all your fancies; besides, should you find your income
insufficient, you can, for the sake of the past, madame, make use of
mine; and I am ready to offer you all I possess, on loan."

"Thank you, sir--thank you," replied the baroness; "you forget that
what you have just paid me is much more than a poor woman requires, who
intends for some time, at least, to retire from the world."

Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering himself,
he bowed with an air which seemed to say, "As you please, madame."

Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something; but when
she saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by which it was
accompanied, together with his significant silence, she raised her head,
and without passion or violence or even hesitation, ran down-stairs,
disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus part from
her. "Bah," said Debray, when she had left, "these are fine projects!
She will remain at home, read novels, and speculate at cards, since she
can no longer do so on the Bourse." Then taking up his account book, he
cancelled with the greatest care all the entries of the amounts he had
just paid away. "I have 1,060,000 francs remaining," he said. "What a
pity Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect,
and I would have married her." And he calmly waited until the twenty
minutes had elapsed after Madame Danglars' departure before he left the
house. During this time he occupied himself in making figures, with his
watch by his side.

Asmodeus--that diabolical personage, who would have been created by
every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired the priority in
his great masterpiece--would have enjoyed a singular spectacle, if
he had lifted up the roof of the little house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, while Debray was casting up his figures. Above
the room in which Debray had been dividing two millions and a half with
Madame Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have played too
prominent a part in the incidents we have related for their appearance
not to create some interest. Mercedes and Albert were in that room.
Mercedes was much changed within the last few days; not that even in her
days of fortune she had ever dressed with the magnificent display which
makes us no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in a
plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state of
depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery; no,
the change in Mercedes was that her eye no longer sparkled, her lips
no longer smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering the words
which formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit.

It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a want
of courage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Mercedes, although
deposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost in the sphere
she had now chosen, like a person passing from a room splendidly lighted
into utter darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her palace to
a hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither become
reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself forced to place
upon the table, nor to the humble pallet which had become her bed. The
beautiful Catalane and noble countess had lost both her proud glance and
charming smile, because she saw nothing but misery around her; the walls
were hung with one of the gray papers which economical landlords choose
as not likely to show the dirt; the floor was uncarpeted; the furniture
attracted the attention to the poor attempt at luxury; indeed,
everything offended eyes accustomed to refinement and elegance.

Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the continual
silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that Albert continually
watched her countenance to judge the state of her feelings, she
constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone,
which, contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that usually
shone from her eyes, seemed like "moonlight on a statue,"--yielding
light without warmth. Albert, too, was ill at ease; the remains of
luxury prevented him from sinking into his actual position. If he wished
to go out without gloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished to
walk through the town, his boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these
two noble and intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties
of maternal and filial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one
another, and economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell
his mother without extorting a change of countenance,--"Mother, we have
no more money."

Mercedes had never known misery; she had often, in her youth, spoken of
poverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous words, there
is a wide difference. Amongst the Catalans, Mercedes wished for a
thousand things, but still she never really wanted any. So long as the
nets were good, they caught fish; and so long as they sold their fish,
they were able to buy twine for new nets. And then, shut out from
friendship, having but one affection, which could not be mixed up with
her ordinary pursuits, she thought of herself--of no one but herself.
Upon the little she earned she lived as well as she could; now there
were two to be supported, and nothing to live upon.

Winter approached. Mercedes had no fire in that cold and naked
room--she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house from
the hall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower--she whose
apartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But she had her
son. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them.
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us unconscious to the
things of earth. But the excitement had calmed down, and they felt
themselves obliged to descend from dreams to reality; after having
exhausted the ideal, they found they must talk of the actual.

"Mother," exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was descending the
stairs, "let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to
build my plans upon."

"Capital--nothing!" replied Mercedes with a mournful smile.

"No, mother,--capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our leading a
delightful life upon this 3,000 francs."

"Child!" sighed Mercedes.

"Alas, dear mother," said the young man, "I have unhappily spent too
much of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000 francs
are enormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a miraculous
certainty for the future."

"You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept these
3,000 francs?" said Mercedes, coloring.

"I think so," answered Albert in a firm tone. "We will accept them the
more readily, since we have them not here; you know they are buried in
the garden of the little house in the Allees de Meillan, at Marseilles.
With 200 francs we can reach Marseilles."

"With 200 francs?--are you sure, Albert?"

"Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the diligences and
steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place
in the coupe to Chalons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for
thirty-five francs." Albert then took a pen, and wrote:--

Frs.
Coupe, thirty-five francs.............................. 35.
From Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the steamboat.. 6.
From Lyons to Avignon (still by steamboat)............. 16.
From Avignon to Marseilles, seven franc................ 7.
Expenses on the road, about fifty francs............... 50.
Total................................................. 114 frs.

"Let us put down 120," added Albert, smiling. "You see I am generous, am
I not, mother?"

"But you, my poor child?"

"I? do you not see that I reserve eighty francs for myself? A young man
does not require luxuries; besides, I know what travelling is."

"With a post-chaise and valet de chambre?"

"Any way, mother."

"Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?"

"Here they are, and 200 more besides. See, I have sold my watch for
100 francs, and the guard and seals for 300. How fortunate that the
ornaments were worth more than the watch. Still the same story of
superfluities! Now I think we are rich, since instead of the 114 francs
we require for the journey we find ourselves in possession of 250."

"But we owe something in this house?"

"Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my 150 francs,--that is
understood,--and as I require only eighty francs for my journey, you see
I am overwhelmed with luxury. But that is not all. What do you say to
this, mother?"

And Albert took out of a little pocket-book with golden clasps, a
remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a tender souvenir from one of
the mysterious and veiled ladies who used to knock at his little
door,--Albert took out of this pocket-book a note of 1,000 francs.

"What is this?" asked Mercedes.

"A thousand francs."

"But whence have you obtained them?"

"Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to agitation." And
Albert, rising, kissed his mother on both cheeks, then stood looking at
her. "You cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I think you!" said the
young man, impressed with a profound feeling of filial love. "You are,
indeed, the most beautiful and most noble woman I ever saw!"

"Dear child!" said Mercedes, endeavoring in vain to restrain a tear
which glistened in the corner of her eye. "Indeed, you only wanted
misfortune to change my love for you to admiration. I am not unhappy
while I possess my son!"

"Ah, just so," said Albert; "here begins the trial. Do you know the
decision we have come to, mother?"

"Have we come to any?"

"Yes; it is decided that you are to live at Marseilles, and that I am to
leave for Africa, where I will earn for myself the right to use the name
I now bear, instead of the one I have thrown aside." Mercedes sighed.
"Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the Spahis,"
[*] added the young man, lowering his eyes with a certain feeling of
shame, for even he was unconscious of the sublimity of his self-
abasement. "I thought my body was my own, and that I might sell it. I
yesterday took the place of another. I sold myself for more than I
thought I was worth," he added, attempting to smile; "I fetched 2,000
francs."

* The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in
Africa.

"Then these 1,000 francs"--said Mercedes, shuddering--

"Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in a year."

Mercedes raised her eyes to heaven with an expression it would be
impossible to describe, and tears, which had hitherto been restrained,
now yielded to her emotion, and ran down her cheeks.

"The price of his blood!" she murmured.

"Yes, if I am killed," said Albert, laughing. "But I assure you, mother,
I have a strong intention of defending my person, and I never felt half
so strong an inclination to live as I do now."

"Merciful heavens!"

"Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am to be
killed? Has Lamoriciere, that Ney of the South, been killed? Has
Changarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom we
know, been killed? Think of your joy, mother, when you see me return
with an embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect to look magnificent
in it, and chose that regiment only from vanity." Mercedes sighed while
endeavoring to smile; the devoted mother felt that she ought not to
allow the whole weight of the sacrifice to fall upon her son. "Well,
now you understand, mother!" continued Albert; "here are more than 4,000
francs settled on you; upon these you can live at least two years."

"Do you think so?" said Mercedes. These words were uttered in so
mournful a tone that their real meaning did not escape Albert; he felt
his heart beat, and taking his mother's hand within his own he said,
tenderly,--

"Yes, you will live!"

"I shall live!--then you will not leave me, Albert?"

"Mother, I must go," said Albert in a firm, calm voice; "you love me
too well to wish me to remain useless and idle with you; besides, I have
signed."

"You will obey your own wish and the will of heaven!"

"Not my own wish, mother, but reason--necessity. Are we not two
despairing creatures? What is life to you?--Nothing. What is life to
me?--Very little without you, mother; for believe me, but for you I
should have ceased to live on the day I doubted my father and renounced
his name. Well, I will live, if you promise me still to hope; and if
you grant me the care of your future prospects, you will redouble my
strength. Then I will go to the governor of Algeria; he has a royal
heart, and is essentially a soldier; I will tell him my gloomy story.
I will beg him to turn his eyes now and then towards me, and if he
keep his word and interest himself for me, in six months I shall be an
officer, or dead. If I am an officer, your fortune is certain, for I
shall have money enough for both, and, moreover, a name we shall both
be proud of, since it will be our own. If I am killed--well then mother,
you can also die, and there will be an end of our misfortunes."

"It is well," replied Mercedes, with her eloquent glance; "you are
right, my love; let us prove to those who are watching our actions that
we are worthy of compassion."

"But let us not yield to gloomy apprehensions," said the young man; "I
assure you we are, or rather we shall be, very happy. You are a woman at
once full of spirit and resignation; I have become simple in my tastes,
and am without passion, I hope. Once in service, I shall be rich--once
in M. Dantes' house, you will be at rest. Let us strive, I beseech
you,--let us strive to be cheerful."

"Yes, let us strive, for you ought to live, and to be happy, Albert."

"And so our division is made, mother," said the young man, affecting
ease of mind. "We can now part; come, I shall engage your passage."

"And you, my dear boy?"

"I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom ourselves to
parting. I want recommendations and some information relative to Africa.
I will join you again at Marseilles."

"Well, be it so--let us part," said Mercedes, folding around her
shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and which accidentally
happened to be a valuable black cashmere. Albert gathered up his papers
hastily, rang the bell to pay the thirty francs he owed to the landlord,
and offering his arm to his mother, they descended the stairs. Some one
was walking down before them, and this person, hearing the rustling of a
silk dress, turned around. "Debray!" muttered Albert.

"You, Morcerf?" replied the secretary, resting on the stairs. Curiosity
had vanquished the desire of preserving his incognito, and he was
recognized. It was, indeed, strange in this unknown spot to find the
young man whose misfortunes had made so much noise in Paris.

"Morcerf!" repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light the still
youthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf:--"Pardon me," he added
with a smile, "I leave you, Albert." Albert understood his thoughts.
"Mother," he said, turning towards Mercedes, "this is M. Debray,
secretary of the minister for the interior, once a friend of mine."

"How once?" stammered Debray; "what do you mean?"

"I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I ought not
to have any. I thank you for having recognized me, sir." Debray stepped
forward, and cordially pressed the hand of his interlocutor. "Believe
me, dear Albert," he said, with all the emotion he was capable of
feeling,--"believe me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if in any
way I can serve you, I am yours."

"Thank you, sir," said Albert, smiling. "In the midst of our
misfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require assistance from any
one. We are leaving Paris, and when our journey is paid, we shall have
5,000 francs left." The blood mounted to the temples of Debray, who held
a million in his pocket-book, and unimaginative as he was he could not
help reflecting that the same house had contained two women, one of
whom, justly dishonored, had left it poor with 1,500,000. francs under
her cloak, while the other, unjustly stricken, but sublime in her
misfortune, was yet rich with a few deniers. This parallel disturbed his
usual politeness, the philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he muttered
a few words of general civility and ran down-stairs.

That day the minister's clerks and the subordinates had a great deal to
put up with from his ill-humor. But that same night, he found himself
the possessor of a fine house, situated on the Boulevard de la
Madeleine, and an income of 50,000 livres. The next day, just as Debray
was signing the deed, that is about five o'clock in the afternoon,
Madame de Morcerf, after having affectionately embraced her son, entered
the coupe of the diligence, which closed upon her. A man was hidden in
Lafitte's banking-house, behind one of the little arched windows which
are placed above each desk; he saw Mercedes enter the diligence, and he
also saw Albert withdraw. Then he passed his hand across his forehead,
which was clouded with doubt. "Alas," he exclaimed, "how can I restore
the happiness I have taken away from these poor innocent creatures? God
help me!"

The court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular apartment for the
reception of guests; it is a long rectangle, divided by two upright
gratings placed at a distance of three feet from one another to prevent
a visitor from shaking hands with or passing anything to the prisoners.
It is a wretched, damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when we
consider the agonizing conferences which have taken place between those
iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spot may be, it is looked upon
as a kind of paradise by the men whose days are numbered; it is so rare
for them to leave the Lions' Den for any other place than the barrier
Saint-Jacques or the galleys!

In the court which we have attempted to describe, and from which a damp
vapor was rising, a young man with his hands in his pockets, who had
excited much curiosity among the inhabitants of the "Den," might be seen
walking. The cut of his clothes would have made him pass for an elegant
man, if those clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they did not
show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath the careful hands of
the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in the parts which were still
perfect, for the wearer tried his best to make it assume the appearance
of a new coat. He bestowed the same attention upon the cambric front of
a shirt, which had considerably changed in color since his entrance into
the prison, and he polished his varnished boots with the corner of a
handkerchief embroidered with initials surmounted by a coronet. Some
of the inmates of the "Lions' Den" were watching the operations of
the prisoner's toilet with considerable interest. "See, the prince is
pluming himself," said one of the thieves. "He's a fine looking fellow,"
said another; "if he had only a comb and hair-grease, he'd take the
shine off the gentlemen in white kids."

"His coat looks almost new, and his boots shine like a nigger's face.
It's pleasant to have such well-dressed comrades; but didn't those
gendarmes behave shameful?--must 'a been jealous, to tear such clothes!"

"He looks like a big-bug," said another; "dresses in fine style. And,
then, to be here so young! Oh, what larks!" Meanwhile the object of
this hideous admiration approached the wicket, against which one of the
keepers was leaning. "Come, sir," he said, "lend me twenty francs; you
will soon be paid; you run no risks with me. Remember, I have relations
who possess more millions than you have deniers. Come, I beseech
you, lend me twenty francs, so that I may buy a dressing-gown; it is
intolerable always to be in a coat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for
a prince of the Cavalcanti!" The keeper turned his back, and shrugged
his shoulders; he did not even laugh at what would have caused any one
else to do so; he had heard so many utter the same things,--indeed, he
heard nothing else.

"Come," said Andrea, "you are a man void of compassion; I'll have you
turned out." This made the keeper turn around, and he burst into a loud
laugh. The prisoners then approached and formed a circle. "I tell you
that with that wretched sum," continued Andrea, "I could obtain a
coat, and a room in which to receive the illustrious visitor I am daily
expecting."

"Of course--of course," said the prisoners;--"any one can see he's a
gentleman!"

"Well, then, lend him the twenty francs," said the keeper, leaning on
the other shoulder; "surely you will not refuse a comrade!"

"I am no comrade of these people," said the young man, proudly, "you
have no right to insult me thus."

The thieves looked at one another with low murmurs, and a storm gathered
over the head of the aristocratic prisoner, raised less by his own
words than by the manner of the keeper. The latter, sure of quelling
the tempest when the waves became too violent, allowed them to rise to
a certain pitch that he might be revenged on the importunate Andrea,
and besides it would afford him some recreation during the long day. The
thieves had already approached Andrea, some screaming, "La savate--La
savate!" [*] a cruel operation, which consists in cuffing a comrade who
may have fallen into disgrace, not with an old shoe, but with an
iron-heeled one. Others proposed the "anguille," another kind of
recreation, in which a handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles, and
two-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretches beat like a
flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappy sufferer. "Let us
horsewhip the fine gentleman!" said others.

* Savate: an old shoe.

But Andrea, turning towards them, winked his eyes, rolled his tongue
around his cheeks, and smacked his lips in a manner equivalent to a
hundred words among the bandits when forced to be silent. It was a
Masonic sign Caderousse had taught him. He was immediately recognized as
one of them; the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled shoe
replaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged. Some voices were
heard to say that the gentleman was right; that he intended to be
civil, in his way, and that they would set the example of liberty of
conscience,--and the mob retired. The keeper was so stupefied at this
scene that he took Andrea by the hands and began examining his person,
attributing the sudden submission of the inmates of the Lions' Den
to something more substantial than mere fascination. Andrea made no
resistance, although he protested against it. Suddenly a voice was heard
at the wicket. "Benedetto!" exclaimed an inspector. The keeper relaxed
his hold. "I am called," said Andrea. "To the visitors' room!" said the
same voice.

"You see some one pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will see whether
a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common person!" And Andrea, gliding
through the court like a black shadow, rushed out through the wicket,
leaving his comrades, and even the keeper, lost in wonder. Certainly
a call to the visitors' room had scarcely astonished Andrea less than
themselves, for the wily youth, instead of making use of his privilege
of waiting to be claimed on his entry into La Force, had maintained
a rigid silence. "Everything," he said, "proves me to be under the
protection of some powerful person,--this sudden fortune, the facility
with which I have overcome all obstacles, an unexpected family and an
illustrious name awarded to me, gold showered down upon me, and the most
splendid alliances about to be entered into. An unhappy lapse of fortune
and the absence of my protector have cast me down, certainly, but
not forever. The hand which has retreated for a while will be again
stretched forth to save me at the very moment when I shall think myself
sinking into the abyss. Why should I risk an imprudent step? It might
alienate my protector. He has two means of extricating me from this
dilemma,--the one by a mysterious escape, managed through bribery; the
other by buying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothing until
I am convinced that he has quite abandoned me, and then"--

Andrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. The unfortunate
youth was intrepid in the attack, and rude in the defence. He had borne
with the public prison, and with privations of all sorts; still, by
degrees nature, or rather custom, had prevailed, and he suffered from
being naked, dirty, and hungry. It was at this moment of discomfort that
the inspector's voice called him to the visiting-room. Andrea felt his
heart leap with joy. It was too soon for a visit from the examining
magistrate, and too late for one from the director of the prison, or the
doctor; it must, then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the grating
of the room into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his eyes
dilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M. Bertuccio,
who was also gazing with sad astonishment upon the iron bars, the bolted
doors, and the shadow which moved behind the other grating.

"Ah," said Andrea, deeply affected.

"Good morning, Benedetto," said Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice.

"You--you?" said the young man, looking fearfully around him.

"Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?"

"Silence,--be silent!" said Andrea, who knew the delicate sense of
hearing possessed by the walls; "for heaven's sake, do not speak so
loud!"

"You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?" said Bertuccio.

"Oh, yes."

"That is well." And Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signed to a keeper
whom he saw through the window of the wicket.

"Read?" he said.

"What is that?" asked Andrea.

"An order to conduct you to a room, and to leave you there to talk to
me."

"Oh," cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentally added,--"Still my
unknown protector! I am not forgotten. They wish for secrecy, since we
are to converse in a private room. I understand, Bertuccio has been sent
by my protector."

The keeper spoke for a moment with an official, then opened the iron
gates and conducted Andrea to a room on the first floor. The room was
whitewashed, as is the custom in prisons, but it looked quite brilliant
to a prisoner, though a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the
whole of its sumptuous furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the chair,
Andrea threw himself upon the bed; the keeper retired.

"Now," said the steward, "what have you to tell me?"

"And you?" said Andrea.

"You speak first."

"Oh, no. You must have much to tell me, since you have come to seek me."

"Well, be it so. You have continued your course of villany; you have
robbed--you have assassinated."

"Well, I should say! If you had me taken to a private room only to tell
me this, you might have saved yourself the trouble. I know all these
things. But there are some with which, on the contrary, I am not
acquainted. Let us talk of those, if you please. Who sent you?"

"Come, come, you are going on quickly, M. Benedetto!"

"Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense with useless words. Who sends
you?"

"No one."

"How did you know I was in prison?"

"I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy who so
gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs Elysees."

"Oh, the Champs Elysees? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game
of pincette. The Champs Elysees? Come, let us talk a little about my
father."

"Who, then, am I?"

"You, sir?--you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume,
who placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I spent in four or five
months; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my
father; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me
invited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating
at this moment, in company with the most distinguished people in
Paris--amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose acquaintance I
did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful
to me just now;--it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two
millions, when the fatal discovery of my little secret took place. Come,
speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs Elysees just now,
worthy foster-father."

"Well?"

"Well, in the Champs Elysees there resides a very rich gentleman."

"At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?"

"I believe I did."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"'Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am I to rush into
his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying, 'My father, my father!'
like Monsieur Pixerecourt." [*]

"Do not let us jest," gravely replied Bertuccio, "and dare not to utter
that name again as you have pronounced it."

* Guilbert de Pixerecourt, French dramatist
(1775-1844).

"Bah," said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of Bertuccio's
manner, "why not?"

"Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by heaven to be
the father of such a wretch as you."

"Oh, these are fine words."

"And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care."

"Menaces--I do not fear them. I will say"--

"Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?" said
Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look, that
Andrea was moved to the very soul. "Do you think you have to do with
galley-slaves, or novices in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen into
terrible hands; they are ready to open for you--make use of them. Do not
play with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which
they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their
movements."

"My father--I will know who my father is," said the obstinate youth; "I
will perish if I must, but I will know it. What does scandal signify
to me? What possessions, what reputation, what 'pull,' as Beauchamp
says,--have I? You great people always lose something by scandal,
notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah," cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just then the door
opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said,--"Excuse
me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the prisoner."

"And so closes our interview," said Andrea to the worthy steward; "I
wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!"

"I will return to-morrow," said Bertuccio.

"Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns
for me at the gate that I may have some things I am in need of!"

"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio. Andrea extended his hand;
Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and merely jingled a few pieces
of money. "That's what I mean," said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite
overcome by the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio. "Can I be deceived?"
he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and grated vehicle which they
call "the salad basket." "Never mind, we shall see! To-morrow, then!" he
added, turning towards Bertuccio.

"To-morrow!" replied the steward.

The assizes, also, were about to begin, and Villefort, shut up in his
room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety in drawing up the case
against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair, like all those in which
the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered, caused a great sensation in
Paris. The proofs were certainly not convincing, since they rested upon
a few words written by an escaped galley-slave on his death-bed, and who
might have been actuated by hatred or revenge in accusing his companion.
But the mind of the procureur was made up; he felt assured that
Benedetto was guilty, and he hoped by his skill in conducting this
aggravated case to flatter his self-love, which was about the only
vulnerable point left in his frozen heart.

The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor of
Villefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the coming
assizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to evade
the enormous number of applications presented to him for the purpose
of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day of trial. And
then so short a time had elapsed since the death of poor Valentine,
and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent, that no one
wondered to see the father so absorbed in his professional duties, which
were the only means he had of dissipating his grief.

Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that upon
which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latter
was to learn his father's name. The magistrate, harassed and fatigued,
had descended to the garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similar
to that in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he began
knocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of the
rose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like the spectres of
the brilliant flowers which had bloomed in the past season. More than
once he had reached that part of the garden where the famous boarded
gate stood overlooking the deserted enclosure, always returning by the
same path, to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with the same
gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the house, whence
he heard the noisy play of his son, who had returned from school to
spend the Sunday and Monday with his mother. While doing so, he observed
M. Noirtier at one of the open windows, where the old man had been
placed that he might enjoy the last rays of the sun which yet yielded
some heat, and was now shining upon the dying flowers and red leaves of
the creeper which twined around the balcony.

The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort could
scarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of ferocity, and
savage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the path he had been
pursuing, to see upon what person this dark look was directed. Then he
saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearly divested
of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in her hand, the
perusal of which she frequently interrupted to smile upon her son, or
to throw back his elastic ball, which he obstinately threw from the
drawing-room into the garden. Villefort became pale; he understood the
old man's meaning. Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but
suddenly his glance was transferred from the wife to the husband, and
Villefort himself had to submit to the searching investigation of eyes,
which, while changing their direction and even their language, had lost
none of their menacing expression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of
the passions that exhausted their fire over her head, at that moment
held her son's ball, and was making signs to him to reclaim it with a
kiss. Edward begged for a long while, the maternal kiss probably not
offering sufficient recompense for the trouble he must take to obtain
it; however at length he decided, leaped out of the window into a
cluster of heliotropes and daisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead
streaming with perspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead,
pressed her lips upon it, and sent him back with the ball in one hand
and some bonbons in the other.

Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the bird to
the serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it, Noirtier's
gaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery brightness that
Villefort felt them pierce to the depths of his heart. In that earnest
look might be read a deep reproach, as well as a terrible menace. Then
Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to remind his son of a
forgotten oath. "It is well, sir," replied Villefort from below,--"it
is well; have patience but one day longer; what I have said I will do."
Noirtier seemed to be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with
indifference to the other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned his
great-coat, which seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand
across his forehead, entered his study.

The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest but
Villefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o'clock in the
morning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night before by the
examining magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses, and
putting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation, which was one of
the most energetic and best conceived of any he had yet delivered.

The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The morning
dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray light shine upon
the lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate had slept for a short
time while the lamp sent forth its final struggles; its flickerings
awoke him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as though they
had been dipped in blood. He opened the window; a bright yellow streak
crossed the sky, and seemed to divide in half the poplars, which stood
out in black relief on the horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the
chestnut-trees, a lark was mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her
clear morning song. The damps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort,
and refreshed his memory. "To-day," he said with an effort,--"to-day the
man who holds the blade of justice must strike wherever there is guilt."
Involuntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier's room,
where he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, and
yet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he addressed
the closed window as though it had been open, and as if through the
opening he had beheld the menacing old man. "Yes," he murmured,--"yes,
be satisfied."

His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced his
study; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa, less to
sleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study. By degrees
every one awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the successive noises
which accompany the life of a house,--the opening and shutting of doors,
the ringing of Madame de Villefort's bell, to summon the waiting-maid,
mingled with the first shouts of the child, who rose full of the
enjoyment of his age. Villefort also rang; his new valet brought him the
papers, and with them a cup of chocolate.

"What are you bringing me?" said he.

"A cup of chocolate."

"I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention?"

"My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great deal in
the murder case, and that you should take something to keep up your
strength;" and the valet placed the cup on the table nearest to the
sofa, which was, like all the rest, covered with papers. The valet then
left the room. Villefort looked for an instant with a gloomy expression,
then, suddenly, taking it up with a nervous motion, he swallowed its
contents at one draught. It might have been thought that he hoped the
beverage would be mortal, and that he sought for death to deliver him
from a duty which he would rather die than fulfil. He then rose, and
paced his room with a smile it would have been terrible to witness.
The chocolate was inoffensive, for M. de Villefort felt no effects. The
breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at table. The valet
re-entered.

"Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir," he said, "that eleven
o'clock has just struck, and that the trial commences at twelve."

"Well," said Villefort, "what then?"

"Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and wishes to know
if she is to accompany you, sir?"

"Where to?"

"To the Palais."

"What to do?"

"My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial."

"Ah," said Villefort, with a startling accent; "does she wish
that?"--The man drew back and said, "If you wish to go alone, sir, I
will go and tell my mistress." Villefort remained silent for a moment,
and dented his pale cheeks with his nails. "Tell your mistress," he at
length answered, "that I wish to speak to her, and I beg she will wait
for me in her own room."

"Yes, sir."

"Then come to dress and shave me."

"Directly, sir." The valet re-appeared almost instantly, and, having
shaved his master, assisted him to dress entirely in black. When he had
finished, he said,--

"My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you had
finished dressing."

"I am going to her." And Villefort, with his papers under his arm and
hat in hand, directed his steps toward the apartment of his wife. At the
door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale brow. He then entered
the room. Madame de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman and impatiently
turning over the leaves of some newspapers and pamphlets which young
Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing to pieces before his
mother could finish reading them. She was dressed to go out, her bonnet
was placed beside her on a chair, and her gloves were on her hands.

"Ah, here you are, monsieur," she said in her naturally calm voice; "but
how pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why did you not come
down to breakfast? Well, will you take me, or shall I take Edward?"
Madame de Villefort had multiplied her questions in order to gain one
answer, but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained mute and cold
as a statue. "Edward," said Villefort, fixing an imperious glance on
the child, "go and play in the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak
to your mamma." Madame de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold
countenance, that resolute tone, and the awfully strange preliminaries.
Edward raised his head, looked at his mother, and then, finding that
she did not confirm the order, began cutting off the heads of his leaden
soldiers.

"Edward," cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child started up
from the floor, "do you hear me?--Go!" The child, unaccustomed to such
treatment, arose, pale and trembling; it would be difficult to say
whether his emotion were caused by fear or passion. His father went up
to him, took him in his arms, and kissed his forehead. "Go," he said:
"go, my child." Edward ran out. M. de Villefort went to the door, which
he closed behind the child, and bolted. "Dear me!" said the young woman,
endeavoring to read her husband's inmost thoughts, while a smile passed
over her countenance which froze the impassibility of Villefort; "what
is the matter?"

"Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?" said the
magistrate, without any introduction, placing himself between his wife
and the door.

Madame de Villefort must have experienced something of the sensation of
a bird which, looking up, sees the murderous trap closing over its head.
A hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from
her, while she became deadly pale. "Monsieur," she said, "I--I do not
understand you." And, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised
herself from the sofa, in the next, stronger very likely than the other,
she fell down again on the cushions. "I asked you," continued Villefort,
in a perfectly calm tone, "where you conceal the poison by the aid
of which you have killed my father-in-law, M. de Saint-Meran, my
mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, and my daughter
Valentine."

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands, "what do
you say?"

"It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer."

"Is it to the judge or to the husband?" stammered Madame de Villefort.
"To the judge--to the judge, madame!" It was terrible to behold the
frightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her look, the trembling
of her whole frame. "Ah, sir," she muttered, "ah, sir," and this was
all.

"You do not answer, madame!" exclaimed the terrible interrogator. Then
he added, with a smile yet more terrible than his anger, "It is true,
then; you do not deny it!" She moved forward. "And you cannot deny it!"
added Villefort, extending his hand toward her, as though to seize her
in the name of justice. "You have accomplished these different crimes
with impudent address, but which could only deceive those whose
affections for you blinded them. Since the death of Madame de
Saint-Meran, I have known that a poisoner lived in my house. M.
d'Avrigny warned me of it. After the death of Barrois my suspicions were
directed towards an angel,--those suspicions which, even when there
is no crime, are always alive in my heart; but after the death of
Valentine, there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in
mine, but in those of others; thus your crime, known by two persons,
suspected by many, will soon become public, and, as I told you just now,
you no longer speak to the husband, but to the judge."

The young woman hid her face in her hands. "Oh, sir," she stammered, "I
beseech you, do not believe appearances."

"Are you, then, a coward?" cried Villefort, in a contemptuous voice.
"But I have always observed that poisoners were cowards. Can you be a
coward,--you who have had the courage to witness the death of two old
men and a young girl murdered by you?"

"Sir! sir!"

"Can you be a coward?" continued Villefort, with increasing excitement,
"you, who could count, one by one, the minutes of four death agonies?
You, who have arranged your infernal plans, and removed the beverages
with a talent and precision almost miraculous? Have you, then, who have
calculated everything with such nicety, have you forgotten to calculate
one thing--I mean where the revelation of your crimes will lead you to?
Oh, it is impossible--you must have saved some surer, more subtle and
deadly poison than any other, that you might escape the punishment
that you deserve. You have done this--I hope so, at least." Madame de
Villefort stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees.

"I understand," he said, "you confess; but a confession made to the
judges, a confession made at the last moment, extorted when the crime
cannot be denied, diminishes not the punishment inflicted on the
guilty!"

"The punishment?" exclaimed Madame de Villefort, "the punishment,
monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!"

"Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four times
guilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld because you are
the wife of him who pronounces it?--No, madame, no; the scaffold awaits
the poisoner, whoever she may be, unless, as I just said, the poisoner
has taken the precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of her
deadliest potion." Madame de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a hideous
and uncontrollable terror spread over her distorted features. "Oh,
do not fear the scaffold, madame," said the magistrate; "I will not
dishonor you, since that would be dishonor to myself; no, if you have
heard me distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die on the
scaffold."

"No, I do not understand; what do you mean?" stammered the unhappy
woman, completely overwhelmed. "I mean that the wife of the first
magistrate in the capital shall not, by her infamy, soil an unblemished
name; that she shall not, with one blow, dishonor her husband and her
child."

"No, no--oh, no!"

"Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part, and I will
thank you for it!"

"You will thank me--for what?"

"For what you have just said."

"What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand anything.
Oh, my God, my God!" And she rose, with her hair dishevelled, and her
lips foaming.

"Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the
room?--where do you keep the poison you generally use, madame?" Madame
de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and convulsively struck one
hand against the other. "No, no," she vociferated, "no, you cannot wish
that!"

"What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the scaffold.
Do you understand?" asked Villefort.

"Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!"

"What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to punish,
madame," he added, with a flaming glance; "any other woman, were it the
queen herself, I would send to the executioner; but to you I shall be
merciful. To you I will say, 'Have you not, madame, put aside some of
the surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?'"

"Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!"

"She is cowardly," said Villefort.

"Reflect that I am your wife!"

"You are a poisoner."

"In the name of heaven!"

"No!"

"In the name of the love you once bore me!"

"No, no!"

"In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me live!"

"No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you will
perhaps kill him, as you have the others!"

"I?--I kill my boy?" cried the distracted mother, rushing toward
Villefort; "I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!" and a frightful, demoniac laugh
finished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse rattle. Madame de
Villefort fell at her husband's feet. He approached her. "Think of it,
madame," he said; "if, on my return, justice his not been satisfied, I
will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with my own hands!"
She listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, and
glared horribly. "Do you understand me?" he said. "I am going down there
to pronounce the sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you
alive on my return, you shall sleep to-night in the conciergerie."
Madame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on the
carpet. The king's attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity;
he looked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly,
"Farewell, madame, farewell!" That farewell struck Madame de Villefort
like the executioner's knife. She fainted. The procureur went out, after
having double-locked the door.

It was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends for a short
summer; the clouds which M. de Villefort had perceived at sunrise
had all disappeared as if by magic, and one of the softest and most
brilliant days of September shone forth in all its splendor.

Beauchamp, one of the kings of the press, and therefore claiming the
right of a throne everywhere, was eying everybody through his monocle.
He perceived Chateau-Renaud and Debray, who had just gained the good
graces of a sergeant-at-arms, and who had persuaded the latter to let
them stand before, instead of behind him, as they ought to have done.
The worthy sergeant had recognized the minister's secretary and the
millionnaire, and, by way of paying extra attention to his noble
neighbors, promised to keep their places while they paid a visit to
Beauchamp.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "we shall see our friend!"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Debray. "That worthy prince. Deuce take those
Italian princes!"

"A man, too, who could boast of Dante for a genealogist, and could
reckon back to the 'Divine Comedy.'"

"A nobility of the rope!" said Chateau-Renaud phlegmatically.

"He will be condemned, will he not?" asked Debray of Beauchamp.

"My dear fellow, I think we should ask you that question; you know such
news much better than we do. Did you see the president at the minister's
last night?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Something which will surprise you."

"Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it is a long time since that has
happened."

"Well, he told me that Benedetto, who is considered a serpent of
subtlety and a giant of cunning, is really but a very commonplace, silly
rascal, and altogether unworthy of the experiments that will be made on
his phrenological organs after his death."

"Bah," said Beauchamp, "he played the prince very well."

"Yes, for you who detest those unhappy princes, Beauchamp, and are
always delighted to find fault with them; but not for me, who discover
a gentleman by instinct, and who scent out an aristocratic family like a
very bloodhound of heraldry."

"Then you never believed in the principality?"

"Yes.--in the principality, but not in the prince."

"Not so bad," said Beauchamp; "still, I assure you, he passed very well
with many people; I saw him at the ministers' houses."

"Ah, yes," said Chateau-Renaud. "The idea of thinking ministers
understand anything about princes!"

"There is something in what you have just said," said Beauchamp,
laughing.

"But," said Debray to Beauchamp, "if I spoke to the president, you must
have been with the procureur."

"It was an impossibility; for the last week M. de Villefort has
secluded himself. It is natural enough; this strange chain of domestic
afflictions, followed by the no less strange death of his daughter"--

"Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp?"

"Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this has been unobserved at the
minister's?" said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass in his eye, where he
tried to make it remain.

"My dear sir," said Chateau-Renaud, "allow me to tell you that you do
not understand that manoeuvre with the eye-glass half so well as Debray.
Give him a lesson, Debray."

"Stay," said Beauchamp, "surely I am not deceived."

"What is it?"

"It is she!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"They said she had left."

"Mademoiselle Eugenie?" said Chateau-Renaud; "has she returned?"

"No, but her mother."

"Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!" said Chateau-Renaud; "only
ten days after the flight of her daughter, and three days from the
bankruptcy of her husband?"

Debray colored slightly, and followed with his eyes the direction of
Beauchamp's glance. "Come," he said, "it is only a veiled lady, some
foreign princess, perhaps the mother of Cavalcanti. But you were just
speaking on a very interesting topic, Beauchamp."

"I?"

"Yes; you were telling us about the extraordinary death of Valentine."

"Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that Madame de Villefort is not here?"

"Poor, dear woman," said Debray, "she is no doubt occupied in distilling
balm for the hospitals, or in making cosmetics for herself or friends.
Do you know she spends two or three thousand crowns a year in this
amusement? But I wonder she is not here. I should have been pleased to
see her, for I like her very much."

"And I hate her," said Chateau-Renaud.

"Why?"

"I do not know. Why do we love? Why do we hate? I detest her, from
antipathy."

"Or, rather, by instinct."

"Perhaps so. But to return to what you were saying, Beauchamp."

"Well, do you know why they die so multitudinously at M. de
Villefort's?"

"'Multitudinously' [drv] is good," said Chateau-Renaud.

"My good fellow, you'll find the word in Saint-Simon."

"But the thing itself is at M. de Villefort's; but let's get back to the
subject."

"Talking of that," said Debray, "Madame was making inquiries about that
house, which for the last three months has been hung with black."

"Who is Madame?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"The minister's wife, pardieu!"

"Oh, your pardon! I never visit ministers; I leave that to the princes."

"Really, You were only before sparkling, but now you are brilliant; take
compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you will wither us up."

"I will not speak again," said Chateau-Renaud; "pray have compassion
upon me, and do not take up every word I say."

"Come, let us endeavor to get to the end of our story, Beauchamp; I
told you that yesterday Madame made inquiries of me upon the subject;
enlighten me, and I will then communicate my information to her."

"Well, gentlemen, the reason people die so multitudinously (I like the
word) at M. de Villefort's is that there is an assassin in the house!"
The two young men shuddered, for the same idea had more than once
occurred to them. "And who is the assassin;" they asked together.

"Young Edward!" A burst of laughter from the auditors did not in the
least disconcert the speaker, who continued,--"Yes, gentlemen; Edward,
the infant phenomenon, who is quite an adept in the art of killing."

"You are jesting."

"Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just left M.
de Villefort--I intend sending him away to-morrow, for he eats so
enormously, to make up for the fast imposed upon him by his terror in
that house. Well, now listen."

"We are listening."

"It appears the dear child has obtained possession of a bottle
containing some drug, which he every now and then uses against those who
have displeased him. First, M. and Madame de Saint-Meran incurred his
displeasure, so he poured out three drops of his elixir--three drops
were sufficient; then followed Barrois, the old servant of M. Noirtier,
who sometimes rebuffed this little wretch--he therefore received the
same quantity of the elixir; the same happened to Valentine, of whom he
was jealous; he gave her the same dose as the others, and all was over
for her as well as the rest."

"Why, what nonsense are you telling us?" said Chateau-Renaud.

"Yes, it is an extraordinary story," said Beauchamp; "is it not?"

"It is absurd," said Debray.

"Ah," said Beauchamp, "you doubt me? Well, you can ask my servant, or
rather him who will no longer be my servant to-morrow, it was the talk
of the house."

"And this elixir, where is it? what is it?"

"The child conceals it."

"But where did he find it?"

"In his mother's laboratory."

"Does his mother then, keep poisons in her laboratory?"

"How can I tell? You are questioning me like a king's attorney. I only
repeat what I have been told, and like my informant I can do no more.
The poor devil would eat nothing, from fear."

"It is incredible!"

"No, my dear fellow, it is not at all incredible. You saw the child pass
through the Rue Richelieu last year, who amused himself with killing his
brothers and sisters by sticking pins in their ears while they slept.
The generation who follow us are very precocious."

"Come, Beauchamp," said Chateau-Renaud, "I will bet anything you do not
believe a word of all you have been telling us."

"I do not see the Count of Monte Cristo here."

"He is worn out," said Debray; "besides, he could not well appear in
public, since he has been the dupe of the Cavalcanti, who, it appears,
presented themselves to him with false letters of credit, and cheated
him out of 100,000. francs upon the hypothesis of this principality."

"By the way, M. de Chateau-Renaud," asked Beauchamp, "how is Morrel?"

"Ma foi, I have called three times without once seeing him. Still, his
sister did not seem uneasy, and told me that though she had not seen him
for two or three days, she was sure he was well."

"Ah, now I think of it, the Count of Monte Cristo cannot appear in the
hall," said Beauchamp.

"Why not?"

"Because he is an actor in the drama."

"Has he assassinated any one, then?"

"No, on the contrary, they wished to assassinate him. You know that
it was in leaving his house that M. de Caderousse was murdered by his
friend Benedetto. You know that the famous waistcoat was found in
his house, containing the letter which stopped the signature of
the marriage-contract. Do you see the waistcoat? There it is, all
blood-stained, on the desk, as a testimony of the crime."

"Ah, very good."

"Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let us go back to our places." A
noise was heard in the hall; the sergeant called his two patrons with
an energetic "hem!" and the door-keeper appearing, called out with that
shrill voice peculiar to his order, ever since the days of Beaumarchais,
"The court, gentlemen!"

"Gendarmes," said the president, "lead in the accused."

At these words the public attention became more intense, and all eyes
were turned towards the door through which Benedetto was to enter.
The door soon opened and the accused appeared. The same impression was
experienced by all present, and no one was deceived by the expression
of his countenance. His features bore no sign of that deep emotion
which stops the beating of the heart and blanches the cheek. His hands,
gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the other in the opening of his
white waistcoat, were not at all tremulous; his eye was calm and even
brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the hall when he glanced at the
whole body of magistrates and assistants; his eye rested longer on the
president, and still more so on the king's attorney. By the side of
Andrea was stationed the lawyer who was to conduct his defence, and
who had been appointed by the court, for Andrea disdained to pay
any attention to those details, to which he appeared to attach no
importance. The lawyer was a young man with light hair whose face
expressed a hundred times more emotion than that which characterized the
prisoner.

The president called for the indictment, revised as we know, by the
clever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the reading of this,
which was long, the public attention was continually drawn towards
Andrea, who bore the inspection with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had
never been so concise and eloquent. The crime was depicted in the most
vivid colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation, a
review of his life from the earliest period, were set forth with all the
talent that a knowledge of human life could furnish to a mind like that
of the procureur. Benedetto was thus forever condemned in public opinion
before the sentence of the law could be pronounced. Andrea paid no
attention to the successive charges which were brought against him. M.
de Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who no doubt practiced
upon him all the psychological studies he was accustomed to use, in vain
endeavored to make him lower his eyes, notwithstanding the depth and
profundity of his gaze. At length the reading of the indictment was
ended.

"Accused," said the president, "your name and surname?" Andrea arose.
"Excuse me, Mr. President," he said, in a clear voice, "but I see you
are going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot follow
you. I have an idea, which I will explain by and by, of making an
exception to the usual form of accusation. Allow me, then, if you
please, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all."
The astonished president looked at the jury, who in turn looked at
Villefort. The whole assembly manifested great surprise, but Andrea
appeared quite unmoved. "Your age?" said the president; "will you answer
that question?"

"I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr. President, but in
its turn."

"Your age?" repeated the president.

"I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few days, as I was
born the night of the 27th of September, 1817." M. de Villefort, who
was busy taking down some notes, raised his head at the mention of this
date. "Where were you born?" continued the president.

"At Auteuil, near Paris." M. de Villefort a second time raised his head,
looked at Benedetto as if he had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and
became livid. As for Benedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine
cambric pocket-handkerchief. "Your profession?"

"First I was a forger," answered Andrea, as calmly as possible; "then I
became a thief, and lately have become an assassin." A murmur, or rather
storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the assembly. The judges
themselves appeared to be stupefied, and the jury manifested tokens of
disgust for cynicism so unexpected in a man of fashion. M. de Villefort
pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at first pale, had become red and
burning; then he suddenly arose and looked around as though he had lost
his senses--he wanted air.

"Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?" asked Benedetto, with his
most ingratiating smile. M. de Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or
rather threw himself down again upon his chair. "And now, prisoner,
will you consent to tell your name?" said the president. "The brutal
affectation with which you have enumerated and classified your crimes
calls for a severe reprimand on the part of the court, both in the name
of morality, and for the respect due to humanity. You appear to consider
this a point of honor, and it may be for this reason, that you have
delayed acknowledging your name. You wished it to be preceded by all
these titles."

"It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have read my
thoughts," said Benedetto, in his softest voice and most polite manner.
"This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to alter the order of the
questions." The public astonishment had reached its height. There was no
longer any deceit or bravado in the manner of the accused. The audience
felt that a startling revelation was to follow this ominous prelude.

"Well," said the president; "your name?"

"I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I know my
father's, and can tell it to you."

A painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of acrid sweat
fell from his face upon the papers which he held in his convulsed hand.

"Repeat your father's name," said the president. Not a whisper, not a
breath, was heard in that vast assembly; every one waited anxiously.

"My father is king's attorney," replied Andrea calmly.

"King's attorney?" said the president, stupefied, and without noticing
the agitation which spread over the face of M. de Villefort; "king's
attorney?"

"Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it,--he is named
Villefort." The explosion, which had been so long restrained from a
feeling of respect to the court of justice, now burst forth like thunder
from the breasts of all present; the court itself did not seek to
restrain the feelings of the audience. The exclamations, the insults
addressed to Benedetto, who remained perfectly unconcerned, the
energetic gestures, the movement of the gendarmes, the sneers of the
scum of the crowd always sure to rise to the surface in case of any
disturbance--all this lasted five minutes, before the door-keepers and
magistrates were able to restore silence. In the midst of this tumult
the voice of the president was heard to exclaim,--"Are you playing with
justice, accused, and do you dare set your fellow-citizens an example of
disorder which even in these times 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."

Every one turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the
universal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into the
midst of the tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face indented
with the mark of his nails. The whole assembly uttered a long murmur of
astonishment. "Father," said Benedetto, "I am asked for proofs, do you
wish me to give them?"

"No, no, it is useless," stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse voice;
"no, it is useless!"

"How useless?" cried the president, "what do you mean?"

"I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this deadly weight
which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands of an avenging
God! We need no proofs; everything relating to this young man is true."
A dull, gloomy silence, like that which precedes some awful phenomenon
of nature, pervaded the assembly, who shuddered in dismay. "What, M.
de Villefort," cried the president, "do you yield to an hallucination?
What, are you no longer in possession of your senses? This strange,
unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered your reason. Come,
recover."

The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those of a man
under a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly pale.

"I am in possession of all my senses, sir," he said; "my body alone
suffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of all the
young man has brought against me, and from this hour hold myself under
the authority of the procureur who will succeed me."

And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he staggered
towards the door, which was mechanically opened by a door-keeper.
The whole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the revelation and
confession which had produced a catastrophe so different from that which
had been expected during the last fortnight by the Parisian world.

"Well," said Beauchamp, "let them now say that drama is unnatural!"

"Ma foi!" said Chateau-Renaud, "I would rather end my career like M.
de Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared with this
catastrophe."

"And moreover, it kills," said Beauchamp.

"And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter," said Debray.
"She did well to die, poor girl!"

"The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen," said the president; "fresh
inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next session by
another magistrate." As for Andrea, who was calm and more interesting
than ever, he left the hall, escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily
paid him some attention. "Well, what do you think of this, my fine
fellow?" asked Debray of the sergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his
hand. "There will be extenuating circumstances," he replied.

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which Villefort
left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement, every nerve
was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his body seemed
to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his agony a
thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through force of
habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of deference to
etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a veritable garb
of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far as the Rue
Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping coachman by
opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed
towards the Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage drove on. The weight of
his fallen fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him; he could not
foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future with the
indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a contingency
already familiar. God was still in his heart. "God," he murmured, not
knowing what he said,--"God--God!" Behind the event that had overwhelmed
him he saw the hand of God. The carriage rolled rapidly onward.
Villefort, while turning restlessly on the cushions, felt something
press against him. He put out his hand to remove the object; it was
a fan which Madame de Villefort had left in the carriage; this fan
awakened a recollection which darted through his mind like lightning. He
thought of his wife.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot iron were piercing his heart.
During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his mind;
now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself. His
wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, he had condemned
her to death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with terror,
covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of his irreproachable
virtue,--she, a poor, weak woman, without help or the power of defending
herself against his absolute and supreme will,--she might at that very
moment, perhaps, be preparing to die! An hour had elapsed since her
condemnation; at that moment, doubtless, she was recalling all her
crimes to her memory; she was asking pardon for her sins; perhaps
she was even writing a letter imploring forgiveness from her virtuous
husband--a forgiveness she was purchasing with her death! Villefort
again groaned with anguish and despair. "Ah," he exclaimed, "that woman
became criminal only from associating with me! I carried the infection
of crime with me, and she has caught it as she would the typhus fever,
the cholera, the plague! And yet I have punished her--I have dared to
tell her--I have--'Repent and die!' But no, she must not die; she shall
live, and with me. We will flee from Paris and go as far as the earth
reaches. I told her of the scaffold; oh, heavens, I forgot that it
awaits me also! How could I pronounce that word? Yes, we will fly;
I will confess all to her,--I will tell her daily that I also have
committed a crime!--Oh, what an alliance--the tiger and the serpent;
worthy wife of such as I am! She must live that my infamy may diminish
hers." And Villefort dashed open the window in front of the carriage.

"Faster, faster!" he cried, in a tone which electrified the coachman.
The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house.

"Yes, yes," repeated Villefort, as he approached his home--"yes, that
woman must live; she must repent, and educate my son, the sole survivor,
with the exception of the indestructible old man, of the wreck of
my house. She loves him; it was for his sake she has committed these
crimes. We ought never to despair of softening the heart of a mother who
loves her child. She will repent, and no one will know that she has been
guilty. The events which have taken place in my house, though they now
occupy the public mind, will be forgotten in time, or if, indeed, a few
enemies should persist in remembering them, why then I will add them to
my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two, or three more are
added? My wife and child shall escape from this gulf, carrying treasures
with them; she will live and may yet be happy, since her child, in whom
all her love is centred, will be with her. I shall have performed a good
action, and my heart will be lighter." And the procureur breathed more
freely than he had done for some time.

The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped out
of the carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at his early
return; he could read no other expression on their features. Neither of
them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as usual,
nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier's room, he perceived two
figures through the half-open door; but he experienced no curiosity to
know who was visiting his father: anxiety carried him on further.

"Come," he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife's room,
"nothing is changed here." He then closed the door of the landing.
"No one must disturb us," he said; "I must speak freely to her, accuse
myself, and say"--he approached the door, touched the crystal handle,
which yielded to his hand. "Not locked," he cried; "that is well." And
he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the child
went to school during the day, his mother could not allow him to be
separated from her at night. With a single glance Villefort's eye
ran through the room. "Not here," he said; "doubtless she is in her
bedroom." He rushed towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped,
shuddering. "Heloise!" he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a
piece of furniture being removed. "Heloise!" he repeated.

"Who is there?" answered the voice of her he sought. He thought that
voice more feeble than usual.

"Open the door!" cried Villefort. "Open; it is I." But notwithstanding
this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish in which it was
uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst it open with a
violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led to her boudoir,
Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features contracted,
and her eyes glaring horribly. "Heloise, Heloise!" he said, "what is the
matter? Speak!" The young woman extended her stiff white hands towards
him. "It is done, monsieur," she said with a rattling noise which seemed
to tear her throat. "What more do you want?" and she fell full length on
the floor. Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively
clasped a crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was
dead. Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshhold
of the door, fixing his eyes on the corpse: "My son!" he exclaimed
suddenly, "where is my son?--Edward, Edward!" and he rushed out of the
room, still crying, "Edward, Edward!" The name was pronounced in such a
tone of anguish that the servants ran up.

"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; "let him be removed from the house,
that he may not see"--

"Master Edward is not down-stairs, sir," replied the valet.

"Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see."

"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went
into her room, and has not been down-stairs since." A cold perspiration
burst out on Villefort's brow; his legs trembled, and his thoughts flew
about madly in his brain like the wheels of a disordered watch. "In
Madame de Villefort's room?" he murmured and slowly returned, with one
hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting himself
against the wall. To enter the room he must again see the body of his
unfortunate wife. To call Edward he must reawaken the echo of that room
which now appeared like a sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the
silence of the tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

"Edward!" he stammered--"Edward!" The child did not answer. Where, then,
could he be, if he had entered his mother's room and not since returned?
He stepped forward. The corpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched
across the doorway leading to the room in which Edward must be; those
glaring eyes seemed to watch over the threshold, and the lips bore the
stamp of a terrible and mysterious irony. Through the open door was
visible a portion of the boudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue
satin couch. Villefort stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld
his child lying--no doubt asleep--on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered
an exclamation of joy; a ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of
despair and darkness. He had only to step over the corpse, enter the
boudoir, take the child in his arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto
death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities,
but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning
brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called
him, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the
cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; he
pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat,--the child
was dead. A folded paper fell from Edward's breast. Villefort,
thunderstruck, fell upon his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and
rolled on the floor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper,
and, recognizing his wife's writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its
contents; it ran as follows:--

"You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son's sake I
became criminal. A good mother cannot depart without her son."

Villefort could not believe his eyes,--he could not believe his reason;
he dragged himself towards the child's body, and examined it as a
lioness contemplates its dead cub. Then a piercing cry escaped from his
breast, and he cried, "Still the hand of God." The presence of the
two victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude shared only by two
corpses. Until then he had been sustained by rage, by his strength of
mind, by despair, by the supreme agony which led the Titans to scale the
heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He now arose, his head bowed beneath
the weight of grief, and, shaking his damp, dishevelled hair, he who had
never felt compassion for any one determined to seek his father, that he
might have some one to whom he could relate his misfortunes,--some one
by whose side he might weep. He descended the little staircase with
which we are acquainted, and entered Noirtier's room. The old man
appeared to be listening attentively and as affectionately as his
infirmities would allow to the Abbe Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as
usual. Villefort, perceiving the abbe, passed his hand across his
brow. He recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at
Auteuil, and then the visit the abbe had himself paid to his house on
the day of Valentine's death. "You here, sir!" he exclaimed; "do you,
then, never appear but to act as an escort to death?"

Busoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement depicted on the
magistrate's face, the savage lustre of his eyes, he understood that
the revelation had been made at the assizes; but beyond this he was
ignorant. "I came to pray over the body of your daughter."

"And now why are you here?"

"I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt, and
that from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you, as I do."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully, "surely
that is not the voice of the Abbe Busoni!"

"No!" The abbe threw off his wig, shook his head, and his hair, no
longer confined, fell in black masses around his manly face.

"It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!" exclaimed the procureur,
with a haggard expression.

"You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go farther back."

"That voice, that voice!--where did I first hear it?"

"You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three years ago,
the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran. Refer to your
papers."

"You are not Busoni?--you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens--you are,
then, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged you
in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!"

"Yes; you are now on the right path," said the count, crossing his arms
over his broad chest; "search--search!"

"But what have I done to you?" exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was
balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a
dream nor reality; "what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!"

"You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father;
you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness."

"Who are you, then? Who are you?"

"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Chateau
d'If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when
he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds,
and led him to you!"

"Ah, I recognize you--I recognize you!" exclaimed the king's attorney;
"you are"--

"I am Edmond Dantes!"

"You are Edmond Dantes," cried Villefort, seizing the count by the
wrist; "then come here!" And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who,
ignorant of what had happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing
some new catastrophe. "There, Edmond Dantes!" he said, pointing to the
bodies of his wife and child, "see, are you well avenged?" Monte Cristo
became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond
the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say, "God is for
and with me." With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw
himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its
pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine's room, of which he
double-locked the door. "My child," cried Villefort, "he carries away
the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to you!" and he tried to
follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was transfixed to the
spot,--his eyes glared as though they were starting through the sockets;
he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails were stained with
blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as though they would
burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain with living fire.
This lasted several minutes, until the frightful overturn of reason was
accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed by a burst of laughter,
he rushed down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine's room opened, and
Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all the
noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were overcast
by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had been able to
recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it reverently by the side
of its mother, with its head upon her breast. Then, rising, he went
out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he asked, "Where is M. de
Villefort?"

The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo
ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld
Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and
digging the earth with fury. "It is not here!" he cried. "It is not
here!" And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.

Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an expression
almost humble, "Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but"--

Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard. "Oh, I
will find it," he cried; "you may pretend he is not here, but I will
find him, though I dig forever!" Monte Cristo drew back in horror. "Oh,"
he said, "he is mad!" And as though he feared that the walls of the
accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street, for
the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had done.
"Oh, enough of this,--enough of this," he cried; "let me save the last."
On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a ghost
awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb. "Prepare yourself,
Maximilian," he said with a smile; "we leave Paris to-morrow."

"Have you nothing more to do there?" asked Morrel.

"No," replied Monte Cristo; "God grant I may not have done too much
already."

The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Haidee had
taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier.

"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!"

"I cannot have deceived myself," he said; "I must look upon the past in
a false light. What!" he continued, "can I have been following a false
path?--can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?--can one hour
have sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which
he founded all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious,
undertaking? I cannot reconcile myself to this idea--it would madden
me. The reason why I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear
appreciation of the past. The past, like the country through which we
walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of
a person wounded in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot
recollect when he received it. Come, then, thou regenerate man,
thou extravagant prodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful
visionary, thou invincible millionaire,--once again review thy past
life of starvation and wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate
and misfortune conducted, and where despair received thee. Too many
diamonds, too much gold and splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in
which Monte Cristo seeks to behold Dantes. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy
gold, shroud thy splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a
prison, a living body for a corpse!" As he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo
walked down the Rue de la Caisserie. It was the same through which,
twenty-four years ago, he had been conducted by a silent and nocturnal
guard; the houses, to-day so smiling and animated, were on that night
dark, mute, and closed. "And yet they were the same," murmured Monte
Cristo, "only now it is broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun
which brightens the place, and makes it appear so cheerful."

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to
the Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat
with striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who
immediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for a
good fare. The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat.

The sun, red and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming
ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the
leaping of fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for
safety in another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon
might be seen the fishermen's boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull,
or the merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and
the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of Monte
Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible voyage,
the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. The
solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the Chateau
d'If, which told him whither they were leading him; the struggle with
the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; his despair
when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of
the carbine touched his forehead--all these were brought before him
in vivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heat of the
summer has dried up, and which after the autumnal storms gradually begin
oozing drop by drop, so did the count feel his heart gradually fill with
the bitterness which formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear
sky, swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the
heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure of the Chateau
d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the
shore, the count instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat,
and the owner was obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice,
"Sir, we are at the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he had
been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the slope
at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long to
Dantes, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oar
seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the flying
spray of the sea.

There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'If since the
revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for the
prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit to
visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. The count
inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there; but they
had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other employment. The
concierge who attended him had only been there since 1830. He visited
his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly endeavoring to
penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the spot where had
stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed the new stones
indicated where the breach made by the Abbe Faria had been. Monte Cristo
felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log of wood.

"Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one
relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked the count; "are there any
traditions respecting these dismal abodes,--in which it is difficult to
believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?"

"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this
very dungeon."

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost
forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled
his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing
the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still
seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the
corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge.
"Would you like to hear the story, sir?"

"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to
still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.

"This dungeon," said the concierge, "was, it appears, some time ago
occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of
industry. Another person was confined in the Chateau at the same time,
but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest."

"Ah, indeed?--mad!" repeated Monte Cristo; "and what was his mania?"

"He offered millions to any one who would set him at liberty."

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there
was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there
had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria
offered the treasures. "Could the prisoners see each other?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance
of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other."

"And which of them made this passage?"

"Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and
industrious, while the abbe was aged and weak; besides, his mind was too
vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea."

"Blind fools!" murmured the count.

"However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by
what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet
remaining of his work. Do you see it?" and the man held the torch to the
wall.

"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.

"The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how long
they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. Now
guess what the young one did?"

"Tell me."

"He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its face
to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the entrance, and
slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body. Did you ever
hear of such an idea?" Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again
to experience all the sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas,
yet moist with the cold dews of death, had touched his face. The jailer
continued: "Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the
dead at the Chateau d'If, and imagining they would not expend much labor
on the grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with
his shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Chateau
frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely
attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the
sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of the
rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth was
guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what they
had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse was
thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost immediately
stifled by the water in which it disappeared." The count breathed with
difficulty; the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was full
of anguish.

"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was but the commencement of
forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts
for vengeance. And the prisoner," he continued aloud, "was he ever heard
of afterwards?"

"Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must
have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow,
from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he must
have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to the
bottom, where he remained--poor fellow!"

"Then you pity him?" said the count.

"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element."

"What do you mean?"

"The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined
for plotting with the Bonapartists."

"Great is truth," muttered the count, "fire cannot burn, nor water drown
it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narrate
his history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a
shudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to be
swallowed by the deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Was his name ever
known?"

"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."

"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured the count, "this scene must often
have haunted thy sleepless hours!"

"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?" said the concierge.

"Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbe's room."

"Ah--No. 27."

"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the
abbe answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his
name.

"Come, sir."

"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to take one final glance around this
room."

"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I have forgotten the other key."

"Go and fetch it."

"I will leave you the torch, sir."

"No, take it away; I can see in the dark."

"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness
that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon."

"He spent fourteen years to arrive at that," muttered the count.

The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly.
Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly
as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his
dungeon.

"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is
the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of
my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those
figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate
the age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still
living, and that of Mercedes, to know if I should find her still free.
After finishing that calculation, I had a minute's hope. I did not
reckon upon hunger and infidelity!" and a bitter laugh escaped the
count. He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of
Mercedes. On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription,
the white letters of which were still visible on the green wall. "'O
God,'" he read, "'preserve my memory!' Oh, yes," he cried, "that was
my only prayer at last; I no longer begged for liberty, but memory;
I dreaded to become mad and forgetful. O God, thou hast preserved my
memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!" At this moment the light of the
torch was reflected on the wall; the guide was coming; Monte Cristo went
to meet him.

"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted
him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte
Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that
met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbe on the wall, by which
he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which
the poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the
anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with a
soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

"This is where the mad abbe was kept, sir, and that is where the young
man entered;" and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained
unclosed. "From the appearance of the stone," he continued, "a learned
gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated together
for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary years."

Dantes took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who
had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them
merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch revealed
their true worth. "Sir," he said, "you have made a mistake; you have
given me gold."

"I know it." The concierge looked upon the count with surprise. "Sir,"
he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune--"sir, I cannot
understand your generosity!"

"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your
story touched me more than it would others."

"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something."

"What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank
you!"

"No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story."

"Really? What is it?"

"Listen," said the guide; "I said to myself, 'Something is always left
in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,' so I began to
sound the wall."

"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbe's two hiding-places.

"After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the
head of the bed, and at the hearth."

"Yes," said the count, "yes."

"I raised the stones, and found"--

"A rope-ladder and some tools?"

"How do you know that?" asked the guide in astonishment.

"I do not know--I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally
found in prisoners' cells."

"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."

"And have you them yet?"

"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great
curiosities; but I have still something left."

"What is it?" asked the count, impatiently.

"A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth."

"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do
well."

"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide went out. Then the count knelt
down by the side of the bed, which death had converted into an altar.
"Oh, second father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast given me liberty,
knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to
ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the
depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can
respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the
soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,--then,
noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love thou
didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some
sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, if
it change not to conviction, must become remorse!" The count bowed his
head, and clasped his hands together.

"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of
cloth upon which the Abbe Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The
manuscript was the great work by the Abbe Faria upon the kingdoms of
Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the
epigraph, and he read, "'Thou shalt tear out the dragons' teeth, and
shall trample the lions under foot, saith the Lord.'"

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks."
And feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which
contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000. francs.

"Here," he said, "take this pocket-book."

"Do you give it to me?"

"Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;"
and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was more
valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the corridor,
and reaching his boat, cried, "To Marseilles!" Then, as he departed, he
fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison. "Woe," he cried, "to those who
confined me in that wretched prison; and woe to those who forgot that
I was there!" As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and
burying his head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory
was complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced,
in a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haidee.

On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure of
finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a tomb,
and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions, had been
unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from hunger.
Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had fallen down
and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old wood in the
churchyard. The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the
arms of his children, he had been by them laid by the side of his
wife, who had preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of
marble, on which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side
of a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees.
Morrel was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes
on the graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.
"Maximilian," said the count, "you should not look on the graves, but
there;" and he pointed upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not yourself tell me so
as we left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during the journey to allow
you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?"

"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less
painfully here than anywhere else."

"So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with
me, do I not?"

"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

"No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,
because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again."

"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy."

"I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the infirmity of our nature always to
believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!"

"What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and
desired in the world?"

"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I
knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a
woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed
bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the
caprices of fate,--which would almost make us doubt the goodness of
providence, if that providence did not afterwards reveal itself by
proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,--one of those
caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had
dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the present),
and cast him into a dungeon."

"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year."

"He remained there fourteen years, Morrel," said the count, placing his
hand on the young man's shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.

"Fourteen years!" he muttered--"Fourteen years!" repeated the count.
"During that time he had many moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like
you, considered himself the unhappiest of men."

"Well?" asked Morrel.

"Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human
means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of the
Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he miraculously
left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for his
father; but that father was dead."

"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.

"Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and
full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of
providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his
tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, 'There sleeps the father you
so well loved.'"

"Oh!" exclaimed Morrel.

"He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not
even find his father's grave."

"But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?"

"You are deceived, Morrel, that woman"--

"She was dead?"

"Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the
persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more
unhappy lover than you."

"And has he found consolation?"

"He has at least found peace."

"And does he ever expect to be happy?"

"He hopes so, Maximilian." The young man's head fell on his breast.

"You have my promise," he said, after a minute's pause, extending his
hand to Monte Cristo. "Only remember"--

"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of
Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of
Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will give your name to the
captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood--is it not?"

"But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October"--

"Child," replied the count, "not to know the value of a man's word! I
have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will
assist you. Morrel, farewell!"

"Do you leave me?"

"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone with your misfortunes,
and with hope, Maximilian."

"When do you leave?"

"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from you.
Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?"

"I am entirely yours, count." Morrel accompanied the count to the
harbor. The white steam was ascending like a plume of feathers from the
black chimney. The steamer soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards,
as the count had said, was scarcely distinguishable in the horizon
amidst the fogs of the night.

The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the left, and
stopped at the Hotel d'Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance,
received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller alighted,
ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house of Thomson
& French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one of the most
celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St.
Peter's. In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an
event. Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and
out at elbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully
curved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and the
horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the Papal
States, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high water
from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of Rome,
more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language, more
especially the French, they heard the traveller order an apartment, a
dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of Thomson & French.
The result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the cicerone,
a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and without having
been seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no attention from
the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a Parisian police
agent would have used.

The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson &
French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left
word for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him
at the bankers' door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. The
Frenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately
entered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlers
who are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses,
churches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had
followed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and
entered the first room; his shadow did the same.

"Messrs. Thomson & French?" inquired the stranger.

An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the first
desk. "Whom shall I announce?" said the attendant.

"Baron Danglars."

"Follow me," said the man. A door opened, through which the attendant
and the baron disappeared. The man who had followed Danglars sat down on
a bench. The clerk continued to write for the next five minutes; the man
preserved profound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the
pen of the clerk ceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and
appearing to be perfectly sure of privacy,--"Ah, ha," he said, "here you
are, Peppino!"

"Yes," was the laconic reply. "You have found out that there is
something worth having about this large gentleman?"

"There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it."

"You know his business here, then."

"Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I don't know how much!"

"You will know presently, my friend."

"Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other
day."

"What do you mean?--of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who
carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?"

"No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian
prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000."

"You must have searched badly."

"Luigi Vampa himself searched."

"Indeed? But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman will
transact his business without my knowing the sum." Peppino nodded, and
taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter a few prayers while
the clerk disappeared through the same door by which Danglars and the
attendant had gone out. At the expiration of ten minutes the clerk
returned with a beaming countenance. "Well?" asked Peppino of his
friend.

"Joy, joy--the sum is large!"

"Five or six millions, is it not?"

"Yes, you know the amount."

"On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?"

"I told you we were informed beforehand."

"Then why do you apply to me?"

"That I may be sure I have the right man."

"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions--a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?"

"Hush--here is our man!" The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his
beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened.
Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the
door. Peppino followed Danglars.

According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door. The
guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn their
hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young man of
twenty. The cicerone reclosed the door, and sprang up by the side of the
coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.

"Will your excellency visit St. Peter's?" asked the cicerone.

"I did not come to Rome to see," said Danglars aloud; then he added
softly, with an avaricious smile, "I came to touch!" and he rapped his
pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.

"Then your excellency is going"--

"To the hotel."

"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to the coachman, and the carriage
drove rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his
apartment, and Peppino stationed himself on the bench outside the door
of the hotel, after having whispered something in the ear of one of the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning
of the chapter, who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol
at his fullest speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went
to bed, placing his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little
spare time, so he had a game of mora with the facchini, lost three
crowns, and then to console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.

The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early; he
had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at all.
He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the beauties
of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars had not
reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of the
posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o'clock, and the cicerone
did not bring the passport till three. All these preparations had
collected a number of idlers round the door of Signor Pastrini's; the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were also not wanting. The baron
walked triumphantly through the crowd, who for the sake of gain styled
him "your excellency." As Danglars had hitherto contented himself
with being called a baron, he felt rather flattered at the title of
excellency, and distributed a dozen silver coins among the beggars, who
were ready, for twelve more, to call him "your highness."

"Which road?" asked the postilion in Italian. "The Ancona road," replied
the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the question and answer, and the
horses galloped off. Danglars intended travelling to Venice, where he
would receive one part of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna,
where he would find the rest, he meant to take up his residence in the
latter town, which he had been told was a city of pleasure.

He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began
to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would
have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long
it would be before they reached the next town. "Non capisco" (do not
understand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to
imply, "Very well." The carriage again moved on. "I will stop at the
first posting-house," said Danglars to himself.

He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the
previous evening, and which had procured him so good a night's rest. He
was luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double springs;
he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the relay
to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation could
present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?

Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another ten
minutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d'Armilly;
the same period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which
he intended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for
contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt
more violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he felt
that he was still being carried with great rapidity over the same
country, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like granite
giants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold, dull, and
rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to remain in the
warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to make inquiries
of a postilion whose only answer was "Non capisco."

Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he would
be sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglars
fancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his eyes
and looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the midst
of some town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what
seemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows.
Danglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demand
payment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantage
of the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but the
horses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without any
one claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened the
door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled on. The
baron was completely roused. "Eh?" he said to the postilion, "eh, mio
caro?"

This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned from
hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But mio caro
did not reply. Danglars then opened the window.

"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting his hand through the opening,
"where are we going?"

"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied by
a menacing gesture. Danglars thought dentro la testa meant, "Put in your
head!" He was making rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without
some uneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead
of being as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill with
ideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially
one in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality
which in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to see
distinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed. Before
we are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see double;
and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble. Danglars
observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the carriage.

"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I have been intercepted by French
telegrams to the pontifical authorities?" He resolved to end his
anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he asked. "Dentro la testa," replied
the same voice, with the same menacing accent.

Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping
on that side. "Decidedly," said Danglars, with the perspiration on his
forehead, "I must be under arrest." And he threw himself back in the
calash, not this time to sleep, but to think. Directly afterwards the
moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts, those stone phantoms which
he had before remarked, only then they were on the right hand, now they
were on the left. He understood that they had described a circle, and
were bringing him back to Rome. "Oh, unfortunate!" he cried, "they
must have obtained my arrest." The carriage continued to roll on with
frightful speed. An hour of terror elapsed, for every spot they passed
showed that they were on the road back. At length he saw a dark mass,
against which it seemed as if the carriage was about to dash; but the
vehicle turned to one side, leaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw
that it was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.

"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not returning to Rome; then it
is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea
presents itself--what if they should be"--

His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, so
little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered the
adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended that
he should marry Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They are robbers, perhaps," he
muttered. Just then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel
road. Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceived
monuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the details
Morcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he
felt sure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of
valley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla's circus.
On a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it stopped.
At the same time the door was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a commanding
voice. Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak
Italian, he understood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked
around him. Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion.

"Di qua," said one of the men, descending a little path leading out of
the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and
had no occasion to turn around to see whether the three others were
following him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equal
distances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about ten
minutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with his
guide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds;
three men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was the
centre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move. "Avanti!"
said the same sharp and imperative voice.

This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word
and gesture had not explained the speaker's meaning, it was clearly
expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely that
he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who
dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but
lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road. Peppino
stopped before a pit overhung by thick hedges; the pit, half open,
afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the evil
spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man who
followed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer
any doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars
acquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions,
and who is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,
certainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he
slid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he
touched the ground, he opened his eyes. The path was wide, but dark.
Peppino, who cared little for being recognized now that he was in his
own territories, struck a light and lit a torch. Two other men descended
after Danglars forming the rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he
happened to stop, they came by a gentle declivity to the intersection of
two corridors. The walls were hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the
other, and which seemed in contrast with the white stones to open their
large dark eyes, like those which we see on the faces of the dead. A
sentinel struck the rings of his carbine against his left hand. "Who
comes there?" he cried.

"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but where is the captain?"

"There," said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spacious
crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into the
passage through the large arched openings. "Fine spoil, captain, fine
spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and taking Danglars by the collar of
his coat he dragged him to an opening resembling a door, through which
they entered the apartment which the captain appeared to have made his
dwelling-place.

"Is this the man?" asked the captain, who was attentively reading
Plutarch's "Life of Alexander."

"Himself, captain--himself."

"Very well, show him to me." At this rather impertinent order, Peppino
raised his torch to the face of Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he
might not have his eyelashes burnt. His agitated features presented
the appearance of pale and hideous terror. "The man is tired," said the
captain, "conduct him to his bed."

"Oh," murmured Danglars, "that bed is probably one of the coffins
hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from one
of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness."

From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the chamber
now arose the companions of the man who had been found by Albert de
Morcerf reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by Danglars studying the
"Life of Alexander." The banker uttered a groan and followed his guide;
he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer possessed strength,
will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led him. At length he
found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he mechanically lifted
his foot five or six times. Then a low door was opened before him, and
bending his head to avoid striking his forehead he entered a small room
cut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, though
situated at an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed of dried
grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one corner. Danglars
brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave some promise of
safety. "Oh, God be praised," he said; "it is a real bed!"

"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he closed
the door upon him. A bolt grated and Danglars was a prisoner. If there
had been no bolt, it would have been impossible for him to pass through
the midst of the garrison who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian,
encamped round a master whom our readers must have recognized as the
famous Luigi Vampa. Danglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose
existence he would not believe when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in
Paris; and not only did he recognize him, but the cell in which Albert
had been confined, and which was probably kept for the accommodation
of strangers. These recollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure
by Danglars, and restored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since the
bandits had not despatched him at once, he felt that they would not kill
him at all. They had arrested him for the purpose of robbery, and as he
had only a few louis about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed.
He remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and as he
considered himself of much greater importance than Morcerf he fixed
his own price at 8,000 crowns. Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000
livres; he would then have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum he
could manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably secure in
being able to extricate himself from his position, provided he were not
rated at the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he stretched himself
on his bed, and after turning over two or three times, fell asleep with
the tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi Vampa was studying.