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


And they would be right, pardieu!


Oh, I think you swore, Eugénie.


Gate!


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


Indeed. I admire you, and I could almost say respect you.


Here is the passport, which way are we going, young gentleman?


To Fontainebleau,


What do you say?


I am giving them the slip, this woman to whom we have given twenty louis may betray us for forty; we will soon alter our direction.


You are always right. Ah, here we are out of Paris.


Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,


Yes, and without violence,


I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,


Am I to be captured? no, not if I can use more activity than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question of speed. Ho, friend!


What do you want, sir?


Is your horse tired?


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


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


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


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


I tell you he’ll go like the wind,—only tell me which way to drive.


Towards the Louvres.


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


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


It is likely.


Well, will you try and overtake him?


Nothing I should like better.


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


And if we do overtake him?


Forty,


That’s all right, hop in, and we’re off! Who-o-o-pla!


Ah, if I only had that britzka, those two good post-horses, and above all the passport that carries them on! Hurry, hurry! we must overtake him soon. Certainly. I shall not overtake my friend, but I shall kill your horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty francs; I will sleep at the Cheval Rouge, and will secure a place in the first coach. Good-night, friend.


My friend. I was coming from Mortefontaine to Senlis, when my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me. I must reach Compiègne tonight, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?


My friend. I have been dining at Saint-Jean-aux-Bois, and expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a fool I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours in the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which overlook the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux.


Why is that gendarme there? There is nothing astonishing in seeing a gendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress myself. Now then. I’ll wait till he leaves, and then I’ll slip away.


They’re after me! Diable! I am lost!


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


Oh, oh, a bad sign to find the door open! I would rather find it triply bolted.


He is not here!


Well?


Well, my boys, the brigand must really have escaped early this morning; but we will send to the Villers-Coterets and Noyon roads, and search the forest, when we shall catch him, no doubt. Ah, what is that?


Some traveller seems impatient. What number was it that rang?


Number 3.


Run, waiter!


Aha! the person who is ringing appears to want something more than a waiter; we will attend upon him with a gendarme. Who occupies Number 3?


The little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise with his sister, and who asked for an apartment with two beds.


Follow me, Mr. Commissary! tread in my steps.


Wait an instant. Number 3 has two staircases,—inside and outside.


Good. I will take charge of the inside one. Are the carbines loaded?


Yes, brigadier.


Well, you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly, fire upon him; he must be a great criminal, from what the telegraph says.


For pity’s sake, for pity’s sake do not call assistance! Save me!—I will not harm you.


Andrea, the murderer!


Eugénie! Mademoiselle Danglars!


Help, help!


Save me, I am pursued! For pity, for mercy’s sake do not deliver me up!


It is too late, they are coming,


Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly alarmed; you can turn their suspicions and save my life!


Well, be it so, return by the same road you came, and we will say nothing about you, unhappy wretch.


Here he is, here he is!


here he is! I see him!


Fly, then! fly!


Or kill yourself!


Kill myself? why should I do so?


Why, you said, that you would be condemned to die like the worst criminals.


Bah, one has friends. Come, come, sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there is no occasion to make such a fuss, since I give myself up; Have you any message for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all probability I shall return to Paris? Oh, oh! you need not be ashamed, even though you did post after me. Was I not nearly your husband?


Oh, why is not the world a wilderness?


Mademoiselle Eugénie, retired to her apartment with Mademoiselle d’Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they desired me to leave, saying that they needed me no longer.


Eugénie, is lost, and so are we. The affair, as it will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in a society such as ours satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate that Eugénie is possessed of that strange character which has so often made me tremble!


Will there be another funeral today at the procureur’s house?


Do you intend opening the door?


First, madame, who are you?


Who am I? You know me well enough.


We no longer know anyone, madame.


You must be mad, my friend,


Where do you come from?


Oh, this is too much!


Madame, these are my orders; excuse me. Your name?


The baroness Danglars; you have seen me twenty times.


Possibly, madame. And now, what do you want?


Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain to M. de Villefort of the impertinence of his servants.


Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters here without an order from M. d’Avrigny, or without speaking to the procureur.


Well, I have business with the procureur.


Is it pressing business?


You can imagine so, since I have not even brought my carriage out yet. But enough of this—here is my card, take it to your master.


Madame will await my return?


Yes; go.


You will excuse this poor fellow, madame, but his orders are precise, and M. de Villefort begged me to tell you that he could not act otherwise.


Forgive my servants,


You too, then, are unhappy?


Yes, madame,


Then you pity me!


Sincerely, madame.


And you understand what brings me here?


You wish to speak to me about the circumstance which has just happened?


Yes, sir,—a fearful misfortune.


You mean a mischance.


A mischance?


Alas, madame, I consider those alone misfortunes which are irreparable.


And do you suppose this will be forgotten?


Everything will be forgotten, madame. Your daughter will be married tomorrow, if not today—in a week, if not tomorrow; and I do not think you can regret the intended husband of your daughter.


Am I come to a friend?


You know that you are, madame,


Well, then, be more affectionate, my dear Villefort. Speak to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when I am in bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be gay.


When I hear misfortunes named, madame, I have within the last few months contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and then I cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That is the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me mere mischances; that is why my dreadful position makes yours appear enviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You were saying, madame——


I came to ask you, my friend, what will be done with this impostor?


Impostor, certainly, madame, you appear to extenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed!—M. Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less than an assassin!


Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the more severely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man, the more deeply will you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and instead of pursuing him, let him go.


You are too late, madame; the orders are issued.


Well, should he be arrested—do they think they will arrest him?


I hope so.


If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford means of escape), will you leave him in prison?


Impossible, madame; justice has its formalities.


What, even for me?


For all, even for myself among the rest,


Ah!


Yes, I know what you mean, you refer to the terrible rumors spread abroad in the world, that the deaths which have kept me in mourning for the last three months, and from which Valentine has only escaped by a miracle, have not happened by natural means.


I was not thinking of that,


You were thinking of it, and with justice. You could not help thinking of it, and saying to yourself, ‘you, who pursue crime so vindictively, answer now, why are there unpunished crimes in your dwelling?’


Well, I own it.


I will answer you. There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals are unknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; but when the culprits are discovered, when they are discovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that whoever they may be they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and which I will keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy for that wretch!


But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say?


Listen; this is his description: ‘Benedetto, condemned, at the age of sixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.’ He promised well, as you see—first a runaway, then an assassin.


And who is this wretch?


Who can tell?—a vagabond, a Corsican.


Has no one owned him?


No one; his parents are unknown.


But who was the man who brought him from Lucca?


Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomplice.


Villefort,


For Heaven’s sake, madame, do not ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I?—the law. Has the law any eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by your sweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections you endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when it commands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and not a code—a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame—look around me. Has mankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared me? Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands? No, madame, they struck me, always struck me! Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me that fascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to blush? Well, be it so; let me blush for the faults you know, and perhaps—perhaps for even more than those! But having sinned myself,—it may be more deeply than others,—I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found them; and more,—I repeat it with joy, with triumph,—I have always found some proof of human perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems to me living evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the rest. Alas, alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike at wickedness!


But this young man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody.


So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has been so ordained that he may have none to weep his fate.


But this is trampling on the weak, sir.


The weakness of a murderer!


His dishonor reflects upon us.


Is not death in my house?


Oh, sir, you are without pity for others, well, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on you!


Be it so!


At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have six months before us.


No, madame; instructions have been given. There are yet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not think that I also long for forgetfulness? While working night and day, I sometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience the same sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is better than suffering.


But, sir, he has fled; let him escape—inaction is a pardonable offence.


I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph was employed, and at this very minute——


a dragoon has brought this despatch from the Minister of the Interior.


Arrested! he was taken at Compiègne, and all is over.


Adieu, sir,


Adieu, madame. Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two cases of arson, I only wanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session!


It is not he,


Now you may drink. The Count of Monte Cristo!


Do not call anyone—do not be alarmed, 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. Listen to me, 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.


Maximilian! 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? where have you been?—I have not seen you.


I was hidden behind that door, which leads into the next house, which I have rented.


Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled intrusion, and that what you call protection is more like an insult.


Valentine, 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! what are you saying, sir?


Hush, my child. I did say poison and death. But drink some of this; Drink this, and then take nothing more tonight.


Oh, yes. 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. 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, 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?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


No, who could desire my death?


You shall know it now, then. Because you are not feverish or delirious tonight, but thoroughly awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers choose.


Oh, heavens. I think I hear a noise, leave me.


Good-bye, for the present. 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.


Well, do you still doubt? Do you still doubt?


Oh. Have you seen? Alas! Did you recognize? Oh, yes; I saw, but I cannot believe!


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


Oh, 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. It is already done, 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, why am I thus pursued?


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


No, I have never injured her.


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


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


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


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


Ah, then you at length understand?


Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him!


Valentine, you are an angel!


But why is my grandfather allowed to live?


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


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


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


Ah, then, indeed, sir. I see that I am condemned to die!


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


Command me, sir—what am I to do?


You must blindly take what I give you.


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


You must not confide in anyone—not even in your father.


My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?


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!


Sir. I will do all I can to live, for there are two beings who love me and will die if I die—my grandfather and Maximilian.


I will watch over them as I have over you.


Well, sir, do as you will with me; 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. My child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the goodness of Providence and the love of Maximilian. Yes,


Go, whatever happens, I promise you not to fear.


Good, she has taken part of her draught; the glass is three-quarters empty.


Help, help!


What is the matter?


What is it? Doctor, do you hear them call for help?


Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine’s room.


Call Madame de Villefort!—Wake Madame de Villefort!


What?—this one, too? Oh, where will be the end?


What are you saying, doctor?


I say that Valentine is dead!


Ah, it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see what it is! Ah,


Go to the assistance of Madame de Villefort. Madame de Villefort is ill.


But Mademoiselle de Villefort——


Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help, since she is dead.


Dead,—dead!


Dead! Who said Valentine was dead?


How are you, sir?


Well,


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


Yes,


Oh, why do they not come? Is anyone ill in the house? What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine? Valentine?


Yes, yes. Yes, yes, yes! Quicker, quicker!


Valentine is dead!


Dead,—dead! Who are you, sir, that forget that this is not the manner to enter a house stricken with death? Go, sir, go! Go!—do you hear?


See what they have done! See, my father, see!


Sir, they ask me who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you know it, tell them, tell them! Tell them, 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!


Sir, 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, 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?


I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office. Gentlemen. I know what I am saying, and you know as well as I do what I am about to say—Valentine has been assassinated!


Yes


Now, sir, in these days no one can disappear by violent means without some inquiries being made as to the cause of her disappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful, and adorable creature like Valentine. Now, M. le Procureur du Roi, no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it is your place to seek the assassin.


Assuredly,


Sir, sir, you are deceived; no one commits crimes here. I am stricken by fate. It is horrible, indeed, but no one assassinates.


And I say that murders are committed here. 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,


I rave? well, then, I appeal to M. d’Avrigny himself. Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the garden of this house on the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. You thought yourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death, and the fatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder of Valentine. Yes. Yes, yes, 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 I, too. 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!


Stay. M. Noirtier wishes to speak.


Yes,


Do you know the assassin?


And will you direct us? Listen, M. d’Avrigny, listen! Do you wish me to leave?


Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me! May I, at least, return? Must I leave alone?


No.


Whom am I to take with me? The procureur? The doctor? You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort? But can he understand you?


oh, be satisfied, I can understand my father.


Gentlemen, give me your word of honor that this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst ourselves! I entreat you——


the culprit—the murderer—the assassin.


Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done. 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?


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? 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;


Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?


Swear, then, swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and leave me to avenge my child.


she is indeed dead, poor child!


And now the priest. fetch the nearest.


The nearest, is a good Italian abbé, who lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I pass?


D’Avrigny, 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.


Sir, 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, 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, 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, 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.


See, 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, he sleeps, indeed! And this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him awake all night.


Grief has stunned him,


See, I have not slept, 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!


Do you require my services now?


No,


only return again at eleven o’clock; at twelve the—the—oh, Heavens, my poor, poor child! when I work I forget everything.


Poor girl, poor girl, so young, so rich, so beautiful! Could you have imagined this scene, Château-Renaud, when we saw her, at the most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract?


Indeed, no. 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?


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


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


His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?


I believe so. But Monte Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel.


Morrel? Do they know him? I think he has only been introduced to Madame de Villefort.


Still, he ought to have been here. I wonder what will be talked about tonight; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush, here comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some little speech to the cousin,


Well. 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—— Alas, do you not know? My daughter—— Eugénie has left us!


Good heavens, what are you telling me?


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


Do you think so? And so Mademoiselle Danglars——


She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she asked permission to travel. The other night she left.


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


Still, baron, 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.


Yes,


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!


That reminds me, 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.


Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?


No, they are bonds on the bank of France, payable to bearer. Stay, count, 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?


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, five millions—why what a Crœsus you are!


This is how I transact business,


It is really wonderful, above all, if, as I suppose, it is payable at sight.


It is, indeed,


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, most decidedly not; the thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am credited on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand francs, you therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand francs. I will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds, with your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six millions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in want of money today.


What, 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. 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;


Certainly, 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. Then I may keep this money?


Yes. Yes, keep it—keep it. 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;


Certainly, I excuse you, and pocket them.


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


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


Count, are you speaking seriously?


I never joke with bankers. Ma foi, I think I arrived just in time to obtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me.


Good-morning, creditor, for I wager anything it is the creditor who visits me.


You are right, baron, 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. Poor things!


Here I am in their name, 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,


Come, 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.


It is really true. 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. 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 has given me the preference, by leaving a balance of 100,000 francs.


I must visit him, 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. Are you then pressed for this money?


Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place tomorrow.


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


At two o’clock.


Send at twelve. 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.


Ma foi! I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a proposition!


I thought, perhaps, that you had a deficiency to make up?


Indeed,


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


Thank you, no, sir.


Then it will be tomorrow.


Yes; but without fail.


Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank shall be notified.


I will come myself.


Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you.


By the way, are you not going to the funeral of poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?


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


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


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


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


Poor Eugénie! 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.


It is terrible!


Fool! Yes, come at twelve o’clock; I shall then be far away. Good, it is available for two months longer.


Where is Morrel? do either of these gentlemen know where he is?


We have already asked that question, for none of us has seen him.


What is he doing up there?


How pale he is!


He is cold,


Not at all. I think he is violently agitated. He is very susceptible.


Bah, 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,


I was looking for you, my friend.


You see I was praying.


Shall I drive you back to Paris?


No, thank you.


Do you wish anything?


Leave me to pray.


Ah, count,


Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?


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. I have something of the greatest importance to tell him.


Go, then,


What shall I do! 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. I beg a thousand pardons, 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! Ma foi, it’s all your servant’s fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on glass.


Are you hurt, sir?


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.


You were writing?


I have already had the honor of telling you I was,


Your pistols are beside your desk,


I am on the point of starting on a journey,


My friend. Maximilian, 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, what has put this into your head?


I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself, and here is proof of what I say; you wish to destroy yourself, you have written it.


Well, 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, yes, I would do so.


You? 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 I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide. Prevent me, then!


I will prevent you.


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


Who am I? Listen; I am the only man in the world having the right to say to you, ‘Morrel, your father’s son shall not die today;’


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


Because I am he who saved your father’s life when he wished to destroy himself, as you do today—because I am the man who sent the purse to your young sister, and the Pharaon to old Morrel—because I am the Edmond Dantès who nursed you, a child, on my knees.


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. I may call you so since we have really been friends for the last eleven years—the discovery of this secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know. I wished to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now, I am sure. Watch over him.


Why so?


I cannot explain myself; but watch over him.


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


My child, 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, 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, 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. My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian.


Let us leave them,


Come, are you a man again, Maximilian?


Yes; for I begin to suffer again.


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


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


Ah, you had only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost Valentine.


Look at me, 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, oh, heavens—what are you saying, count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!


Child!


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,


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.


My friend, my father, 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,


Ah, 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, 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.


What can I say more? I have confidence in the remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its efficacy. Then, 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?


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?


I not only promise, but swear it!


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


In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date is a sacred one, Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of September; it is ten years today since I saved your father’s life, who wished to die.


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!


And now, after today, you will come and live with me; you can occupy Haydée’s apartment, and my daughter will at least be replaced by my son.


Haydée? what has become of her?


She departed last night.


To leave you?


To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the Champs-Élysées, and lead me out of this house without anyone seeing my departure.


Oh, Lucien—oh, my friend!


Well, what is the matter, my dear? 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! 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.


Madame and most faithful wife.


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


Your very devoted husband,


Baron Danglars.


Well? Well, madame?


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.


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,


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


I was going to ask you,


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


Yes; I do wish to ask your advice,


Then if you wish to take my advice, I would recommend you to travel.


To travel!


Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars’ broken contract and M. Danglars’ disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor, for the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up an appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the details of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread the report. Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and giving up your jointure, and everyone’s mouth will be filled with praises of your disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and think you also poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and am quite ready to give up my accounts as an honest partner.


Deserted?


ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are right, sir, and no one can doubt my position.


Madame, 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, there are still 80,000 francs, the interest of this money, in my hands.


But,


I thought you never put the money out to interest.


Excuse me, madame. 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, 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. Now, madame, 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,


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.


As you please, madame, 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. I have 1,060,000 francs remaining. What a pity Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect, and I would have married her.


Mother, let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to build my plans upon.


Capital—nothing!


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


Child!


Alas, dear mother. 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?


I think so. I think so. We will accept them the more readily, since we have them not here; you know they are buried in the garden of the little house in the Allées de Meilhan, at Marseilles. With 200 francs we can reach Marseilles.


With 200 francs?—are you sure, Albert?


Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the diligences and steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place in the coupé to Châlons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for thirty-five francs. Let us put down 120. 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?


What is this?


A thousand francs.


But whence have you obtained them?


Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to agitation. You cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I think you! You are, indeed, the most beautiful and most noble woman I ever saw!


Dear child! 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, 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. Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the Spahis. 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. I fetched 2,000 francs.


Then these 1,000 francs——


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


The price of his blood!


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


Merciful Heavens!


Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am to be killed? Has Lamoricière, that Ney of the South, been killed? Has Changarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom we know, been killed? Think of your joy, mother, when you see me return with an embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect to look magnificent in it, and chose that regiment only from vanity. Well, now you understand, mother! here are more than 4,000 francs settled on you; upon these you can live at least two years.


Do you think so? I shall live!—then you will not leave me, Albert?


Mother, I must go, 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, 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. I assure you we are, or rather we shall be, very happy. You are a woman at once full of spirit and resignation; I have become simple in my tastes, and am without passion, I hope. Once in service, I shall be rich—once in M. Dantès’ house, you will be at rest. Let us strive, I beseech you,—let us strive to be cheerful.


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


And so our division is made, mother. We can now part; come, I shall engage your passage. 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,


You, Morcerf? Pardon me,


Mother, this is M. Debray, secretary of the Minister for the Interior, once a friend of mine.


How once?


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.


Believe me, dear Albert, believe me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if in any way I can serve you, I am yours.


Thank you, sir. In the midst of our misfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require assistance from anyone. We are leaving Paris, and when our journey is paid, we shall have 5,000 francs left.


Alas,


how can I restore the happiness I have taken away from these poor innocent creatures? God help me!


See, the prince is pluming himself,


He's a fine looking fellow,


if he had only a comb and hair-grease, he'd take the shine off the gentlemen in white kids.


His coat looks nearly new, and his boots are brilliant. It is pleasant to have such well-dressed brethren; and those gendarmes behaved shamefully. What jealousy; to tear such clothes!


He looks like a big-bug,


Come, sir, 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!


I am no comrade of these people, you have no right to insult me thus.


Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!


Benedetto! I am called,


To the visitors’ room!


You see someone pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will see whether a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common person! Everything, 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——


Ah,


Good morning, Benedetto,


You—you?


Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?


Silence,—be silent! for Heaven’s sake, do not speak so loud!


You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?


Oh, yes.


That is well. Read?


What is that?


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


Oh. 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.


Now, what have you to tell me?


And you?


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-Élysées.


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


Who, then, am I?


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


What do you wish me to say?


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


Well?


Well, in the Champs-Élysées there resides a very rich gentleman.


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


I believe I did.


The 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 Pixérécourt.


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


Bah, 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? 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. 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,


Excuse me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the prisoner.


And so closes our interview. I wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!


I will return tomorrow,


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,


That’s what I mean. Can I be deceived? Never mind, we shall see! Tomorrow, then!


Tomorrow!


It is well, sir, it is well; have patience but one day longer; what I have said I will do.


Today, today the man who holds the blade of justice must strike wherever there is guilt. Yes, yes, be satisfied.


What are you bringing me?


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;


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


Well, 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, does she wish that?


If you wish to go alone, sir, I will go and tell my mistress.


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


I am going to her.


Ah, here you are, monsieur, 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?


Edward, go and play in the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma. Edward, do you hear me?—Go! Go, go, my child.


Dear me! what is the matter?


Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?


I asked you, where you conceal the poison by the aid of which you have killed my father-in-law, M. de Saint-Méran, my mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Méran, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine.


Ah, sir, what do you say?


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


Is it to the judge or to the husband?


To the judge—to the judge, madame!


Ah, sir, ah, sir,


I beseech you, do not believe appearances.


Are you, then, a coward? 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? 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. I understand, 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? the punishment, monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!


Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four times guilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld because you are the wife of him who pronounces it?—No, madame, no; the scaffold awaits the poisoner, whoever she may be, unless, as I just said, the poisoner has taken the precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of her deadliest poison. Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame. 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?


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!


Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the room?—where do you keep the poison you generally use, madame?


No, no, no, you cannot wish that!


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


Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!


What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to punish, madame, 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,


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? I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!


Think of it, madame, if, on my return, justice has not been satisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with my own hands! Do you understand me? I am going down there to pronounce the sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my return, you shall sleep tonight in the conciergerie. Farewell, madame, farewell!


Well, we shall see our friend!


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


A nobility of the rope!


He will be condemned, will he not?


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, 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, still, I assure you, he passed very well with many people; I saw him at the ministers’ houses.


The idea of thinking ministers understand anything about princes!


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


But, 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?


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


Stay, surely I am not deceived.


Whom do you mean?


They said she had left.


Mademoiselle Eugénie? has she returned?


No, but her mother.


Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible! only ten days after the flight of her daughter, and three days from the bankruptcy of her husband?


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


Or, rather, by instinct.


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


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


‘Multitudinously’ is good,


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


Who is Madame?


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, 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! And who is the assassin; Young Edward! Yes, gentlemen; Edward, the infant phenomenon, who is quite an adept in the art of killing. You are jesting. Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just left M. de Villefort—I intend sending him away tomorrow, for he eats so enormously, to make up for the fast imposed upon him by his terror in that house. Well, now listen. We are listening. It appears the dear child has obtained possession of a bottle containing some drug, which he every now and then uses against those who have displeased him. First, M. and Madame de Saint-Méran incurred his displeasure, so he poured out three drops of his elixir—three drops were sufficient; then followed Barrois, the old servant of M. Noirtier, who sometimes rebuffed this little wretch—he therefore received the same quantity of the elixir; the same happened to Valentine, of whom he was jealous; he gave her the same dose as the others, and all was over for her as well as the rest.


Why, what nonsense are you telling us?


Yes, it is an extraordinary story, is it not?


It is absurd,


Ah, you doubt me? Well, you can ask my servant, or rather him who will no longer be my servant tomorrow, it was the talk of the house. And this elixir, where is it? what is it?


The child conceals it.


But where did he find it?


In his mother’s laboratory.


Does his mother then, keep poisons in her laboratory?


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


It is incredible!


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


Come, Beauchamp. I will bet anything you do not believe a word of all you have been telling us. But I do not see the Count of Monte Cristo here.


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


By the way, M. de Château-Renaud, 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,


Why not?


Because he is an actor in the drama.


Has he assassinated anyone, then?


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


Ah, very good.


Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let us go back to our places.


The court, gentlemen!


Gendarmes, lead in the accused.


Accused, your name and surname?


Excuse me, Mr. President, 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.


Your age? will you answer that question?


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


Your age?


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.


Where were you born?


At Auteuil, near Paris.


Your profession?


First I was a forger, then I became a thief, and lately have become an assassin.


Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur? And now, prisoner, will you consent to tell your name? 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. This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to alter the order of the questions.


Well, 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.


Repeat your father’s name,


My father is king’s attorney,


King’s attorney?


Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it,—he is named Villefort.


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?


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. I owe you the proofs and explanations of what I have said.


But, 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.


But how have you become acquainted with all these details?


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.


Proceed,


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?


My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even wish to know her name, nor do I know it.


The proofs, the proofs! remember this tissue of horrors must be supported by the clearest proofs.


do you want proofs?


Yes.


Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for proofs. Father. I am asked for proofs, do you wish me to give them?


No, no, it is useless, no, it is useless!


How useless? 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.


What, M. de Villefort, 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.


I am in possession of all my senses, sir, 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.


let them now say that drama is unnatural!


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


And moreover, it kills,


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


The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen, fresh inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next session by another magistrate.


Well, what do you think of this, my fine fellow?


There will be extenuating circumstances,


God. God—God! The hand of God. Oh!


Ah, 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. Faster, faster! Yes, yes, 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.


Come, nothing is changed here. No one must disturb us. I must speak freely to her, accuse myself, and say Not locked, that is well. Not here, doubtless she is in her bedroom. Héloïse! Héloïse!


Who is there?


Open the door! Open; it is I. Héloïse, Héloïse! what is the matter? Speak!


It is done, monsieur. What more do you want?


My son! where is my son?—Edward, Edward! Edward, Edward! Where is my son? let him be removed from the house, that he may not see——


Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,


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 downstairs since.


In Madame de Villefort’s room? Edward! Edward!


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.


Still the hand of God.


You here, sir! do you, then, never appear but to act as an escort to death?


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! surely that is not the voice of the Abbé Busoni!


No!


The face of the Count of Monte Cristo!


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


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


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


You are not Busoni?—you are not 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, search—search!


But what have I done to you? what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!


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


Who are you, then? Who are you?


I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Château d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the 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! you are——


I am Edmond Dantès!


You are Edmond Dantès, then come here! There, Edmond Dantès! see, are you well avenged? My child. He carries away the body of my child! Oh. My child! curses, woe, death to you!


Where is M. de Villefort?


It is not here! It is not here!


Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but——


Oh, I will find it, you may pretend he is not here, but I will find him, though I dig forever!


he is mad! Oh, enough of this,—enough of this, let me save the last. Prepare yourself, Maximilian, we leave Paris tomorrow.


Have you nothing more to do there?


No. God grant I may not have done too much already.


Indeed, might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their prosperity that an evil genius—like the wicked fairies in Perrault’s stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism—hovered over them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal neglect?


What a dire misfortune!


What dreadful sufferings!


If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow, 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? When my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing suicide, had anyone then said, ‘This man deserves his misery,’ would not that person have been deceived?


Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him.


Maximilian Maximilian. I come to seek you.


To seek me?


Yes, 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. I came expressly to wish them farewell.


Whither are you going, count?


In the first instance to Marseilles, madame.


will you restore him to us cured of his melancholy?


You perceive, then, that he is not happy?


and fear much that he finds our home but a dull one.


I will undertake to divert him.


I am ready to accompany you, sir. Adieu, my kind friends! Emmanuel—Julie—farewell!


How farewell? 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 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.


Good in these prompt arrangements we recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier.


And you leave us 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?


I am going wherever it may please the count to take me I am under his orders for the next month.


Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!


Maximilian goes with me therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your brother’s account.