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


Thank you, I have just returned from sea.


What? you have been to sea?


Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean Islands18.


What of that? come with us,


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


Ah, you are a good and an excellent friend, yes, you are right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try to discover the enemy who made this disclosure.


Beauchamp is a worthy fellow, is he not, Albert?


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


Into Normandy, if you like.


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


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


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


But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy?


I may go where I please.


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


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


Woman is fickle.


woman is like a wave of the sea,


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


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


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


Ah, yes, indeed, and do you think she is in the least interested in me?


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


And does she try to make you dislike me?


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


Indeed?


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


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


At Tréport?


Yes; or in the neighborhood.


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


Easily,


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


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


Do not fear, I have little to prepare.


Bertuccio. I intend going this evening to Normandy, instead of tomorrow or the next day. You will have sufficient time before five o’clock; despatch a messenger to apprise the grooms at the first station. M. de Morcerf will accompany me. Truly, with your post-horses going at the rate of two leagues an hour, and that absurd law that one traveller shall not pass another without permission, so that an invalid or ill-tempered traveller may detain those who are well and active, it is impossible to move; I escape this annoyance by travelling with my own postilion and horses; do I not, Ali?


I never knew till now the delight of speed, but where the devil do you get such horses? Are they made to order?


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


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


You see, I travel with them.


But you are not always travelling.


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


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


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


Count, may I suggest one idea to you?


Certainly.


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


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


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


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


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


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


Why?


Because I should never get a better.


Probabilities are deceptive.


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


Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?


Yes.


Florentin here! is my mother ill? From whom is this?


From M. Beauchamp,


Did he send you?


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


Poor young man, it is then true that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and fourth generation.


Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately?


It is a poor, lame post-horse.


In what state was the house when you left?


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


Yes, my mother. I will return, and woe to the infamous wretch! But first of all I must get there. Count. I thank you for your hospitality, which I would gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris.


What has happened?


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


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


No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will do me good.


Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf—quick! he is in a hurry!


Thank you! Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to procure a horse?


Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled.


You may think my departure strange and foolish, you do not know how a paragraph in a newspaper may exasperate one. Read that, when I am gone, that you may not be witness of my anger.


Here I am,


Well, my poor friend. I expected you.


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


I think I have some clew.


But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful plot.


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


Are you interested in the sugar question?


No. I have not considered the question; a totally different subject interests me.


What is it?


The article relative to Morcerf.


Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?


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


Not at all; we have received with the information all the requisite proofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will not raise his voice against us; besides, it is rendering a service to one’s country to denounce these wretched criminals who are unworthy of the honor bestowed on them.


Who, then, has so correctly informed you? for my paper, which gave the first information on the subject, has been obliged to stop for want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we are of the opposition.


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


My lords, it is not by time I could repel the attack made on me by enemies unknown to me, and, doubtless, hidden in obscurity; it is immediately, and by a thunderbolt, that I must repel the flash of lightning which, for a moment, startled me. Oh, that I could, instead of taking up this defence, shed my last drop of blood to prove to my noble colleagues that I am their equal in worth. I demand, then, that the examination shall take place as soon as possible, and I will furnish the house with all necessary information.


What day do you fix?


Today I am at your service,


Does the House approve that the examination should take place today?


Yes,


What next?


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


Absolutely; and rather from your lips than another’s.


Muster up all your courage, then, for never have you required it more.


Go on,


You are at liberty to speak, M. de Morcerf,


But, so great was Ali Pasha’s confidence, that on his death-bed he resigned his favorite mistress and her daughter to my care. And what effect did this discourse produce?


I acknowledge it affected me, and, indeed, all the committee also,


Count, you have said that the Vizier of Yanina confided his wife and daughter to your care?


Yes, sir, but in that, like all the rest, misfortune pursued me. On my return, Vasiliki and her daughter Haydée had disappeared.


Did you know them?


My intimacy with the pasha and his unlimited confidence had gained me an introduction to them, and I had seen them above twenty times.


Have you any idea what became of them?


Yes, sir; I heard they had fallen victims to their sorrow, and, perhaps, to their poverty. I was not rich; my life was in constant danger; I could not seek them, to my great regret.


Gentlemen, you have heard the Comte de Morcerf’s defence. Can you, sir, produce any witnesses to the truth of what you have asserted?


Alas, no, monsieur,


all those who surrounded the vizier, or who knew me at his court, are either dead or gone away, I know not where. I believe that I alone, of all my countrymen, survived that dreadful war. I have only the letters of Ali Tepelini, which I have placed before you; the ring, a token of his good-will, which is here; and, lastly, the most convincing proof I can offer, after an anonymous attack, and that is the absence of any witness against my veracity and the purity of my military life.


Gentlemen and you, monsieur,—you will not be displeased, I presume, to listen to one who calls himself a very important witness, and who has just presented himself. He is, doubtless, come to prove the perfect innocence of our colleague. Here is a letter I have just received on the subject; shall it be read, or shall it be passed over? and shall we take no notice of this incident?


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


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


And who is this witness, or rather this enemy?


We shall know, sir,


Is the committee willing to hear this witness?


Yes, yes,


Yes, sir.


A woman, accompanied by a servant.


Bring her in,


it was she.


Who?


Haydée.


Who told you that?


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


Madame,


you have engaged to furnish the committee with some important particulars respecting the affair at Yanina, and you have stated that you were an eyewitness of the event.


I was, indeed,


But allow me to say that you must have been very young then.


I was four years old; but as those events deeply concerned me, not a single detail has escaped my memory.


In what manner could these events concern you? and who are you, that they should have made so deep an impression on you?


On them depended my father’s life,


I am Haydée, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of Vasiliki, his beloved wife.


allow me to ask one question; it shall be the last: Can you prove the authenticity of what you have now stated?


I can, sir,


for here is the register of my birth, signed by my father and his principal officers, and that of my baptism, my father having consented to my being brought up in my mother’s faith,—this latter has been sealed by the grand primate of Macedonia and Epirus; and lastly (and perhaps the most important), the record of the sale of my person and that of my mother to the Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by the French officer, who, in his infamous bargain with the Porte, had reserved as his part of the booty the wife and daughter of his benefactor, whom he sold for the sum of four hundred thousand francs.


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


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


Signed, El-Kobbir.


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


may reference be made to the Count of Monte Cristo, who is now, I believe, in Paris?


Sir,


the Count of Monte Cristo, my foster-father, has been in Normandy the last three days.


Who, then, has counselled you to take this step, one for which the court is deeply indebted to you, and which is perfectly natural, considering your birth and your misfortunes?


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


Then,


the Count of Monte Cristo knows nothing of your present proceedings?


He is quite unaware of them, and I have but one fear, which is that he should disapprove of what I have done. But it is a glorious day for me,


that on which I find at last an opportunity of avenging my father!


M. de Morcerf,


do you recognize this lady as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina?


No,


it is a base plot, contrived by my enemies.


You do not know me?


Well, I fortunately recognize you! You are Fernand Mondego, the French officer who led the troops of my noble father! It is you who surrendered the castle of Yanina! It is you who, sent by him to Constantinople, to treat with the emperor for the life or death of your benefactor, brought back a false mandate granting full pardon! It is you who, with that mandate, obtained the pasha’s ring, which gave you authority over Selim, the fire-keeper! It is you who stabbed Selim. It is you who sold us, my mother and me, to the merchant, El-Kobbir! Assassin, assassin, assassin, you have still on your brow your master’s blood! Look, gentlemen, all!


You positively recognize M. de Morcerf as the officer, Fernand Mondego?


Indeed I do!


Oh, my mother, it was you who said, “You were free, you had a beloved father, you were destined to be almost a queen. Look well at that man; it is he who raised your father’s head on the point of a spear; it is he who sold us; it is he who forsook us! Look well at his right hand, on which he has a large wound; if you forgot his features, you would know him by that hand, into which fell, one by one, the gold pieces of the merchant El-Kobbir!” I know him! Ah, let him say now if he does not recognize me!


Count of Morcerf,


do not allow yourself to be cast down; answer. The justice of the court is supreme and impartial as that of God; it will not suffer you to be trampled on by your enemies without giving you an opportunity of defending yourself. Shall further inquiries be made? Shall two members of the House be sent to Yanina? Speak!


I have no reply to make,


Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini spoken the truth?


Is she, then, the terrible witness to whose charge you dare not plead “Not guilty”? Have you really committed the crimes of which you are accused?


I took advantage of the silence and the darkness to leave the house without being seen. The usher who had introduced me was waiting for me at the door, and he conducted me through the corridors to a private entrance opening into the Rue de Vaugirard. I left with mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Excuse me, Albert,—sorrow on your account, and delight with that noble girl, thus pursuing paternal vengeance. Yes, Albert, from whatever source the blow may have proceeded—it may be from an enemy, but that enemy is only the agent of Providence.


My friend, my life is ended. I cannot calmly say with you, ‘Providence has struck the blow;’ but I must discover who pursues me with this hatred, and when I have found him I shall kill him, or he will kill me. I rely on your friendship to assist me, Beauchamp, if contempt has not banished it from your heart.


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


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


Be it so,


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


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


Well, listen, Morcerf.


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


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


Tell me; satisfy my impatience.


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


Say on.


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


Ah,


I guess what brings you here.


How, and why?


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


By whom?


By a banker of Paris, my correspondent.


Whose name is——


Danglars.


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


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


Oh, yes, if it be true, he shall pay me all I have suffered.


Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old man.


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


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


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


When such resolutions are made, Albert, they should be promptly executed. Do you wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us go immediately.


Ah! parbleu! that’s good. If M. Danglars will not fight with me, I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti will certainly fight.


Sir, am I no longer at liberty to receive whom I choose in my house? You appear to forget yourself sadly.


No, sir, there are circumstances in which one cannot, except through cowardice,—I offer you that refuge,—refuse to admit certain persons at least.


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


I mean, to propose a meeting in some retired corner where no one will interrupt us for ten minutes; that will be sufficient—where two men having met, one of them will remain on the ground. And you, too, come, if you like, monsieur; you have a claim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as many rendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing to accept them.


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


You mistake, sir. I am not referring in the least to matrimony, and I only addressed myself to M. Cavalcanti because he appeared disposed to interfere between us. In one respect you are right, for I am ready to quarrel with everyone today; but you have the first claim, M. Danglars.


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


Yes, miserable wretch! it is your fault.


My fault? you must be mad! What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country? Did I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina—to betray——


Silence! No; it is not you who have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you hypocritically provoked it.


I?


Yes; you! How came it known?


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


Who wrote to Yanina?


To Yanina?


Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?


I imagine anyone may write to Yanina.


But one person only wrote!


One only?


Yes; and that was you!


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


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


I, indeed? I assure you. I solemnly declare to you, that I should never have thought of writing to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha’s misfortunes.


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


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


And who thus advised you?


No other than your friend, Monte Cristo.


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


Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if you like.


Sir, you appear to accuse the count, who is absent from Paris at this moment, and cannot justify himself.


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


Does the count know what answer you received?


Yes; I showed it to him.


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


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


Listen, just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo you must demand an explanation.


Yes; and we are going to his house.


Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go.


On what shall I reflect?


On the importance of the step you are taking.


Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars?


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


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


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


My friend, that is what I wish. The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my father’s stead; that would save us all.


Your mother would die of grief.


My poor mother! I know she would; but better so than die of shame.


Are you quite decided, Albert?


Yes; let us go.


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


He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he is now at home.


But after his bath? My master will go to dinner. And after dinner? He will sleep an hour. Then? He is going to the Opera. Are you sure of it? Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight o’clock precisely. Very good, that is all I wished to know. If you have anything to attend to, Beauchamp, do it directly; if you have any appointment for this evening, defer it till tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany me to the Opera; and if you can, bring Château-Renaud with you.


My dear mother, do you know if M. de Morcerf has any enemy?


My son, persons in the count’s situation have many secret enemies. Those who are known are not the most dangerous.


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


Why do you say so?


Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave, that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house.


M. de Monte Cristo! and how is he connected with the question you asked me?


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


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


Mother, you have special reasons for telling me to conciliate that man.


and is it not that he may never do us any harm? You speak strangely, and you appear to have some singular prejudices. What has the count done? Three days since you were with him in Normandy; only three days since we looked on him as our best friend. You came to inquire after my health; I will candidly acknowledge that I am not well. You should install yourself here, and cheer my solitude. I do not wish to be left alone.


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


Well, go, Albert; I will not make you a slave to your filial piety.


To the Opera.


Well,


my cavalier has attained his object. Good-evening, M. de Morcerf. We are not come here, sir, to exchange hypocritical expressions of politeness, or false professions of friendship, but to demand an explanation. An explanation at the Opera? Still, if people will shut themselves up, and cannot be seen because they are bathing, dining, or asleep, we must avail ourselves of the opportunity whenever they are to be seen.


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


Yesterday I was at your house, sir, because then I knew not who you were.


Where are you come from, sir? You do not appear to be in the possession of your senses.


Provided I understand your perfidy, sir, and succeed in making you understand that I will be revenged, I shall be reasonable enough,


I do not understand you, sir, and if I did, your tone is too high. I am at home here, and I alone have a right to raise my voice above another’s. Leave the box, sir!


Ah, I shall know how to make you leave your home!


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


Sir. I consider your glove thrown, and will return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will summon my servants to throw you out at the door.


What have you done to him?


I? Nothing—at least personally. The Count of Morcerf’s adventure exasperates the young man.


Have you anything to do with it?


It was through Haydée that the Chamber was informed of his father’s treason.


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


It is true, nevertheless.


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


How so?


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


Probably,


But what shall you do with him?


With whom?


With Albert.


What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I now press your hand, I shall kill him before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.


Ah, count, his father loves him so much!


Do not speak to me of that. I will make him suffer.


Count, count!


Dear Maximilian, listen how adorably Duprez is singing that line,— O Mathilde! idole de mon âme! I was the first to discover Duprez at Naples, and the first to applaud him. Bravo, bravo! Come in. Good-evening, M. Beauchamp, be seated.


Sir. I just now accompanied M. de Morcerf, as you saw.


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


Sir. Albert was wrong, I acknowledge, to betray so much anger, and I come, on my own account, to apologize for him. And having done so, entirely on my own account, be it understood, I would add that I believe you too gentlemanly to refuse giving him some explanation concerning your connection with Yanina. Then I will add two words about the young Greek girl.


Come, there are all my hopes about to be destroyed.


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


Yet, there are occasions when probity commands——


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


Sir, honest men are not to be paid with such coin. I require honorable guaranties.


I am, sir, a living guaranty, we have both blood in our veins which we wish to shed—that is our mutual guaranty. Tell the viscount so, and that tomorrow, before ten o’clock, I shall see what color his is.


Then I have only to make arrangements for the duel,


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


Sure to gain!


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


Pistols, then, at eight o’clock, in the Bois de Vincennes,


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


Certainly. I am at your service, count; still——


What?


It is desirable I should know the real cause.


That is to say, you would rather not?


No.


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


Enough, who is your second witness?


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


I will answer for him, count.


Well? that is all I require. Tomorrow morning, at seven o’clock, you will be with me, will you not?


We will.


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


Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory cross.


Who are you, madame?


Edmond, you will not kill my son!


What name did you pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?


Yours! yours, which I alone, perhaps, have not forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is come to you, it is Mercédès.


Mercédès is dead, madame. I know no one now of that name.


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


Fernand, do you mean?


You see, Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have cause to say, ‘Spare my son!’


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


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


If you have seen all, madame, you know that the son of Fernand has publicly insulted me,


Oh, for pity’s sake!


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


Listen to me, my son has also guessed who you are,—he attributes his father’s misfortunes to you.


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


And why do you represent Providence? Why do you remember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its vizier to you, Edmond? What injury has Fernand Mondego done you in betraying Ali Tepelini?


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


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


But, why was I absent? And why were you alone?


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


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


I do not know,


You do not, madame; at least, I hope not. But I will tell you. I was arrested and became a prisoner because, under the arbor of La Réserve, the day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars wrote this letter, which the fisherman Fernand himself posted.


How dreadful! and that letter——


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


And the result of that letter——


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


Can it be?


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


And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?


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


Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love you still!


Not crush that accursed race? abandon my purpose at the moment of its accomplishment? Impossible, madame, impossible!


Edmond, when I call you Edmond, why do you not call me Mercédès?


Mercédès!


Revenge yourself, then, Edmond, but let your vengeance fall on the culprits,—on him, on me, but not on my son!


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


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


Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death in your absence? have you seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your rival, while you were perishing at the bottom of a dungeon?


but I have seen him whom I loved on the point of murdering my son.


What do you ask of me? your son’s life? Well, he shall live!


oh, thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are exactly what I dreamt you were,—the man I always loved. Oh, now I may say so!


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


What do you say, Edmond?


I say, since you command me, Mercédès, I must die.


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


You do not suppose that, publicly outraged in the face of a whole theatre, in the presence of your friends and those of your son—challenged by a boy who will glory in my forgiveness as if it were a victory—you do not suppose that I can for one moment wish to live. What I most loved after you, Mercédès, was myself, my dignity, and that strength which rendered me superior to other men; that strength was my life. With one word you have crushed it, and I die. It will take place, but instead of your son’s blood to stain the ground, mine will flow.


Edmond, there is a God above us, since you live and since I have seen you again; I trust to him from my heart. While waiting his assistance I trust to your word; you have said that my son should live, have you not?


Yes, madame, he shall live,


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


Do you say so now, Mercédès?—then what would you say if you knew the extent of the sacrifice I make to you? Suppose that the Supreme Being, after having created the world and fertilized chaos, had paused in the work to spare an angel the tears that might one day flow for mortal sins from her immortal eyes; suppose that when everything was in readiness and the moment had come for God to look upon his work and see that it was good—suppose he had snuffed out the sun and tossed the world back into eternal night—then—even then, Mercédès, you could not imagine what I lose in sacrificing my life at this moment.


Edmond. I have but one word more to say to you. Edmond, you will see that if my face is pale, if my eyes are dull, if my beauty is gone; if Mercédès, in short, no longer resembles her former self in her features, you will see that her heart is still the same. Adieu, then, Edmond; I have nothing more to ask of heaven—I have seen you again, and have found you as noble and as great as formerly you were. Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you.


What a fool I was, not to tear my heart out on the day when I resolved to avenge myself! what? what? this edifice which I have been so long preparing, which I have reared with so much care and toil, is to be crushed by a single touch, a word, a breath! Yes, this self, of whom I thought so much, of whom I was so proud, who had appeared so worthless in the dungeons of the Château d’If, and whom I had succeeded in making so great, will be but a lump of clay tomorrow. Alas, it is not the death of the body I regret; for is not the destruction of the vital principle, the repose to which everything is tending, to which every unhappy being aspires,—is not this the repose of matter after which I so long sighed, and which I was seeking to attain by the painful process of starvation when Faria appeared in my dungeon? What is death for me? One step farther into rest,—two, perhaps, into silence. No, it is not existence, then, that I regret, but the ruin of projects so slowly carried out, so laboriously framed. Providence is now opposed to them, when I most thought it would be propitious. It is not God’s will that they should be accomplished. This burden, almost as heavy as a world, which I had raised, and I had thought to bear to the end, was too great for my strength, and I was compelled to lay it down in the middle of my career. Oh, shall I then, again become a fatalist, whom fourteen years of despair and ten of hope had rendered a believer in Providence? And all this—all this, because my heart, which I thought dead, was only sleeping; because it has awakened and has begun to beat again, because I have yielded to the pain of the emotion excited in my breast by a woman’s voice. yet, it is impossible that so noble-minded a woman should thus through selfishness consent to my death when I am in the prime of life and strength; it is impossible that she can carry to such a point maternal love, or rather delirium. There are virtues which become crimes by exaggeration. No, she must have conceived some pathetic scene; she will come and throw herself between us; and what would be sublime here will there appear ridiculous. Ridiculous? and the ridicule will fall on me. I ridiculous? No, I would rather die. Folly, folly, folly!—to carry generosity so far as to put myself up as a mark for that young man to aim at. He will never believe that my death was suicide; and yet it is important for the honor of my memory,—and this surely is not vanity, but a justifiable pride,—it is important the world should know that I have consented, by my free will, to stop my arm, already raised to strike, and that with the arm which has been so powerful against others I have struck myself. It must be; it shall be. I do this, Oh, my God, as much for thy honor as for mine. I have during ten years considered myself the agent of thy vengeance, and other wretches, like Morcerf, Danglars, Villefort, even Morcerf himself, must not imagine that chance has freed them from their enemy. Let them know, on the contrary, that their punishment, which had been decreed by Providence, is only delayed by my present determination, and although they escape it in this world, it awaits them in another, and that they are only exchanging time for eternity.


She remembered that she had a son, and I forgot I had a daughter. Poor Haydée, she wished to see me, to speak to me; she has feared or guessed something. Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of her; I cannot die without confiding her to someone.


Haydée,


did you read it? oh, my lord, why are you writing thus at such an hour? Why are you bequeathing all your fortune to me? Are you going to leave me?


I am going on a journey, dear child, and if any misfortune should happen to me——


Well?


I wish my daughter to be happy.


Do you think of dying, my lord?


The wise man, my child, has said, ‘It is good to think of death.’


Well, if you die, bequeath your fortune to others, for if you die I shall require nothing;


Alas. I might, then, have been happy yet.


Morrel, it is a happy day for me, to feel that I am beloved by such a man as you. Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will come with me then, Maximilian?


Did you doubt it?


But if I were wrong——


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


Thank you, Morrel. Look. take that to my solicitor. It is my will, Morrel. When I am dead, you will go and examine it.


What? you dead?


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


I went to Tortoni’s, where, as I expected, I found Beauchamp and Château-Renaud. I own I was seeking them.


Why, when all was arranged?


Listen, count; the affair is serious and unavoidable.


Did you doubt it!


No; the offence was public, and everyone is already talking of it.


Well?


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


Have you succeeded?


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


Ah?—who has betrayed me?


The skilful swordsman whom you have conquered.


And you failed?


They positively refused.


Morrel, have you ever seen me fire a pistol? Well, we have time; look.


It is astonishing. Look, Emmanuel. Count, in the name of all that is dear to you, I entreat you not to kill Albert!—the unhappy youth has a mother.


You are right, and I have none.


You are the offended party, count.


Doubtless; what does that imply?


That you will fire first.


I fire first?


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


And at what distance?


Twenty paces.


Morrel, do not forget what you have just seen.


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


I suffer from emotion?


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


What is that?


Break his arm—wound him—but do not kill him.


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


And you?


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


No, no,


As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de Morcerf will kill me.


But what has happened, then, since last evening, count?


The same thing that happened to Brutus the night before the battle of Philippi; I have seen a ghost. Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long enough.


I like, to feel a hand like this, when its owner relies on the goodness of his cause.


that I see two young men down there, who are evidently, waiting.


Maximilian, are your affections disengaged?


I do not seek your confidence, my dear friend. I only ask you a simple question; answer it;—that is all I require. I love a young girl, count.


Do you love her much?


More than my life.


Another hope defeated! Poor Haydée!


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


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


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


I?—what for? I hope these gentlemen have theirs.


Do; but make no treaty—you understand me? You need not fear. Excuse me, gentlemen, but I do not see M. de Morcerf.


He sent us word this morning, that he would meet us on the ground.


Ah,


It is only five minutes past eight, there is not much time lost yet.


Oh, I made no allusion of that kind,


There is a carriage coming,


You are doubtless provided with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte Cristo yields his right of using his.


We had anticipated this kindness on the part of the count, and I have brought some weapons which I bought eight or ten days since, thinking to want them on a similar occasion. They are quite new, and have not yet been used. Will you examine them. Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that M. de Morcerf does not know these pistols, you may readily believe that your word will be quite sufficient.


Gentlemen, it is not Morcerf coming in that carriage;—faith, it is Franz and Debray!


Because. Albert sent this morning to request us to come.


I think I understand his reason. What is it? Yesterday afternoon I received a letter from M. de Morcerf, begging me to attend the Opera.


And I,


And I also,


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


Exactly so, you have probably guessed right.


Albert is ten minutes after time.


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


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


And besides, with a collar above his cravat, an open coat and white waistcoat! Why has he not painted a spot upon his heart?—it would have been more simple.


I thank you, gentlemen, for having complied with my request; I feel extremely grateful for this mark of friendship. And to you also, M. Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there cannot be too many.


Sir, you are not perhaps aware that I am M. de Monte Cristo’s friend?


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


will you apprise the Count of Monte Cristo that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we are at his disposal?


I have two words to say to the Count of Monte Cristo.


In private?


No, sir; before all who are here.


What does he want with me?


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


Ah? I trust he is not going to tempt me by some fresh insult!


I do not think that such is his intention,


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


Proceed, sir,


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


Now, sir,


if you think my apology sufficient, pray give me your hand. Next to the merit of infallibility which you appear to possess, I rank that of candidly acknowledging a fault. But this confession concerns me only. I acted well as a man, but you have acted better than man. An angel alone could have saved one of us from death—that angel came from heaven, if not to make us friends (which, alas, fatality renders impossible), at least to make us esteem each other. Gentlemen. M. de Monte Cristo receives my apology. I had acted hastily towards him. Hasty actions are generally bad ones. Now my fault is repaired. I hope the world will not call me cowardly for acting as my conscience dictated. But if anyone should entertain a false opinion of me. I shall endeavor to correct his mistake.


What happened during the night? we appear to make a very sorry figure here.


In truth, what Albert has just done is either very despicable or very noble,


What can it mean?


The Count of Monte Cristo acts dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas in my family, I should only consider myself the more bound to fight ten times.


Providence still, now only am I fully convinced of being the emissary of God!


Indeed, my dear friend, allow me to congratulate you; this is a very unhoped-for conclusion of a very disagreeable affair.


Are we not going?


When you please, allow me only to compliment M. de Morcerf, who has given proof today of rare chivalric generosity.


Oh, yes,


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


Assuredly; as for me, I should have been incapable of it,


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


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


That is quite my opinion, nothing induces serious duels so much as a duel forsworn.


Thank you, gentlemen. I shall follow your advice—not because you give it, but because I had before intended to quit France. I thank you equally for the service you have rendered me in being my seconds. It is deeply engraved on my heart, and, after what you have just said, I remember that only. Good-bye. Good-bye, Albert. Good-bye,


Good-bye,


My mother!


What are you doing?


What were you doing?


Oh, my mother! it is not the same with you and me—you cannot have made the same resolution I have, for I have come to warn you that I bid adieu to your house, and—and to you.


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


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


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


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


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


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


I am ready, my son,


From the count,


I accept it, he has a right to pay the dowry, which I shall take with me to some convent!


Count,


put me down at my door, that my wife may not have a single moment of needless anxiety on my account or yours. If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph, said Morrel, I would invite the count to our house; besides that, he doubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will take leave of our friend, and let him hasten home.


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


Shall we wait breakfast for you?


See what good fortune I brought you! Have you not thought so?


Yes, for that reason I wished to keep you near me.


It is miraculous!


What?


What has just happened.


Yes,


For Albert is brave,


Very brave,


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


All owing to your influence,


It is well for Albert he is not in the army,


Why?


An apology on the ground!


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


Doubtless, doubtless, but I shall say, like the Spaniard, ‘He has not been so brave today as he was yesterday.’


You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?


No; I must leave you at ten o’clock.


Your engagement was for breakfast, then?


Still you must breakfast somewhere. But if I am not hungry?


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


Well, count. I will not dispute it.


But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?


I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not, count? since that heart is no longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, and I must go and find it.


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


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


Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-bye, then.


Good-bye, till we meet again.


Well?


She is going to leave her house. Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same.


Come this way. Here I am,


M. de Morcerf! Which, the viscount or the count?


The count.


is it not yet over?


I know not if it is finished, my beloved child, but I do know you have nothing more to fear.


But it is the wretched——


That man cannot injure me, Haydée,


And what I have suffered, you shall never know, my lord.


By my father’s tomb. I swear to you, Haydée, that if any misfortune happens, it will not be to me.


I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken to me,


shall I then be permitted to love again? Ask M. de Morcerf into the drawing-room,


Ah, it is M. de Morcerf. I thought I had not heard aright.


Yes, it is I,


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


Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?


I had,


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


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


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


It is true, sir, a secondary cause, but not the principal.


Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation?


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


But to what do you attribute this conduct?


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


And who was that?


His father.


That may be, but you know the guilty do not like to find themselves convicted.


I know it, and I expected this result.


You expected my son would be a coward?


M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!


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


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


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


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


So much the better. Are you prepared?


Yes, sir.


You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead,


Until one of us dies,


Let us start, then; we need no witnesses.


Very true, it is unnecessary, we know each other so well! On the contrary, we know so little of each other. Indeed? let us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the battle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand who served as guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain Fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have not all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the Count of Morcerf, peer of France?


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


Fernand, of my hundred names I need only tell you one, to overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not?—or, rather, you remember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I show you today a face which the happiness of revenge makes young again—a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your marriage with Mercédès, my betrothed!


Edmond Dantès!


Home, home.


Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home!


Now, now let us talk about our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of leaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M. de Villefort’s.


Yes. I recollect the project, of which I highly approved.


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


Bravo,


And do you know, what reason grandpapa gives for leaving this house.


Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier’s reason. I can readily believe it to be a good one.


An excellent one. He pretends the air of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré is not good for me.


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


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


Do you then really suffer?


Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general uneasiness, that is all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach feels as if it were struggling to get accustomed to something.


And what treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint?


A very simple one. I swallow every morning a spoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one spoonful, I began by one—now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a panacea.


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


I know it is very bitter, so bitter, that all I drink afterwards appears to have the same taste. Yes, grandpapa, it is so. Just now, before I came down to you, I drank a glass of sugared water; I left half, because it seemed so bitter. Oh, this is singular! I can’t see! Did the sun shine in my eyes?


The sun is not shining,


Cheer up. Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is nothing, and has already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a carriage in the courtyard? Yes, it is Madame Danglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-bye;—I must run away, for they would send here for me, or, rather, farewell till I see you again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise you not to persuade them to stay.


Fetch the glass of water and the decanter from Valentine’s room. Why are the glass and decanter empty? Valentine said she only drank half the glassful.


I do not know, but the housemaid is in Mademoiselle Valentine’s room: perhaps she has emptied them.


Ask her,


Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room to go to Madame de Villefort’s, and in passing, as she was thirsty, she drank what remained in the glass; as for the decanter, Master Edward had emptied that to make a pond for his ducks.


My dear friend. I and Eugénie are come to be the first to announce to you the approaching marriage of my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti.


Allow me to present you my sincere congratulations. Prince Cavalcanti appears to be a young man of rare qualities.


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


And then, add that you have taken a great fancy to the young man.


And. I need not ask you if you share that fancy.


I? Oh, not the least in the world, madame! My wish was not to confine myself to domestic cares, or the caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and consequently free in heart, in person, and in thought. At any rate, since I am to be married whether I will or not, I ought to be thankful to Providence for having released me from my engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should this day have been the wife of a dishonored man.


It is true, it is very true that had not the Morcerfs hesitated, my daughter would have married Monsieur Albert. The general depended much on it; he even came to force M. Danglars. We have had a narrow escape.


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


Excuse me. Monsieur Albert claims and well deserves his share. It appears that after having challenged M. de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground today.


Impossible,


Ah, my dear friend, it is a fact. I heard it from M. Debray, who was present at the explanation.


What is it?


It is, my dear Valentine, that you are, doubtless, suffering.


I?


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


Indeed, you are very pale!


Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days.


Retire, Valentine, you are really suffering, and these ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will restore you. That poor child, she makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had some serious illness.


Oh, what a clumsy thing I am. I don’t know my way. I forgot there were three more steps before the landing.


You have hurt yourself, perhaps. What can I do for you, Valentine?


Don’t worry, dear grandpapa, it is nothing—it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all.


Another attack of giddiness. Oh, attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you.


But no, no, I tell you it is all past, and it was nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugénie is to be married in a week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast, a betrothal festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and I—at least, I understood it so. And do you, depend on me to stimulate the tardiness and arouse the memory of grandpapa?


Yes,


Oh, oh, indeed, Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who, they say, never knows fear. Ha, ha, ha!


I told you so! Poor child!


What is the matter? A physician, a physician,—M. d’Avrigny! or rather I will go for him myself.


is it you?


it is I, who am come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is accursed!


have you another invalid?


yes!


Who is now dying in your house? What new victim is going to accuse you of weakness before God?


Valentine, it is Valentine’s turn!


Your daughter!


You see you were deceived, come and see her, and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected her.


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


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


Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her. Come.


What is the matter, Maximilian? you are pale, and the perspiration rolls from your forehead.


Yes. I came quickly; I wanted to speak to you.


Are all your family well?


Thank you, count—thank you, yes, everyone in my family is well.


So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?


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


Are you then come from M. de Morcerf’s?


No,


The general has just blown his brains out,


Oh, what a dreadful event!


Not for the countess, or for Albert, a dead father or husband is better than a dishonored one,—blood washes out shame.


Poor countess. I pity her very much; she is so noble a woman!


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


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


Tell me what it is,


Oh. I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret to mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count——


Do you think I love you?


Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there, that I ought to have no secret from you.


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


Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone you know?


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


Oh, I cannot live if she is not better.


Shall I ring for Baptistin?


No, I will go and speak to him myself.


Well, have you sent?


Yes, and now I shall be more calm.


You know I am waiting,


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


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


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


Ah, indeed?


Yes, death had entered that house twice within one month.


And what did the doctor answer?


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


To what?


To poison.


Indeed!


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


My dear friend, you appear to be relating an adventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard it, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a physician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden deaths. Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know all that as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it does not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have devoted that house to God’s anger—well, who says your supposition is not reality? Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to see them pass over. If it is God’s justice, instead of his anger, which is walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let his justice accomplish its purpose. Besides, besides, who says that it will begin again?


It has returned, count, that is why I hastened to you.


Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give information to the procureur?


You know of whom I speak, count, do you not?


Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting the dots to the i, or rather by naming the persons. You were walking one evening in M. de Villefort’s garden; from what you relate, I suppose it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. You heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d’Avrigny about the death of M. de Saint-Méran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M. d’Avrigny said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you, honest man, have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your conscience to know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. We are no longer in the Middle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or Free Tribunals; what do you want to ask these people? ‘Conscience, what hast thou to do with me?’ as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let them sleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale in their drowsiness, if they are disposed to do so, and pray do you remain in peace, who have no remorse to disturb you.


But it is beginning again, I say!


Well, let it begin again,—it is like the house of the Atreidae;19 God has condemned them, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all disappear, like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall, one by one, under the breath of their builder, even if there are two hundred of them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Méran; Madame de Saint-Méran two months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the old Noirtier, or young Valentine.


You knew it?


you knew it, and said nothing? And what is it to me? do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other? Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice.


But I. I love her!


You love?—whom?


I love most fondly—I love madly—I love as a man who would give his life-blood to spare her a tear—I love Valentine de Villefort, who is being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I ask God and you how I can save her?


Unhappy man, you love Valentine,—that daughter of an accursed race!


See, my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,—I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,—I, who like a wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bitten to the heart! Come, come, complaints are unavailing, be a man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will watch over you. I tell you to hope. Do you understand me? Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is twelve o’clock, Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather than in the evening, or tomorrow morning. Listen, Morrel—it is noon; if Valentine is not now dead, she will not die.


How so? when I left her dying?


Maximilian, return home. I command you not to stir—attempt nothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will send you tidings. Go.


Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?


I can do much for you, my friend. Go; I must be alone.


She is still alive!


Still? oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that.


Yes. I repeat it; she is still alive, and I am astonished at it.


But is she safe?


Yes, since she lives. Sir, call Mademoiselle Valentine’s maid, if you please. Have you something to tell me? Privately?


Yes.


Well, I will remain with you.


What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me, and she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously of it.


Ah,


This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her to bed.


Do you, know anything of this young lady’s illness?


Yes,


We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me. Did you anticipate the accident which has happened to your granddaughter?


Pardon what I am going to say. Did you see poor Barrois die? Do you know of what he died! Do you think he died a natural death?


Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned? Yes.


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


No.


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


Then will she die too? Then you hope? What do you hope? Do you hope the assassin will be tried? Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine? It is no news to you,


To prepare her system to resist poison?


By accustoming her by degrees——


Yes, yes, yes,


Here, doctor,


Was this prepared in your presence? Have you not let it go out of your hands?


see why Mademoiselle Eugénie has asked me to meet her in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so long.


mademoiselle is finishing her toilette, and will be here shortly.


Well, Eugénie, what is it you want with me? and why in this solemn drawing-room when the study is so comfortable?


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


Very well,


There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so, and you appear satisfied with the explanation. Now, let us return to the first. You ask me why I have requested this interview; I will tell you in two words, sir; I will not marry count Andrea Cavalcanti. Yes, indeed, sir,


Well?


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


But,


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


Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!


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


Truly, my daughter. My daughter,


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


I have proposed to you to marry, not for your sake, for indeed I did not think of you in the least at the moment (you admire candor, and will now be satisfied, I hope); but because it suited me to marry you as soon as possible, on account of certain commercial speculations I am desirous of entering into. It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be angry with me, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not willingly enter into arithmetical explanations with an artist like you, who fears to enter my study lest she should imbibe disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions and sensations. But in that same banker’s study, where you very willingly presented yourself yesterday to ask for the thousand francs I give you monthly for pocket-money, you must know, my dear young lady, that many things may be learned, useful even to a girl who will not marry. There one may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your nervous susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room, namely, that the credit of a banker is his physical and moral life; that credit sustains him as breath animates the body; and M. de Monte Cristo once gave me a lecture on that subject, which I have never forgotten. There we may learn that as credit sinks, the body becomes a corpse, and this is what must happen very soon to the banker who is proud to own so good a logician as you for his daughter.


Ruined?


Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean,


Ah!


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


Oh,


you are a bad physiognomist, if you imagine I deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which you warn me. I ruined? and what will that signify to me? Have I not my talent left? Can I not, like Pasta, Malibran, Grisi, acquire for myself what you would never have given me, whatever might have been your fortune, a hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand livres per annum, for which I shall be indebted to no one but myself; and which, instead of being given as you gave me those poor twelve thousand francs, with sour looks and reproaches for my prodigality, will be accompanied with acclamations, with bravos, and with flowers? And if I do not possess that talent, which your smiles prove to me you doubt, should I not still have that ardent love of independence, which will be a substitute for wealth, and which in my mind supersedes even the instinct of self-preservation? No, I grieve not on my own account, I shall always find a resource; my books, my pencils, my piano, all the things which cost but little, and which I shall be able to procure, will remain my own. Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive yourself again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided against the catastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass over without affecting her. She has taken care for herself,—at least I hope so,—for her attention has not been diverted from her projects by watching over me. She has fostered my independence by professedly indulging my love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my childhood I have seen too much, and understood too much, of what has passed around me, for misfortune to have an undue power over me. From my earliest recollections, I have been beloved by no one—so much the worse; that has naturally led me to love no one—so much the better—now you have my profession of faith.


Then, then, mademoiselle, you persist in your determination to accelerate my ruin?


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


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


I have done my duty, now let others do theirs.


Gentlemen, we are about to sign the contract.


My dear, is it not vexatious? An unexpected incident, in the affair of murder and theft at the Count of Monte Cristo’s, in which he nearly fell a victim, deprives us of the pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort.


Indeed? Oh, well, what do I care?


As a matter of fact. I am much afraid that I am the involuntary cause of his absence.


What, you, count? if you are, take care, for I shall never forgive you.


But it is not my fault, as I shall endeavor to prove. You remember, that the unhappy wretch who came to rob me died at my house; the supposition is that he was stabbed by his accomplice, on attempting to leave it.


Yes,


In order that his wounds might be examined he was undressed, and his clothes were thrown into a corner, where the police picked them up, with the exception of the waistcoat, which they overlooked. Well, this waistcoat was discovered today, covered with blood, and with a hole over the heart. It was brought to me. No one could guess what the dirty rag could be; I alone suspected that it was the waistcoat of the murdered man. My valet, in examining this mournful relic, felt a paper in the pocket and drew it out; it was a letter addressed to you, baron.


To me?


Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in deciphering your name under the blood with which the letter was stained,


But, how could that prevent M. de Villefort——


In this simple way, madame, the waistcoat and the letter were both what is termed circumstantial evidence; I therefore sent them to the king’s attorney. You understand, my dear baron, that legal methods are the safest in criminal cases; it was, perhaps, some plot against you.


Possibly, was not this murdered man an old galley-slave?


Yes, a felon named Caderousse. But go on signing. I perceive that my story has caused a general emotion, and I beg to apologize to you, baroness, and to Mademoiselle Danglars.


Prince Cavalcanti. Prince Cavalcanti, where are you?


Andrea, Andrea,


Call the prince; inform him that it is his turn to sign,


What is the matter, sir?


Which of you gentlemen, answers to the name of Andrea Cavalcanti?


But who then is Andrea Cavalcanti?


A galley-slave, escaped from confinement at Toulon.


And what crime has he committed?


He is accused, of having assassinated the man named Caderousse, his former companion in prison, at the moment he was making his escape from the house of the Count of Monte Cristo.


Ah, what a dreadful thing, who would have suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer—a galley-slave escaped—a convict!


In truth, I was fated. I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.


Oh, do not confound the two, Eugénie.


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


What shall we do?


Yes.


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


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


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


How strong and courageous you are!


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


Was happily bought three days since.


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


Our passport?


Here it is.


M. Léon d’Armilly, twenty years of age; profession, artist; hair black, eyes black; travelling with his sister. Capital! How did you get this passport?


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


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


But consider the matter seriously, Eugénie!


Oh, I am done with considering! I am tired of hearing only of market reports, of the end of the month, of the rise and fall of Spanish funds, of Haitian bonds. Instead of that, Louise—do you understand?—air, liberty, melody of birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian canals, Roman palaces, the Bay of Naples. How much have we, Louise?


Twenty-three thousand francs,


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


Stop!


What do you fear?


That we may be discovered.


The door is locked.


They may tell us to open it.


They may if they like, but we will not.


You are a perfect Amazon, Eugénie!


There now, while I change my costume do you lock the portmanteau.


But I cannot. I am not strong enough; do you shut it.


Ah, you do well to ask. I forgot that I was Hercules, and you only the pale Omphale! Here, you see I have thought of everything; with this cloak you will not be cold.


But you?


Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides, with these men’s clothes——


Will you dress here?


Certainly.


Shall you have time?


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


No, truly—you comfort me.


Come and help me.


Oh, that is very good—indeed, it is very good! but that beautiful black hair, those magnificent braids, which made all the ladies sigh with envy,—will they go under a man’s hat like the one I see down there?


You shall see,


Oh, the magnificent hair!


And am I not a hundred times better thus? and do you not think me handsomer so?


Oh, you are beautiful—always beautiful! Now, where are you going?


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


Yes.


What are you looking at?