If they do not bring us peace, we will give them war; if they do not bring life, we will give them death. My mother experienced the same sensations, for I felt her tremble. ‘Mamma, mamma,’ said I, ‘are we really to be killed?’ And at the sound of my voice the slaves redoubled their cries and prayers and lamentations. ‘My child,’ said Vasiliki, ‘may God preserve you from ever wishing for that death which today you so much dread!’ Then, whispering to Selim, she asked what were her master’s orders. ‘If he send me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor’s intentions are not favorable, and I am to set fire to the powder; if, on the contrary, he send me his ring, it will be a sign that the emperor pardons him, and I am to extinguish the match and leave the magazine untouched.’—‘My friend,’ said my mother, ‘when your master’s orders arrive, if it is the poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by that horrible death which we both so much dread, you will mercifully kill us with this same poniard, will you not?’—‘Yes, Vasiliki,’ replied Selim tranquilly. Mamma, mamma, are we really to be killed? My child, may God preserve you from ever wishing for that death which today you so much dread! If he send me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor’s intentions are not favorable, and I am to set fire to the powder; if, on the contrary, he send me his ring, it will be a sign that the emperor pardons him, and I am to extinguish the match and leave the magazine untouched. My friend, when your master’s orders arrive, if it is the poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by that horrible death which we both so much dread, you will mercifully kill us with this same poniard, will you not? Yes, Vasiliki. Suddenly we heard loud cries; and, listening, discerned that they were cries of joy. The name of the French officer who had been sent to Constantinople resounded on all sides amongst our Palikares; it was evident that he brought the answer of the emperor, and that it was favorable.


And do you not remember the Frenchman’s name?


I do not recollect it. Who are you?


But whoever you may be, I charge you not to advance another step.


Long live the emperor! He grants a full pardon to the Vizier Ali, and not only gives him his life, but restores to him his fortune and his possessions.


Stop, you see I have not yet received the ring,


True,


Courage.


In whose name do you come?


I come in the name of our master, Ali Tepelini.


If you come from Ali himself, you know what you were charged to remit to me?


Yes, and I bring you his ring.


I do not see what you have in your hand,


Approach then, or I will come nearer to you, if you prefer it.


I will agree to neither one nor the other, place the object which I desire to see in the ray of light which shines there, and retire while I examine it.


Be it so,


Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it did, indeed, seem to be a ring which was placed there. But was it my father’s ring? that was the question. Selim, still holding in his hand the lighted match, walked towards the opening in the cavern, and, aided by the faint light which streamed in through the mouth of the cave, picked up the token.


It is well, it is my master’s ring!


What do you want?


What we want, is to communicate to you the will of his highness. Do you see this firman?


I do,


Well, read it; he demands your head. My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more frightful than even threats would have been, and he had not ceased when two reports of a pistol were heard; he had fired them himself, and had killed two men. The Palikares, who were prostrated at my father’s feet, now sprang up and fired, and the room was filled with fire and smoke. At the same instant the firing began on the other side, and the balls penetrated the boards all round us. Oh, how noble did the grand vizier my father look at that moment, in the midst of the flying bullets, his scimitar in his hand, and his face blackened with the powder of his enemies! and how he terrified them, even then, and made them fly before him! ‘Selim, Selim!’ cried he, ‘guardian of the fire, do your duty!’—‘Selim is dead,’ replied a voice which seemed to come from the depths of the earth, ‘and you are lost, Ali!’ At the same moment an explosion was heard, and the flooring of the room in which my father was sitting was suddenly torn up and shivered to atoms—the troops were firing from underneath. Three or four Palikares fell with their bodies literally ploughed with wounds. My father howled aloud, plunged his fingers into the holes which the balls had made, and tore up one of the planks entire. But immediately through this opening twenty more shots were fired, and the flame, rushing up like fire from the crater of a volcano, soon reached the tapestry, which it quickly devoured. In the midst of all this frightful tumult and these terrific cries, two reports, fearfully distinct, followed by two shrieks more heartrending than all, froze me with terror. These two shots had mortally wounded my father, and it was he who had given utterance to these frightful cries. However, he remained standing, clinging to a window. My mother tried to force the door, that she might go and die with him, but it was fastened on the inside. All around him were lying the Palikares, writhing in convulsive agonies, while two or three who were only slightly wounded were trying to escape by springing from the windows. At this crisis the whole flooring suddenly gave way, my father fell on one knee, and at the same moment twenty hands were thrust forth, armed with sabres, pistols, and poniards—twenty blows were instantaneously directed against one man, and my father disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and smoke kindled by these demons, and which seemed like hell itself opening beneath his feet. I felt myself fall to the ground, my mother had fainted.


Calm yourself, my dear child, and take courage in remembering that there is a God who will punish traitors.


It is a frightful story, count, and I reproach myself now for having been so cruel and thoughtless in my request.


Oh, it is nothing. Haydée is very courageous, and she sometimes even finds consolation in the recital of her misfortunes.


Because, my lord, my miseries recall to me the remembrance of your goodness. When my mother recovered her senses we were before the seraskier. ‘Kill,’ said she, ‘but spare the honor of the widow of Ali.’—‘It is not to me to whom you must address yourself,’ said Kourchid. To whom, then?’—‘To your new master. Who and where is he?’—‘He is here. And Kourchid pointed out one who had more than any contributed to the death of my father,


Then, you became the property of this man?


No, he did not dare to keep us, so we were sold to some slave-merchants who were going to Constantinople. We traversed Greece, and arrived half dead at the imperial gates. They were surrounded by a crowd of people, who opened a way for us to pass, when suddenly my mother, having looked closely at an object which was attracting their attention, uttered a piercing cry and fell to the ground, pointing as she did so to a head which was placed over the gates, and beneath which were inscribed these words: This is the head of Ali Tepelini, Pasha of Yanina. I cried bitterly, and tried to raise my mother from the earth, but she was dead! I was taken to the slave-market, and was purchased by a rich Armenian. He caused me to be instructed, gave me masters, and when I was thirteen years of age he sold me to the Sultan Mahmoud.


Of whom I bought her, as I told you, Albert, with the emerald which formed a match to the one I had made into a box for the purpose of holding my hashish pills.


Oh, you are good, you are great, my lord! and I am very fortunate in belonging to such a master!


Come, finish your cup of coffee, the history is ended.


We are saved!


Saved? by whom?


By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray love him for all his goodness to us! But tell me, Valentine, how has it all been effected? What strange means has he used to compass this blessed end? At some future time I will tell you all about it.


But when will that be?


When I am your wife.


Sir, it is superfluous for me to tell you that Valentine’s marriage is broken off, since it was here that the affair was concluded. But one thing I can tell you, of which I do not think you are aware; that is, that I have always been opposed to this marriage, and that the contract was entered into entirely without my consent or approbation. Now that this marriage, which I know you so much disliked, is done away with, I come to you on an errand which neither M. de Villefort nor Valentine could consistently undertake. I come to entreat you, sir, as the only one who has the right of doing so, inasmuch as I am the only one who will receive no personal benefit from the transaction,—I come to entreat you to restore, not your love, for that she has always possessed, but to restore your fortune to your granddaughter. May I hope, sir, that your intentions accord with my request? In that case, sir. I will leave you overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at your prompt acquiescence to my wishes.


Well, baron, here I am at last; some time has elapsed since our plans were formed, and they are not yet executed.


To what do you allude, monsieur?


Ah. I see you are a stickler for forms, my dear sir, and you would remind me that the ceremonial rites should not be omitted. Ma foi, I beg your pardon, but as I have but one son, and it is the first time I have ever thought of marrying him, I am still serving my apprenticeship, you know; come, I will reform. Baron, I have the honor of asking of you the hand of Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars for my son, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf.


Monsieur, it will be necessary to reflect before I give you an answer.


To reflect? have you not had enough time for reflection during the eight years which have elapsed since this marriage was first discussed between us?


Count, things are constantly occurring in the world to induce us to lay aside our most established opinions, or at all events to cause us to remodel them according to the change of circumstances, which may have placed affairs in a totally different light to that in which we at first viewed them.


I do not understand you, baron,


What I mean to say is this, sir,—that during the last fortnight unforeseen circumstances have occurred——


Excuse me, but is it a play we are acting?


A play?


Yes, for it is like one; pray let us come more to the point, and endeavor thoroughly to understand each other.


That is quite my desire.


You have seen M. de Monte Cristo have you not?


I see him very often, he is a particular friend of mine.


Well, in one of your late conversations with him, you said that I appeared to be forgetful and irresolute concerning this marriage, did you not?


I did say so.


Well, here I am, proving at once that I am really neither the one nor the other, by entreating you to keep your promise on that score. Have you so soon changed your mind, or have you only provoked my request that you may have the pleasure of seeing me humbled?


Count, you must doubtless be surprised at my reserve, and I assure you it costs me much to act in such a manner towards you; but, believe me when I say that imperative necessity has imposed the painful task upon me.


These are all so many empty words, my dear sir, they might satisfy a new acquaintance, but the Comte de Morcerf does not rank in that list; and when a man like him comes to another, recalls to him his plighted word, and this man fails to redeem the pledge, he has at least a right to exact from him a good reason for so doing.


I am not without a good reason for my conduct,


What do you mean to say?


I mean to say that I have a good reason, but that it is difficult to explain.


You must be aware, at all events, that it is impossible for me to understand motives before they are explained to me; but one thing at least is clear, which is, that you decline allying yourself with my family.


No, sir. I merely suspend my decision, that is all.


And do you really flatter yourself that I shall yield to all your caprices, and quietly and humbly await the time of again being received into your good graces?


Then, count, if you will not wait, we must look upon these projects as if they had never been entertained.


My dear Danglars, we have been acquainted for many years, and consequently we ought to make some allowance for each other’s failings. You owe me an explanation, and really it is but fair that I should know what circumstance has occurred to deprive my son of your favor.


It is from no personal ill-feeling towards the viscount, that is all I can say, sir,


And towards whom do you bear this personal ill-feeling, then?


You may, perhaps, be better satisfied that I should not go farther into particulars.


I have a right to insist on your giving me an explanation. Is it Madame de Morcerf who has displeased you? Is it my fortune which you find insufficient? Is it because my opinions differ from yours?


Nothing of the kind, sir, if such had been the case, I only should have been to blame, inasmuch as I was aware of all these things when I made the engagement. No, do not seek any longer to discover the reason. I really am quite ashamed to have been the cause of your undergoing such severe self-examination; let us drop the subject, and adopt the middle course of delay, which implies neither a rupture nor an engagement. Ma foi, there is no hurry. My daughter is only seventeen years old, and your son twenty-one. While we wait, time will be progressing, events will succeed each other; things which in the evening look dark and obscure, appear but too clearly in the light of morning, and sometimes the utterance of one word, or the lapse of a single day, will reveal the most cruel calumnies.


Calumnies, did you say, sir? Does anyone dare to slander me?


Monsieur, I told you that I considered it best to avoid all explanation.


Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to your refusal?


Yes, sir, although I assure you the refusal is as painful for me to give as it is for you to receive, for I had reckoned on the honor of your alliance, and the breaking off of a marriage contract always injures the lady more than the gentleman.


Enough, sir, we will speak no more on the subject.


Very good, here is a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not mistaken, would render the explanation which the Comte de Morcerf required of me perfectly unnecessary.


Did he take Baptistin with him?


No, my lord.


Call him, then; I wish to speak to him. My good friend. I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I was anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out or not.


He is really out, sir,


Out, even to me?


I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte, and I should therefore never think of including him in any general order.


You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great importance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in?


No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten o’clock.


Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs-Élysées, and at ten o’clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count should come in, will you beg him not to go out again without seeing me?


You may depend on my doing so, sir,


Is the count shooting in the gallery?


Yes, sir,


Excuse me, my lord, but will you have the kindness to wait a moment?


What for, Philip? who, being a constant visitor there, did not understand this opposition to his entrance.


Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and never practices in the presence of anyone.


Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?


His servant.


A Nubian?


A negro.


It is he, then.


Do you know this gentleman?


Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine.


Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and inform him of your arrival.


I ask your pardon, my dear count, for following you here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I went to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they expected you home at ten o’clock to breakfast. I was walking about in order to pass away the time till ten o’clock, when I caught sight of your carriage and horses.


What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend breakfasting with me.


No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides breakfast just now; perhaps we may take that meal at a later hour and in worse company.


What on earth are you talking of?


I am to fight today.


For what?


For the sake of fighting!


Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People fight for all sorts of reasons, you know.


I fight in the cause of honor.


Ah, that is something serious.


So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service.


What is it?


To be my second.


That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here; let us speak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some water.


Come in, my lord, and I will show you something droll.


Ah, ha. I see you were preparing for a game of cards.


No. I was making a suit.


How?


Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens.


Diable!


What would you have, my dear viscount? I must occupy my leisure moments in some way or other. But come, I am waiting for you. Now let us talk the matter over quietly,


You see I am perfectly composed,


With whom are you going to fight?


With Beauchamp.


One of your friends!


Of course; it is always with friends that one fights.


I suppose you have some cause of quarrel?


I have.


What has he done to you?


There appeared in his journal last night—but wait, and read for yourself.


A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which until now we had remained in ignorance. The castle which formed the protection of the town was given up to the Turks by a French officer named Fernand, in whom the grand vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest confidence. Well, what do you see in that to annoy you?


What do I see in it?


Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina was given up by a French officer?


It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose Christian name is Fernand!


Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?


Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the Greeks, and hence arises the calumny.


Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!


I do not desire to do otherwise.


Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that the officer Fernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the same person? and who cares now about Yanina, which was taken as long ago as the year 1822 or 1823?


That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have allowed all this time to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake up events which have been forgotten to furnish materials for scandal, in order to tarnish the lustre of our high position. I inherit my father’s name, and I do not choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am going to Beauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears, and I shall insist on his retracting the assertion before two witnesses.


Beauchamp will never retract.


Then we must fight.


No you will not, for he will tell you, what is very true, that perhaps there were fifty officers in the Greek army bearing the same name.


We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my father’s character. My father, who was such a brave soldier, whose career was so brilliant——


Oh, well, he will add, ‘We are warranted in believing that this Fernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who also bears the same Christian name.’


I am determined not to be content with anything short of an entire retractation.


And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two witnesses, do you?


Yes.


You do wrong.


Which means, I suppose, that you refuse the service which I asked of you?


You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion on that subject, if you remember, when we were at Rome.


Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning engaged in an occupation but little consistent with the notions you profess to entertain.


Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be eccentric. If one’s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly. I shall perhaps find myself one day called out by some harebrained scamp, who has no more real cause of quarrel with me than you have with Beauchamp; he may take me to task for some foolish trifle or other, he will bring his witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I am expected to kill him for all that.


You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do you object to my doing so?


I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a duel is a serious thing, and ought not to be undertaken without due reflection.


Did he reflect before he insulted my father?


If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to be satisfied.


Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent.


And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and do not be angry at what I am going to say—— Supposing the assertion to be really true?


A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father’s honor.


Ma foi! we live in times when there is much to which we must submit.


That is precisely the fault of the age.


And do you undertake to reform it?


Yes, as far as I am personally concerned.


Well, you are indeed exacting, my dear fellow!


Yes, I own it.


Are you quite impervious to good advice?


Not when it comes from a friend.


And do you account me that title?


Certainly I do.


Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses, seek further information on the subject.


From whom?


From Haydée.


Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the affair?—what can she do in it?


She can declare to you, for example, that your father had no hand whatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or if by chance he had, indeed, the misfortune to——


I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one moment admit of such a proposition.


You reject this means of information, then?


I do—most decidedly.


Then let me offer one more word of advice.


Do so, then, but let it be the last.


You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?


On the contrary, I request it.


Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp—visit him alone.


That would be contrary to all custom.


Your case is not an ordinary one.


And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?


Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp.


Explain yourself.


I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least to give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will,—the satisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses to do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into your secret.


They will not be strangers, they will be friends.


Ah, but the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp, for instance.


So you recommend——


I recommend you to be prudent.


Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?


I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession from a man’s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing to wound it.


I believe you are right.


I am glad of it.


Then I will go alone.


Go; but you would do better still by not going at all.


That is impossible.


Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you proposed. My dear viscount, you must have seen before today that at all times and in all places I have been at your disposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one which it is out of my power to render you.


Why?


Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I request you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my reasons.


Well, I will have Franz and Château-Renaud; they will be the very men for it.


Do so, then.


But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or two in shooting and fencing?


That, too, is impossible.


What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.


You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.


We will say no more about it, then. Good-bye, count.


This way, this way, my dear Albert! Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to take breakfast with me? Try and find a seat—there is one by that geranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper.


Beauchamp, it is of your journal that I come to speak.


Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?


I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified.


To what do you refer? But pray sit down.


Thank you. Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the statement which has displeased you? An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of a member of my family.


What is it? surely you must be mistaken.


The story sent you from Yanina.


Yanina?


Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause which brings me here.


Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor! Baptiste, give me yesterday’s paper,


Here, I have brought mine with me,


You see it is a serious annoyance. Is the officer referred to a relation of yours, then?


Yes,


Well, what do you wish me to do for you?


My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this statement.


Come, this matter will want a good deal of talking over; a retractation is always a serious thing, you know. Sit down, and I will read it again.


Well, you see that your paper has insulted a member of my family, and I insist on a retractation being made.


You insist?


Yes, I insist.


Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my dear viscount.


Nor do I wish to be there. I repeat that I am determined to have the announcement of yesterday contradicted. You have known me long enough, you have been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate with me to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on this point.


If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of speaking would almost lead me to forget that I ever bore that title. But wait a moment, do not let us get angry, or at least not yet. You are irritated and vexed—tell me how this Fernand is related to you?


He is merely my father. M. Fernand Mondego, Count of Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose honorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace.


Is it your father? that is quite another thing. Then I can well understand your indignation, my dear Albert. I will look at it again; But the paper nowhere identifies this Fernand with your father.


No; but the connection will be seen by others, and therefore I will have the article contradicted.


Yes. When I am convinced that the statement is false.


What?


The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to investigate the matter thoroughly.


But what is there to investigate, sir? If you do not believe that it is my father, say so immediately; and if, on the contrary, you believe it to be him, state your reasons for doing so.


Sir, if you came to me with the idea of demanding satisfaction, you should have gone at once to the point, and not have entertained me with the idle conversation to which I have been patiently listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this construction on your visit?


Yes, if you will not consent to retract that infamous calumny.


Wait a moment—no threats, if you please, M. Fernand Mondego, Vicomte de Morcerf; I never allow them from my enemies, and therefore shall not put up with them from my friends. You insist on my contradicting the article relating to General Fernand, an article with which, I assure you on my word of honor, I had nothing whatever to do?


Yes, I insist on it,


And if I refuse to retract, you wish to fight, do you?


Yes,


Well, here is my answer, my dear sir. The article was not inserted by me—I was not even aware of it; but you have, by the step you have taken, called my attention to the paragraph in question, and it will remain until it shall be either contradicted or confirmed by someone who has a right to do so.


Sir. I will do myself the honor of sending my seconds to you, and you will be kind enough to arrange with them the place of meeting and the weapons.


Certainly, my dear sir.


And this evening, if you please, or tomorrow at the latest, we will meet.


No, no, I will be on the ground at the proper time; but in my opinion (and I have a right to dictate the preliminaries, as it is I who have received the provocation)—in my opinion the time ought not to be yet. I know you to be well skilled in the management of the sword, while I am only moderately so; I know, too, that you are a good marksman—there we are about equal. I know that a duel between us two would be a serious affair, because you are brave, and I am brave also. I do not therefore wish either to kill you, or to be killed myself without a cause. Now, I am going to put a question to you, and one very much to the purpose too. Do you insist on this retractation so far as to kill me if I do not make it, although I have repeated more than once, and affirmed on my honor, that I was ignorant of the thing with which you charge me, and although I still declare that it is impossible for anyone but you to recognize the Count of Morcerf under the name of Fernand?


I maintain my original resolution.


Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with you. But I require three weeks’ preparation; at the end of that time I shall come and say to you, ‘The assertion is false, and I retract it,’ or ‘The assertion is true,’ when I shall immediately draw the sword from its sheath, or the pistols from the case, whichever you please.


Three weeks! they will pass as slowly as three centuries when I am all the time suffering dishonor.


Had you continued to remain on amicable terms with me, I should have said, ‘Patience, my friend;’ but you have constituted yourself my enemy, therefore I say, ‘What does that signify to me, sir?’


Well, let it be three weeks then, but remember, at the expiration of that time no delay or subterfuge will justify you in——


M. Albert de Morcerf. I cannot throw you out of window for three weeks—that is to say, for twenty-four days to come—nor have you any right to split my skull open till that time has elapsed. Today is the 29th of August; the 21st of September will, therefore, be the conclusion of the term agreed on, and till that time arrives—and it is the advice of a gentleman which I am about to give you—till then we will refrain from growling and barking like two dogs chained within sight of each other.


Ah, there goes a happy man!


Am I to say what you told me? Monsieur Morrel, my grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a thousand things to say, which he told me three days ago; and now, he has sent for you, that I may repeat them to you. I will repeat them, then; and since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will be faithful to the trust, and will not alter a word of his intentions.


Oh, I am listening with the greatest impatience, speak, I beg of you.


My grandfather intends leaving this house, and Barrois is looking out for suitable apartments for him in another.


But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort,—you, who are necessary to M. Noirtier’s happiness——


I? I shall not leave my grandfather,—that is an understood thing between us. My apartment will be close to his. Now, M. de Villefort must either give his consent to this plan or his refusal; in the first case, I shall leave directly, and in the second, I shall wait till I am of age, which will be in about ten months. Then I shall be free, I shall have an independent fortune, and”—


And what?


And with my grandfather’s consent I shall fulfil the promise which I have made you. Have I not explained your wishes, grandpapa?


Yes,


Once under my grandfather’s roof, M. Morrel can visit me in the presence of my good and worthy protector, if we still feel that the union we contemplated will be likely to insure our future comfort and happiness; in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to come and claim me at my own hands. But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts inflamed by obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of security; I trust we shall never find it so in our experience!


Oh, what have I ever done in my life to merit such unbounded happiness?


Until that time, we will conform to circumstances, and be guided by the wishes of our friends, so long as those wishes do not tend finally to separate us; in a word, and I repeat it, because it expresses all I wish to convey,—we will wait.


And I swear to make all the sacrifices which this word imposes, sir, not only with resignation, but with cheerfulness.


Therefore, no more inconsiderate actions—no more rash projects; for you surely would not wish to compromise one who from this day regards herself as destined, honorably and happily, to bear your name? How hot you look, my good Barrois,


Ah, I have been running very fast, mademoiselle, but I must do M. Morrel the justice to say that he ran still faster.


Come, Barrois, take some of this lemonade; I see you are coveting a good draught of it.


The fact is, mademoiselle. I am dying with thirst, and since you are so kind as to offer it me, I cannot say I should at all object to drinking your health in a glass of it.


Take some, then, and come back immediately. It is past noon, and today is Saturday; I dare say it is the doctor, grandpapa. He will come in here, and M. Morrel had better go,—do you not think so, grandpapa?


Barrois. Barrois!


I am coming, mademoiselle,


Barrois will open the door for you. And now remember one thing, Monsieur Officer, that my grandfather commands you not to take any rash or ill-advised step which would be likely to compromise our happiness.


I promised him to wait. I promised him to wait, and I will wait.


Who rang?


Doctor d’Avrigny,


What is the matter, Barrois?


He is going to fall!


Ah, sir, tell me what is the matter with me. I am suffering—I cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are piercing my brain. Ah, don’t touch me, pray don’t.


M. d’Avrigny, M. d’Avrigny. Help, help!


My master, my good master!


Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray come!


Madame, madame! come quick, quick!—and bring your bottle of smelling-salts with you.


What is the matter?


Oh! come! come!


But where is the doctor? where is he?


In the name of heaven, madame, where is the doctor? He was with you just now. You see this is a fit of apoplexy, and he might be saved if he could but be bled!


Has he eaten anything lately?


Madame, he has not even breakfasted. He has been running very fast on an errand with which my grandfather charged him, and when he returned, took nothing but a glass of lemonade.


Ah, why did he not take wine? Lemonade was a very bad thing for him.


Grandpapa’s bottle of lemonade was standing just by his side; poor Barrois was very thirsty, and was thankful to drink anything he could find.


He has such a short neck,


Madame. I ask where is M. d’Avrigny? In God’s name answer me!


He is with Edward, who is not quite well. Take this. They will, no doubt, bleed him; therefore I will retire, for I cannot endure the sight of blood;


Go away as quick as you can, Maximilian, and stay till I send for you. Go.


What do you prescribe, doctor?


Give me some water and ether. You have some in the house, have you not?


Yes.


Send for some oil of turpentine and tartar emetic. And now let everyone retire.


Must I go too?


Yes, mademoiselle, you especially,


Look, look, doctor, he is quite coming round again; I really do not think, after all, it is anything of consequence.


How do you feel, Barrois?


A little better, sir.


Will you drink some of this ether and water?


I will try; but don’t touch me.


Why not?


Because I feel that if you were only to touch me with the tip of your finger the fit would return.


Drink. Where do you suffer?


Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole body.


Do you find any dazzling sensation before the eyes?


Any noise in the ears?


Frightful.


When did you first feel that?


Just now.


Suddenly?


Yes, like a clap of thunder.


Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before?


Nothing.


No drowsiness?


None.


What have you eaten today?


I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master’s lemonade—that’s all.


Where is this lemonade?


Downstairs in the decanter.


Whereabouts downstairs?


In the kitchen.


Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?


No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of this glass of ether and water. I will go myself and fetch the lemonade.


Is this the decanter you spoke of?


Yes, doctor.


Is this the same lemonade of which you partook?


I believe so.


What did it taste like?


It had a bitter taste.


It is no doubt the same. Did you drink some too, M. Noirtier?


Yes.


And did you also discover a bitter taste?


Oh, doctor, the fit is coming on again. Oh, do something for me.


That emetic, Villefort—see if it is coming.


The emetic! the emetic!—is it come yet?


If I had anything by means of which I could inflate the lungs, perhaps I might prevent suffocation. But there is nothing which would do!—nothing!


Oh, sir, are you going to let me die without help? Oh, I am dying! Oh, save me!


A pen, a pen!


How do you find yourself?—well?


Have you any weight on the chest; or does your stomach feel light and comfortable—eh?


Then you feel pretty much as you generally do after you have had the dose which I am accustomed to give you every Sunday?


Did Barrois make your lemonade?


Was it you who asked him to drink some of it?


No.


Was it M. de Villefort?


Madame?


It was your granddaughter, then, was it not?


Yes.


Barrois, can you speak? Try and make an effort to do so, my good man.


Who made the lemonade?


I did.


Did you bring it to your master directly it was made?


You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime?


Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away.


Who brought it into this room, then?


Mademoiselle Valentine.


Gracious heaven,


Doctor, doctor!


Will they never bring that emetic?


Here is a glass with one already prepared,


Who prepared it?


The chemist who came here with me.


Drink it,


Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am choking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head!—Oh, what agony!—Shall I suffer like this long?


No, no, friend, you will soon cease to suffer.


Ah, I understand you. My God, have mercy upon me!


Well?


Go to the kitchen and get me some syrup of violets. Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier. I am going to take my patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of attack is very frightful to witness.


You want Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you.


Well, how is he now?


Come in here,


Is he still in a fit?


He is dead.


Dead?—and so soon too!


Yes, it is very soon, but that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran died as soon. People die very suddenly in your house, M. de Villefort.


What? are you still harping on that terrible idea?


Still, sir; and I shall always do so, for it has never for one instant ceased to retain possession of my mind; and that you may be quite sure I am not mistaken this time, listen well to what I am going to say, M. de Villefort. There is a poison which destroys life almost without leaving any perceptible traces. I know it well; I have studied it in all its forms and in the effects which it produces. I recognized the presence of this poison in the case of poor Barrois as well as in that of Madame de Saint-Méran. There is a way of detecting its presence. It restores the blue color of litmus-paper reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup of violets green. We have no litmus-paper, but, see, here they come with the syrup of violets. Look, here is in this cup some syrup of violets, and this decanter contains the remainder of the lemonade of which M. Noirtier and Barrois partook. If the lemonade be pure and inoffensive, the syrup will retain its color; if, on the contrary, the lemonade be drugged with poison, the syrup will become green. Look closely! The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned, and I will maintain this assertion before God and man.


Oh, death is in my house!


Say, rather, crime!


M. d’Avrigny. I cannot tell you all I feel at this moment,—terror, grief, madness.


Yes, but I think it is now time to act. I think it is time to stop this torrent of mortality. I can no longer bear to be in possession of these secrets without the hope of seeing the victims and society generally revenged.


In my house, in my house!


Come, magistrate, show yourself a man; as an interpreter of the law, do honor to your profession by sacrificing your selfish interests to it.


You make me shudder, doctor. Do you talk of a sacrifice?


I do.


Do you then suspect anyone?


I suspect no one; death raps at your door—it enters—it goes, not blindfolded, but circumspectly, from room to room. Well, I follow its course, I track its passage; I adopt the wisdom of the ancients, and feel my way, for my friendship for your family and my respect for you are as a twofold bandage over my eyes; well——


Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have courage.


Well, sir, you have in your establishment, or in your family, perhaps, one of the frightful monstrosities of which each century produces only one. Locusta and Agrippina, living at the same time, were an exception, and proved the determination of Providence to effect the entire ruin of the Roman empire, sullied by so many crimes. Brunhilda and Fredegund were the results of the painful struggle of civilization in its infancy, when man was learning to control mind, were it even by an emissary from the realms of darkness. All these women had been, or were, beautiful. The same flower of innocence had flourished, or was still flourishing, on their brow, that is seen on the brow of the culprit in your house. ‘Seek whom the crime will profit,’ says an axiom of jurisprudence.


Doctor, alas, doctor, how often has man’s justice been deceived by those fatal words. I know not why, but I feel that this crime——


You acknowledge, then, the existence of the crime?


Yes, I see too plainly that it does exist. But it seems that it is intended to affect me personally. I fear an attack myself, after all these disasters.


Oh, man! the most selfish of all animals, the most personal of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun shines, and death strikes for him alone,—an ant cursing God from the top of a blade of grass! And have those who have lost their lives lost nothing?—M. de Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, M. Noirtier——


How? M. Noirtier?


Yes; think you it was the poor servant’s life was coveted? No, no; like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the lemonade was intended for—it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank it. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead, it was Noirtier whose death was wished for.


But why did it not kill my father?


I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-Méran’s death—because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the dose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no one knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I have given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent poison.


Oh, have pity—have pity!


Follow the culprit’s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-Méran——


Oh, doctor!


I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with what I have seen in the other cases. He first kills M. de Saint-Méran, then Madame de Saint-Méran,—a double fortune to inherit.


Alas. I do not lose a single word.


M. Noirtier. M. Noirtier had once made a will against you—against your family—in favor of the poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared, because nothing is expected from him. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and made a second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck down. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe; you see there has been no time lost.


Oh, mercy, M. d’Avrigny!


No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth; and to fulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes down to the mysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has been committed, and God, doubtless in anger, turns away his face, it is for the physician to bring the culprit to justice.


Have mercy on my child, sir,


You see it is yourself who have first named her—you, her father.


Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it is impossible. I would as willingly accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure as a diamond or a lily!


No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed all the medicines which were sent to M. de Saint-Méran; and M. de Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared all the cooling draughts which Madame de Saint-Méran took, and Madame de Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois, who was sent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every morning, and he has escaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit—she is the poisoner! To you, as the king’s attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle de Villefort, do your duty.


Doctor, I resist no longer—I can no longer defend myself—I believe you; but, for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honor!


M. de Villefort, there are occasions when I dispense with all foolish human circumspection. If your daughter had committed only one crime, and I saw her meditating another, I would say ‘Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder of her life in a convent, weeping and praying.’ If she had committed two crimes, I would say, ‘Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that the prisoner is not acquainted with,—one that has no known antidote, quick as thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her that poison, recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your life, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her approaching your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations. Woe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do not strike first!’ This is what I would say had she only killed two persons but she has seen three deaths,—has contemplated three murdered persons,—has knelt by three corpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner—to the scaffold! Do you talk of your honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you!


Listen. I have not the strength of mind you have, or rather that which you would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your daughter Madeleine were concerned. Doctor, every son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I am content to suffer and to await death.


Beware, it may come slowly; you will see it approach after having struck your father, your wife, perhaps your son.


Listen, pity me—help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. If you drag us both before a tribunal I will still say, ‘No, my daughter is not guilty;—there is no crime in my house. I will not acknowledge a crime in my house; for when crime enters a dwelling, it is like death—it does not come alone.’ Listen. What does it signify to you if I am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a heart? No, you are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not drag my daughter before a tribunal, and give her up to the executioner! The bare idea would kill me—would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my finger-nails! And if you were mistaken, doctor—if it were not my daughter—if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to you, ‘Assassin, you have killed my child!’—hold—if that should happen, although I am a Christian, M. d’Avrigny, I should kill myself.


Well. I will wait. Only, if anyone falls ill in your house, if you feel yourself attacked, do not send for me, for I will come no more. I will consent to share this dreadful secret with you, but I will not allow shame and remorse to grow and increase in my conscience, as crime and misery will in your house.


Then you abandon me, doctor?


Yes, for I can follow you no farther, and I only stop at the foot of the scaffold. Some further discovery will be made, which will bring this dreadful tragedy to a close. Adieu.


I entreat you, doctor!


All the horrors that disturb my thoughts make your house odious and fatal. Adieu, sir.


One word—one single word more, doctor! You go, leaving me in all the horror of my situation, after increasing it by what you have revealed to me. But what will be reported of the sudden death of the poor old servant?


True, we will return. Sir, poor Barrois has led too sedentary a life of late; accustomed formerly to ride on horseback, or in the carriage, to the four corners of Europe, the monotonous walk around that armchair has killed him—his blood has thickened. He was stout, had a short, thick neck; he was attacked with apoplexy, and I was called in too late. By the way, take care to throw away that cup of syrup of violets in the ashes.


We must go, for death is in this house.


Are you not rather young, M. Andrea, to think of marrying?


I think not, sir, in Italy the nobility generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that we ought to secure happiness while it is within our reach.


Well, sir, in case your proposals, which do me honor, are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom shall the preliminary arrangements be settled? So important a negotiation should, I think, be conducted by the respective fathers of the young people.


Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence. Thinking that I might wish to settle in France, he left me at his departure, together with the papers establishing my identity, a letter promising, if he approved of my choice, 150,000 livres per annum from the day I was married. So far as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my father’s revenue.


I, have always intended giving my daughter 500,000 francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole heiress.


All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her daughter are willing. We should command an annuity of 175,000 livres. Supposing, also, I should persuade the marquis to give me my capital, which is not likely, but still is possible, we would place these two or three millions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize ten per cent.


I never give more than four per cent, and generally only three and a half; but to my son-in-law I would give five, and we would share the profits.


Very good, father-in-law. Excuse me, sir; hope alone makes me almost mad,—what will not reality do?


But, there is, doubtless, a part of your fortune your father could not refuse you?


Which?


That you inherit from your mother.


Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari.


How much may it amount to?


Indeed, sir. I assure you I have never given the subject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at least two millions. Well, sir, may I hope?


You may not only hope, but consider it a settled thing, if no obstacle arises on your part.


I am, indeed, rejoiced. But


how is it that your patron, M. de Monte Cristo, did not make his proposal for you?


I have just left the count, sir, he is, doubtless, a delightful man but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me highly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that my father would give me the capital instead of the interest of my property. He has promised to use his influence to obtain it for me; but he also declared that he never had taken on himself the responsibility of making proposals for another, and he never would. I must, however, do him the justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted the repugnance he felt to such a step it was on this occasion, because he thought the projected union would be a happy and suitable one. Besides, if he will do nothing officially, he will answer any questions you propose to him. And now, having finished talking to the father-in-law, I must address myself to the banker. That the day after tomorrow I shall have to draw upon you for about four thousand francs; but the count, expecting my bachelor’s revenue could not suffice for the coming month’s outlay, has offered me a draft for twenty thousand francs. It bears his signature, as you see, which is all-sufficient.


Bring me a million such as that. I shall be well pleased. Fix your own hour for tomorrow, and my cashier shall call on you with a check for eighty thousand francs.


At ten o’clock then, if you please; I should like it early, as I am going into the country tomorrow.


Very well, at ten o’clock; you are still at the Hôtel des Princes?


Yes. Sir, that man has been here. What man? Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity. Oh, my father’s old servant. Well, you gave him the two hundred francs I had left for him? Yes, your excellency. But, he would not take them. What? he would not take them? Give it me. You know where I live; I expect you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Very well. Poor man, he is a worthy creature. Take out the horses quickly, and come up to me. You are about my height, Pierre,


I have that honor, your excellency.


You had a new livery yesterday?


Yes, sir.


I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this evening, and do not wish to be known; lend me your livery till tomorrow. I may sleep, perhaps, at an inn. For whom are you looking, my fine fellow? Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman,


A retired baker?


Exactly.


He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third story.


Ah! you are punctual. Confound you and your punctuality!


Come, come, my little fellow, don’t be angry. See, I have thought about you—look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but what you are fond of.


What do you think of it, my little fellow? Ay, that smells good! You know I used to be a good cook; do you recollect how you used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any of my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably.


But, by my faith, if it was only to breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken you!


My boy, one can talk while eating. And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old friend? I am weeping with joy.


Hold your tongue, hypocrite, you love me!


Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness, but it overpowers me.


And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some trick.


Come, if I did not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead me? Think for a moment. You have your servant’s clothes on—you therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d’hôte of the Hôtel des Princes, or the Café de Paris. Well, I too could keep a servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge that I could, eh?


Well, admitting your love, why do you want me to breakfast with you?


That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow.


What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?


Eh, dear friend, are wills ever made without codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down, and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I have put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. But what do you expect? This is not the Hôtel des Princes.


Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who only wish to live like a retired baker.


Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized. I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is rich—he has an annuity.


Well, you have an annuity.


I have? Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs. It is humiliating, thus to receive money given grudgingly,—an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am obliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my friend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I know your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the daughter of Danglars.


What? of Danglars?


Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well say Count Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he had not so bad a memory he ought to invite me to your wedding, seeing he came to mine. Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he was not so proud then,—he was an under-clerk to the good M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count of Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I to cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same drawing-rooms.


Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the wrong light.


That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am saying. Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and presenting myself at the great gate, introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit down and eat. Ah, mate, you are getting on better terms with your old landlord!


Faith, yes,


So you like it, you rogue?


So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can complain of hard living.


Do you see, all my happiness is marred by one thought?


What is that?


That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own livelihood honestly.


Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two.


No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I am tormented by remorse.


Good Caderousse!


So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs.


Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me?


True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me. It is miserable—do you see?—always to wait till the end of the month.


Oh, does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare better? Well, I wait patiently, do I not?


Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you take care not to let anyone know the utmost. Down there, you always had little presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your poor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend Caderousse.


There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of the past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that again?


Ah, you are only one-and-twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty, and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business.


Yes.


I was going to say, if I were in your place——


Well.


I would realize——


How would you realize?


I would ask for six months’ in advance, under pretence of being able to purchase a farm, then with my six months I would decamp.


Well, well, that isn’t a bad idea.


My dear friend, eat of my bread, and take my advice; you will be none the worse off, physically or morally.


But, why do you not act on the advice you gave me? Why do you not realize a six months’, a year’s advance even, and retire to Brussels? Instead of living the retired baker, you might live as a bankrupt, using his privileges; that would be very good.


But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve hundred francs?


Ah, Caderousse, how covetous you are! Two months ago you were dying with hunger.


The appetite grows by what it feeds on. And. I have formed a plan.


Caderousse’s plans alarmed Andrea still more than his ideas; ideas were but the germ, the plan was reality. Let me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one.


Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the establishment of M——! eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one I believe, since here we are!


I do not say, that you never make a good one; but let us see your plan.


Well, can you without expending one sou, put me in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs? No, fifteen thousand are not enough,—I cannot again become an honest man with less than thirty thousand francs.


No, no, I cannot.


I do not think you understand me. I said without your laying out a sou.


Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good fortune—and yours with mine—and both of us to be dragged down there again?


It would make very little difference to me, if I were retaken, I am a poor creature to live alone, and sometimes pine for my old comrades; not like you, heartless creature, who would be glad never to see them again.


Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!


Don’t alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point out to me some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs without your assistance, and I will contrive it.


Well, I’ll see—I’ll try to contrive some way,


Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five hundred francs, my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean to get a housekeeper.


Well, you shall have your five hundred francs, but it is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse—you take advantage——


Bah, when you have access to countless stores.


True, and my protector is very kind.


That dear protector, and how much does he give you monthly?


Five thousand francs.


As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil can you do with all that?


Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want capital.


Capital?—yes—I understand—everyone would like capital.


Well, and I shall get it.


Who will give it to you—your prince?


Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait.


You must wait for what?


For his death.


The death of your prince?


Yes.


How so?


Because he has made his will in my favor.


Indeed?


On my honor.


For how much?


For five hundred thousand.


Only that? It’s little enough.


But so it is.


No, it cannot be!


Are you my friend, Caderousse?


Yes, in life or death.


Well, I will tell you a secret.


What is it?


But remember——


Ah! pardieu! mute as a carp.


Well, I think—— I think I have discovered my father.


Your true father?


Yes.


Not old Cavalcanti?


No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.


And that father is——


Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo.


Bah!


Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me openly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him fifty thousand francs for it.


Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have done it for half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen thousand; why did you not think of me, ungrateful man?


Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I was down there?


Ah, truly? And you say that by his will——


He leaves me five hundred thousand livres.


Are you sure of it?


He showed it me; but that is not all—there is a codicil, as I said just now.


Probably.


And in that codicil he acknowledges me.


Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest father!


Now, say if I conceal anything from you?


No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion; and your princely father, is he rich, very rich?


Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his fortune.


Is it possible?


It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The other day a banker’s clerk brought him fifty thousand francs in a portfolio about the size of your plate; yesterday his banker brought him a hundred thousand francs in gold.


And you go into that house?


When I like.


How I should like to see all that,


how beautiful it must be!


It is, in fact, magnificent,


And does he not live in the Champs-Élysées?


Yes, No. 30.


Ah. No. 30.


Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a courtyard and a garden,—you must know it.


Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior. What beautiful furniture there must be in it!


Have you ever seen the Tuileries?


No.


Well, it surpasses that.


It must be worth one’s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte Cristo lets fall his purse.


It is not worthwhile to wait for that,


money is as plentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard.


But you should take me there one day with you.


How can I? On what plea?


You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see it; I shall find a way.


No nonsense, Caderousse!


I will offer myself as floor-polisher.


The rooms are all carpeted.


Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it.


That is the best plan, believe me.


Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is.


How can I?


Nothing is easier. Is it large?


Middling.


How is it arranged?


Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan.


They are all here. Here, draw me all that on the paper, my boy.


The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this way, do you see?


High walls?


Not more than eight or ten feet.


That is not prudent,


In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers.


And no steel-traps?


No.


The stables?


Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.


Let us see the ground floor,


On the ground floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room, staircase in the hall, and a little back staircase.


Windows?


Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of your size should pass through each frame.


Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?


Luxury has everything.


But shutters?


Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is an original, who loves to look at the sky even at night.


And where do the servants sleep?


Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well, over that coach-house are the servants’ rooms, with bells corresponding with the different apartments.


Ah, diable! bells did you say?


What do you mean?


Oh, nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is the use of them, I should like to know?


There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know.


Yes.


I was saying to him only yesterday, ‘You are imprudent, Monsieur Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is left unprotected.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what next?’ ‘Well, next, some day you will be robbed.’


What did he answer?


He quietly said, ‘What do I care if I am?’


Andrea, he has some secretaire with a spring.


How do you know?


Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told there were such at the last exhibition.


He has simply a mahogany secretaire, in which the key is always kept.


And he is not robbed?


No; his servants are all devoted to him.


There ought to be some money in that secretaire?


There may be. No one knows what there is.


And where is it?


On the first floor.


Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the ground floor, my boy.


That is very simple.


On the first story, do you see, there is the anteroom and the drawing-room; to the right of the drawing-room, a library and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a dressing-room. The famous secretaire is in the dressing-room.


Is there a window in the dressing-room?


Two,—one here and one there.


Does he often go to Auteuil?


Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for instance, he is going to spend the day and night there.


Are you sure of it?


He has invited me to dine there.


There’s a life for you, a town house and a country house.


That is what it is to be rich.


And shall you dine there?


Probably.


When you dine there, do you sleep there?


If I like; I am at home there.


When do you want your twelve hundred francs?


Now, if you have them.


Yellow boys? no, I thank you.


Oh, you despise them.


On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them.


You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous.


Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend Caderousse, lay hands on him, and demand what farmers pay him their rent in gold. No nonsense, my good fellow; silver simply, round coins with the head of some monarch or other on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece.


But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with me? I should want a porter.


Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I will call for them.


Today?


No, tomorrow; I shall not have time today.


Well, tomorrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil.


May I depend on it?


Certainly.


Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of it.


Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not torment me any more?


Never. How sprightly you are. One would say you were already in possession of your property.


No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it——


Well?


I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that.


Yes, since you have such a good memory.


What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece me?


I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece of good advice.


What is it?


To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We shall both get into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and me by your folly.


How so?


How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a servant, and yet keep a diamond on your finger worth four or five thousand francs.


You guess well.


I know something of diamonds; I have had some.


You do well to boast of it,


Do not be angry, we can try it.


Confiteor! I was mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers imitate so well that it is no longer worthwhile to rob a jeweller’s shop—it is another branch of industry paralyzed.


Have you finished?


do you want anything more?—will you have my waistcoat or my hat? Make free, now you have begun.


No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain you, and will try to cure myself of my ambition.


But take care the same thing does not happen to you in selling the diamond you feared with the gold.


I shall not sell it—do not fear.


Not at least till the day after tomorrow,


Happy rogue,


you are going to find your servants, your horses, your carriage, and your betrothed!


Yes,


Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the day you marry Mademoiselle Danglars.


I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in your head.


What fortune has she?


But I tell you——


A million?


Thank you,


Oh, I wish it you with all my heart! Stop, let me show you the way.


It is not worthwhile.


Yes, it is.


Why?


Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it desirable to take, one of Huret & Fichet’s locks, revised and improved by Gaspard Caderousse; I will manufacture you a similar one when you are a capitalist.


I will let you know a week beforehand.


Dear Benedetto. I think he will not be sorry to inherit his fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can touch his five hundred thousand will not be his worst friend.


Now,


I may require to go in one night from Paris to Tréport; let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will enable me to go fifty leagues in ten hours.


Your highness had already expressed that wish, and the horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at the most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally stops.


That’s well. I remain here a day or two—arrange accordingly.


What are you doing here?


I did not send for you, I think?


Important and urgent. M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his house in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off some papers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. The count’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the police, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends this advice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing himself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property himself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the villain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the opportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who now sends this warning to the count,—a warning he might not be able to send another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be made.


They do not want my papers, they want to kill me; they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of police to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough, forsooth, to distribute his authority on this occasion. Return to Paris, assemble the servants who remain there. I want all my household at Auteuil.


But will no one remain in the house, my lord?


Yes, the porter.


My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house.


Well?


The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise.


By whom?


By thieves.


You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house—it would annoy me less than to be disobeyed. You understand me? Bring your comrades here, one and all; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of the ground floor. And those of the first floor? You know they are never closed. Go!


That’s a daring rascal. I see! there are two of them; one does the work while the other stands guard.


Ah, ha, he is only a thief. By heavens, it is—— Don’t stir, and put down your hatchet; we shall require no arms.


Try again, try again, you have a few minutes’ work there.


Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear, whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you. Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse, what are you doing here, at such an hour?


The Abbé Busoni! The Abbé Busoni!


Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself. And I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.


The abbé, the abbé!


So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?


Reverend sir. I don’t know—believe me—I take my oath——


A pane of glass out, a dark lantern, a bunch of false keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident—— Come, come. I see you are still the same,—an assassin.


Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it was La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned to the galleys.


Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return there?


No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone.


That someone has done society a great kindness.


Ah. I had promised——


And you are breaking your promise!


Alas, yes!


A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de Grève. So much the worse, so much the worse—diavolo! as they say in my country.


Reverend sir, I am impelled——


Every criminal says the same thing.


Poverty——


Pshaw! poverty may make a man beg, steal a loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretaire in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had just paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also poverty?


Pardon, reverend sir, you have saved my life once, save me again!


That is but poor encouragement.


Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize me?


I am alone, and I will again have pity on you, and will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the truth.


Ah, reverend sir. I may indeed say you are my deliverer!


You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?


Yes, that is true, reverend sir.


Who was your liberator?


An Englishman.


What was his name?


Lord Wilmore.


I know him; I shall know if you lie.


Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.


Was this Englishman protecting you?


No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.


What was this young Corsican’s name?


Benedetto.


Is that his Christian name?


He had no other; he was a foundling.


Then this young man escaped with you?


He did.


In what way?


We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know Saint-Mandrier?


I do.


In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock——


Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor fellows!


Nay, one can’t always work—one is not a dog.


So much the better for the dogs,


While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.


And what is become of this Benedetto?


I don’t know.


You ought to know.


No, in truth; we parted at Hyères.


You lie,


Reverend sir!


You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of him as your accomplice.


Oh, reverend sir!


Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!


On what I could get.


You lie. You have lived on the money he has given you.


True. Benedetto has become the son of a great lord.


How can he be the son of a great lord?


A natural son.


And what is that great lord’s name?


The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.


Benedetto the count’s son?


Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.


Ah, yes, and what name does the young man bear meanwhile?


Andrea Cavalcanti.


Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?


Exactly.


And you suffer that, you wretch!—you, who know his life and his crime?


Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?


You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.


Do not do so, reverend sir.


Why not?


Because you would bring us to ruin.


And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?


Reverend sir,


I will expose all.


To whom?


To M. Danglars.


By Heaven! you shall disclose nothing, reverend sir!


I know not what restrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.


Ah, mercy—mercy!


Rise!


What a wrist you have, reverend sir! what a wrist!


Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in the name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee at this moment is still serving him.


Oh!


Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.


I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.


You lie! Take this pen, and write! Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his parents. Sign it!


But would you ruin me?


If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then! To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. Now, that suffices—begone!


Which way?


The way you came.


You wish me to get out at that window?


You got in very well.


Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir.


Idiot! what design can I have?


Why, then, not let me out by the door?


What would be the advantage of waking the porter?


Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?


I wish what God wills.


But swear that you will not strike me as I go down.


Cowardly fool!


What do you intend doing with me?


I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you have turned out a murderer.


Oh, monsieur, make one more attempt—try me once more!


I will. Listen—you know if I may be relied on.


Yes,


If you arrive safely at home——


What have I to fear, except from you?


If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then——


Then?


Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too.


As true as I am a Christian, you will make me die of fright!


Now begone,


What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?


Help! Help, murder!


Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir,—help! Help, reverend sir, help!


What is the matter?


Help. I am murdered!


We are here;—take courage.


Ah, it’s all over! You are come too late—you are come to see me die. What blows, what blood!


My God! thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only that it may fall the more effectually. Bring here immediately the king’s attorney, M. de Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. As you pass the lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a surgeon.


A surgeon, reverend sir—a surgeon!


I have sent for one,


I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my evidence.


Against whom?


Against my murderer.


Did you recognize him?


Yes; it was Benedetto.


The young Corsican?


Himself.


Your comrade?


Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should kill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would kill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered me.


I have also sent for the procureur.


He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing.


Wait a moment,


Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again! Oh, that is life to me; more, more!


Two drops more would kill you,


Oh, send for someone to whom I can denounce the wretch!


Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it.


Yes, yes. I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys at Toulon, No. 59. Quick, quick! or I shall be unable to sign it. You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hôtel des Princes. Oh, I am dying! Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir?


Yes, and much more.


What more will you say?


I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the hope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised the count, by a note, of your intention, and, the count being absent, I read the note and sat up to await you.


And he will be guillotined, will he not? Promise me that, and I will die with that hope.


I will say, that he followed and watched you the whole time, and when he saw you leave the house, ran to the angle of the wall to conceal himself.


Did you see all that?


Remember my words: ‘If you return home safely, I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you also.’


And you did not warn me! You knew I should be killed on leaving this house, and did not warn me!


No; for I saw God’s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and should have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of Providence.


God’s justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were just, you know how many would be punished who now escape.


Patience, have patience! Besides. God is merciful to all, as he has been to you; he is first a father, then a judge.


Do you then believe in God?


Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now, I must believe on seeing you. Listen, this is what the God in whom, on your death-bed, you refuse to believe, has done for you—he gave you health, strength, regular employment, even friends—a life, in fact, which a man might enjoy with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts, rarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course—you have given yourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in a fit of intoxication have ruined your best friend.


Help! I require a surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I am not mortally wounded—I may not die; perhaps they can yet save my life.


Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops I gave you, you would now be dead. Listen, then.


Ah, what a strange priest you are; you drive the dying to despair, instead of consoling them.


Listen. When you had betrayed your friend, God began not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty overtook you. You had already passed half your life in coveting that which you might have honorably acquired; and already you contemplated crime under the excuse of want, when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my hands, a fortune—brilliant, indeed, for you, who had never possessed any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune sufficed you no longer when you once possessed it; you wished to double it, and how?—by a murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you, and brought you to justice.


It was not I who wished to kill the Jew, it was La Carconte.


and God,—I cannot say in justice, for his justice would have slain you,—but God, in his mercy, spared your life.


Pardieu! to transport me for life, how merciful!


You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward who feared death rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like all galley-slaves, you said, ‘I may escape from prison, I cannot from the grave.’ And you said truly; the way was opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited Toulon, who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice fell on you and your companion. You received a second fortune, money and tranquillity were restored to you, and you, who had been condemned to a felon’s life, might live as other men. Then, wretched creature, then you tempted God a third time. ‘I have not enough,’ you said, when you had more than you before possessed, and you committed a third crime, without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has punished you.


Give me drink. I thirst—I burn! And yet that villain, Benedetto, will escape!


No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be punished.


Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your duty as a priest—you should have prevented Benedetto from killing me.


I? when you had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected my breast! Yet perhaps if I had found you humble and penitent, I might have prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and blood-thirsty, and I left you in the hands of God.


I do not believe there is a God, you do not believe it; you lie—you lie!


Silence, you will force the last drop of blood from your veins. What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you dead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a tear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin’s dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent.


No, no; I will not repent. There is no God; there is no Providence—all comes by chance.


There is a Providence; there is a God, of whom you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him, while I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in whom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe in him.


But who are you, then?


Look well at me!


Well, the abbé—the Abbé Busoni.


I am neither the Abbé Busoni nor Lord Wilmore; think again,—do you not recollect me?


Yes, indeed. I think I have seen you and known you formerly.


Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once.


Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die?


Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of God’s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear by my father’s tomb.


By your father’s tomb! who, then, are you?


I am—I am——


Oh, my God, my God! pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art indeed man’s father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord, I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God; receive me, Oh, my Lord!


One!


Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house today, looks well, sir. Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying, ‘Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship,’ or must I simply propose to you a choice of arms?


Albert, let us first sit down and talk.


Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer.


Albert, these are questions which it is difficult to answer.


I will facilitate it by repeating the question, ‘Will you, or will you not, retract?’


Morcerf, it is not enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to questions which concern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as Lieutenant-général the Count of Morcerf, peer of France.


What must then be done?


What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus—money, time, and fatigue are nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family; probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own arm must save his life.


Well, what does all this mean?


It means that I have just returned from Yanina.


From Yanina?


Yes.


Impossible!


Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a kingdom, and an empire?


You have been to Yanina?


Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since, and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble; but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here I am.


What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most wish to know?


Because, in truth, Albert——


You hesitate?


Yes,—I fear.


You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh, no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot be doubted.


Not so, on the contrary—— The paragraph was correct, my friend.


What? That French officer——


Fernand?


The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he was——


Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father! here is a proof of it.


Now, Albert, you understand me—do you not? I wished to see all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But, on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you. I hastened to you, to tell you, Albert, that in this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my friend, do you wish it?


Ah, noble fellow!


Take these,


Dear, excellent friend,


Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream, let it vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as the smoke from those silent ashes.


Yes, yes, and may there remain only the eternal friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh, Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my country.


Dear Albert. Well, what still oppresses you, my friend?


I am broken-hearted. Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother! if you know this, how much must you suffer!


Come, take courage, my friend.


But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.


The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go, my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall come.


You think, then, all is not over yet?


I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——


What?


Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?


Why do you ask me now?


Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with the person of whom we were speaking.


How? you think M. Danglars——


I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on my words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue weight.


No. the engagement is broken off.


Well. Let us go out, Albert, a ride in the wood in the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return to breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine.


Willingly, but let us walk. I think a little exertion would do me good.


Since we are out, let us call on M. de Monte Cristo; he is admirably adapted to revive one’s spirits, because he never interrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best comforters.


Gladly, let us call—I love him.


Ah, ha! I hope all is over, explained and settled.


Yes, the absurd reports have died away, and should they be renewed, I would be the first to oppose them; so let us speak no more of it.


Albert will tell you, that I gave him the same advice. Look. I am finishing the most execrable morning’s work.


What is it? arranging your papers, apparently.


My papers, thank God, no,—my papers are all in capital order, because I have none; but M. Cavalcanti’s.


M. Cavalcanti’s?


Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is introducing?


Let us not misunderstand each other. I introduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti.


And who, is to marry Mademoiselle Danglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly.


What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?


Certainly! do you come from the end of the world? you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all Paris.


And you, count, have made this match?


I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a match? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose it.


Ah, I understand, on our friend Albert’s account.


On my account? oh, no, indeed, the count will do me the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated him to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count pretends I have not him to thank;—so be it—I will erect an altar Deo ignoto.


Listen. I have had little to do with it, for I am at variance both with the father-in-law and the young man; there is only Mademoiselle Eugénie, who appears but little charmed with the thoughts of matrimony, and who, seeing how little I was disposed to persuade her to renounce her dear liberty, retains any affection for me. And do you say this wedding is at hand? Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the young man; he is said to be of good family and rich, but I never trust to vague assertions. I have warned M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but he is fascinated with his Luccanese. I have even informed him of a circumstance I consider very serious; the young man was either charmed by his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I scarcely know which. But I do know his father lost sight of him for more than ten years; what he did during these ten years, God only knows. Well, all that was useless. They have commissioned me to write to the major to demand papers, and here they are. I send them, but like Pilate—washing my hands. And what does Mademoiselle d’Armilly say to you for robbing her of her pupil? Oh, well, I don’t know; but I understand that she is going to Italy. Madame Danglars asked me for letters of recommendation for the impresari; I gave her a few lines for the director of the Valle Theatre, who is under some obligation to me. But what is the matter, Albert? you look dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with Mademoiselle Eugénie?


I am not aware of it,


But, you are not in your usual spirits?


I have a dreadful headache,


Well, my dear viscount. I have an infallible remedy to propose to you.


What is that?


A change.


Indeed?


Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go from home. Shall we go together?


You annoyed, count? and by what?


Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you with a brief preparing in your house.


What brief?


The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable assassin—some brigand escaped from the gallows apparently.


True. I saw it in the paper. Who is this Caderousse?


Some Provençal, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him at Marseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him. Consequently, the procureur is very active in the affair, and the prefect of police very much interested; and, thanks to that interest, for which I am very grateful, they send me all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood, under pretence of their being Caderousse’s murderers, so that in three months, if this continues, every robber and assassin in France will have the plan of my house at his fingers’ ends. I am resolved to desert them and go to some remote corner of the earth, and shall be happy if you will accompany me, viscount.


Willingly.


Then it is settled?


Yes, but where?


I have told you, where the air is pure, where every sound soothes, where one is sure to be humbled, however proud may be his nature. I love that humiliation, I, who am master of the universe, as was Augustus.


But where are you really going?


To sea, viscount; you know I am a sailor. I was rocked when an infant in the arms of old Ocean, and on the bosom of the beautiful Amphitrite; I have sported with the green mantle of the one and the azure robe of the other; I love the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see her.


Let us go, count.


To sea?


Yes.


You accept my proposal?


I do.