At your ball.


Why should you not be there?


Because you have not yet invited me.


But I come expressly for that purpose.


You are very kind, but I may be prevented.


If I tell you one thing, you will be so amiable as to set aside all impediments.


Tell me what it is.


My mother begs you to come.


The Comtesse de Morcerf?


Ah, count. I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely to me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibres of which I spoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them, for during the last four days we have spoken of no one else.


You have talked of me?


Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle!


Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too reasonable to be led by imagination.


A problem, my dear count, for everyone—for my mother as well as others; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do not fear. My mother is only astonished that you remain so long unsolved. I believe, while the Countess G—— takes you for Lord Ruthven, my mother imagines you to be Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain. The first opportunity you have, confirm her in her opinion; it will be easy for you, as you have the philosophy of the one and the wit of the other.


I thank you for the warning. I shall endeavor to be prepared for all suppositions.


You will, then, come on Saturday?


Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites me.


You are very kind.


Will M. Danglars be there?


He has already been invited by my father. We shall try to persuade the great d’Aguesseau,11 M. de Villefort, to come, but have not much hope of seeing him.


‘Never despair of anything,’ says the proverb.


Do you dance, count?


I dance?


Yes, you; it would not be astonishing.


That is very well before one is over forty. No, I do not dance, but I like to see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf dance?


Never; you can talk to her, she so delights in your conversation.


Indeed?


Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are the only man of whom I have heard her speak with interest. I have one thing to reproach myself with. What is it?


I have spoken to you indiscreetly about Danglars.


On the contrary, speak to me always in the same strain about him.


I am glad to be reassured on that point. Apropos, when do you aspect M. d’Épinay?


Five or six days hence at the latest.


And when is he to be married?


Immediately on the arrival of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran.


Bring him to see me. Although you say I do not like him, I assure you I shall be happy to see him.


I will obey your orders, my lord.


Good-bye.


Until Saturday, when I may expect you, may I not?


Yes, I promised you. What news?


She went to the Palais,


Did she stay long there?


An hour and a half.


Did she return home?


Directly.


Well, my dear Bertuccio. I now advise you to go in quest of the little estate I spoke to you of in Normandy.


The person called the Count of Monte Cristo is an intimate acquaintance of Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is sometimes seen in Paris and who is there at this moment; he is also known to the Abbé Busoni, a Sicilian priest, of high repute in the East, where he has done much good.


The abbé, who was in Paris only for a month, inhabited a small two-storied house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were two rooms on each floor and he was the only tenant. The two lower rooms consisted of a dining-room, with a table, chairs, and side-board of walnut, and a wainscoted parlor, without ornaments, carpet, or timepiece. It was evident that the abbé limited himself to objects of strict necessity. He preferred to use the sitting-room upstairs, which was more library than parlor, and was furnished with theological books and parchments, in which he delighted to bury himself for months at a time, according to his valet de chambre. His valet looked at the visitors through a sort of wicket; and if their faces were unknown to him or displeased him, he replied that the abbé was not in Paris, an answer which satisfied most persons, because the abbé was known to be a great traveller. Besides, whether at home or not, whether in Paris or Cairo, the abbé always left something to give away, which the valet distributed through this wicket in his master’s name. The other room near the library was a bedroom. A bed without curtains, four armchairs, and a couch, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a prie-Dieu, all its furniture.


Lord Wilmore resided in Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of those English tourists who consume a large fortune in travelling. He hired the apartment in which he lived furnished, passed only a few hours in the day there, and rarely slept there. One of his peculiarities was never to speak a word of French, which he however wrote with great facility.


No, he went out early this morning,


I might not always be content with that answer, for I come from one to whom everyone must be at home. But have the kindness to give the Abbé Busoni——


I told you he was not at home,


Then on his return give him that card and this sealed paper. Will he be at home at eight o’clock this evening?


Doubtless, unless he is at work, which is the same as if he were out.


I will come again at that time. Is the abbé at home?


Yes; he is at work in his library, but he expects you, sir,


Have I the honor of addressing the Abbé Busoni?


Yes, sir, and you are the person whom M. de Boville, formerly an inspector of prisons, sends to me from the prefect of police?


Exactly, sir.


One of the agents appointed to secure the safety of Paris?


Yes, sir


I am at your service, sir,


The mission with which I am charged, sir, is a confidential one on the part of him who fulfils it, and him by whom he is employed. Your probity, is so well known to the prefect that he wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from you some particulars connected with the public safety, to ascertain which I am deputed to see you. It is hoped that no ties of friendship or humane consideration will induce you to conceal the truth.


Provided, sir, the particulars you wish for do not interfere with my scruples or my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and the secrets of confession, for instance, must remain between me and God, and not between me and human justice.


Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we will duly respect your conscience.


Excuse me, abbé, but the light tries my eyes very much.


Now, sir, I am listening—go on.


I will come at once to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte Cristo?


You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?


Zaccone?—is not his name Monte Cristo?


Monte Cristo is the name of an estate, or, rather, of a rock, and not a family name.


Well, be it so—let us not dispute about words; and since M. de Monte Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same——


Absolutely the same.


Let us speak of M. Zaccone.


Agreed.


I asked you if you knew him?


Extremely well.


Who is he?


The son of a rich shipbuilder in Malta.


I know that is the report; but, as you are aware, the police does not content itself with vague reports.


However, when that report is in accordance with the truth, everybody must believe it, the police as well as all the rest.


Are you sure of what you assert?


What do you mean by that question?


Understand, sir, I do not in the least suspect your veracity; I ask if you are certain of it?


I knew his father, M. Zaccone.


Ah, indeed?


And when a child I often played with the son in the timber-yards.


But whence does he derive the title of count?


You are aware that may be bought.


In Italy?


Everywhere.


And his immense riches, whence does he procure them?


They may not be so very great.


How much do you suppose he possesses?


From one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres per annum.


That is reasonable. I have heard he had three or four millions.


Two hundred thousand per annum would make four millions of capital.


But I was told he had four millions per annum.


That is not probable.


Do you know this Island of Monte Cristo?


Certainly, everyone who has come from Palermo, Naples, or Rome to France by sea must know it, since he has passed close to it and must have seen it.


I am told it is a delightful place?


It is a rock.


And why has the count bought a rock?


For the sake of being a count. In Italy one must have territorial possessions to be a count.


You have, doubtless, heard the adventures of M. Zaccone’s youth?


The father’s?


No, the son’s.


I know nothing certain; at that period of his life, I lost sight of my young comrade.


Was he in the wars?


I think he entered the service.


In what branch?


In the navy.


Are you not his confessor?


No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran.


A Lutheran?


I say, I believe such is the case, I do not affirm it; besides, liberty of conscience is established in France.


Doubtless, and we are not now inquiring into his creed, but his actions; in the name of the prefect of police, I ask you what you know of him.


He passes for a very charitable man. Our holy father, the pope, has made him a knight of Jesus Christ for the services he rendered to the Christians in the East; he has five or six rings as testimonials from Eastern monarchs of his services.


Does he wear them?


No, but he is proud of them; he is better pleased with rewards given to the benefactors of man than to his destroyers.


He is a Quaker then?


Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the exception of the peculiar dress.


Has he any friends?


Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend.


But has he any enemies?


One only.


What is his name?


Lord Wilmore.


Where is he?


He is in Paris just now.


Can he give me any particulars?


Important ones; he was in India with Zaccone.


Do you know his abode?


It’s somewhere in the Chaussée d’Antin; but I know neither the street nor the number.


Are you at variance with the Englishman?


I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we are consequently not friends.


Do you think the Count of Monte Cristo had ever been in France before he made this visit to Paris?


To that question I can answer positively; no, sir, he had not, because he applied to me six months ago for the particulars he required, and as I did not know when I might again come to Paris, I recommended M. Cavalcanti to him.


Andrea?


No, Bartolomeo, his father.


Now, sir, I have but one question more to ask, and I charge you, in the name of honor, of humanity, and of religion, to answer me candidly.


What is it, sir?


Do you know with what design M. de Monte Cristo purchased a house at Auteuil?


Certainly, for he told me.


To make a lunatic asylum of it, similar to that founded by the Count of Pisani at Palermo. Do you know about that institution?


I have heard of it.


It is a magnificent charity.


You are a great almsgiver,


and although you are said to be rich, I will venture to offer you something for your poor people; will you accept my offering?


I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in one thing, and that is that the relief I give should be entirely from my own resources.


However——


My resolution, sir, is unchangeable, but you have only to search for yourself and you will find, alas, but too many objects upon whom to exercise your benevolence.


You know, sir, I do not speak French?


I know you do not like to converse in our language,


But you may use it. I understand it.


And I, know enough of English to keep up the conversation. Do not put yourself to the slightest inconvenience.


Aw? I understand, perfectly.


But, do you know why he came to France?


He is speculating in railways, and as he is an expert chemist and physicist, he has invented a new system of telegraphy, which he is seeking to bring to perfection.


How much does he spend yearly?


Not more than five or six hundred thousand francs, he is a miser.


Do you know his house at Auteuil?


Certainly.


What do you know respecting it?


Do you wish to know why he bought it?


Yes.


The count is a speculator, who will certainly ruin himself in experiments. He supposes there is in the neighborhood of the house he has bought a mineral spring equal to those at Bagnères, Luchon, and Cauterets. He is going to turn his house into a Badhaus, as the Germans term it. He has already dug up all the garden two or three times to find the famous spring, and, being unsuccessful, he will soon purchase all the contiguous houses. Now, as I dislike him, and hope his railway, his electric telegraph, or his search for baths, will ruin him, I am watching for his discomfiture, which must soon take place.


What was the cause of your quarrel?


When he was in England he seduced the wife of one of my friends.


Why do you not seek revenge?


I have already fought three duels with him, the first with the pistol, the second with the sword, and the third with the sabre.


And what was the result of those duels?


The first time, he broke my arm; the second, he wounded me in the breast; and the third time, made this large wound. So that, you see, there is a deadly feud between us.


But, you do not go about it in the right way to kill him, if I understand you correctly.


Aw? I practice shooting every day, and every other day Grisier comes to my house.


You are going to Madame de Morcerf’s, are you not?


No. I am too ill.


You are wrong, it is important that you should be seen there.


Do you think so?


I do. In that case I will go.


You are looking for my daughter?


I confess it. Could you have been so cruel as not to bring her?


Calm yourself. She has met Mademoiselle de Villefort, and has taken her arm; see, they are following us, both in white dresses, one with a bouquet of camellias, the other with one of myosotis. But tell me——


Well, what do you wish to know?


Will not the Count of Monte Cristo be here tonight?


Seventeen!


What do you mean?


I only mean that the count seems the rage, and that you are the seventeenth person that has asked me the same question. The count is in fashion; I congratulate him upon it.


And have you replied to everyone as you have to me?


Ah, to be sure, I have not answered you; be satisfied, we shall have this ‘lion’; we are among the privileged ones.


Were you at the Opera yesterday?


No.


He was there.


Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric person commit any new originality?


Can he be seen without doing so? Elssler was dancing in Le Diable boiteux; the Greek princess was in ecstasies. After the cachucha he placed a magnificent ring on the stem of a bouquet, and threw it to the charming danseuse, who, in the third act, to do honor to the gift, reappeared with it on her finger. And the Greek princess,—will she be here?


No, you will be deprived of that pleasure; her position in the count’s establishment is not sufficiently understood.


Wait; leave me here, and go and speak to Madame de Villefort, who is trying to attract your attention.


I wager anything, that I know what you were about to say.


Well, what is it?


If I guess rightly, will you confess it?


Yes.


On your honor?


On my honor.


You were going to ask me if the Count of Monte Cristo had arrived, or was expected.


Not at all. It is not of him that I am now thinking. I was going to ask you if you had received any news of Monsieur Franz.


Yes,—yesterday.


What did he tell you?


That he was leaving at the same time as his letter.


Well, now then, the count?


The count will come, of that you may be satisfied.


You know that he has another name besides Monte Cristo?


No, I did not know it.


Monte Cristo is the name of an island, and he has a family name.


I never heard it.


Well, then, I am better informed than you; his name is Zaccone.


It is possible.


He is a Maltese.


That is also possible.


The son of a shipowner.


Really, you should relate all this aloud, you would have the greatest success.


He served in India, discovered a mine in Thessaly, and comes to Paris to establish a mineral water-cure at Auteuil.


Well, I’m sure, this is indeed news! Am I allowed to repeat it?


Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at a time, and do not say I told you.


Why so?


Because it is a secret just discovered.


By whom?


The police.


Then the news originated——


At the prefect’s last night. Paris, you can understand, is astonished at the sight of such unusual splendor, and the police have made inquiries.


Well, well! Nothing more is wanting than to arrest the count as a vagabond, on the pretext of his being too rich.


Indeed, that doubtless would have happened if his credentials had not been so favorable.


Poor count! And is he aware of the danger he has been in?


I think not.


Then it will be but charitable to inform him. When he arrives, I will not fail to do so. Madame, allow me to present to you M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, one of our best, and, above all, of our bravest officers.


I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil, at the house of the Count of Monte Cristo,


Have you seen my mother?


I have just had the pleasure, but I have not seen your father.


See, he is down there, talking politics with that little group of great geniuses.


Indeed? and so those gentlemen down there are men of great talent. I should not have guessed it. And for what kind of talent are they celebrated? You know there are different sorts.


That tall, harsh-looking man is very learned, he discovered, in the neighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard with a vertebra more than lizards usually have, and he immediately laid his discovery before the Institute. The thing was discussed for a long time, but finally decided in his favor. I can assure you the vertebra made a great noise in the learned world, and the gentleman, who was only a knight of the Legion of Honor, was made an officer.


Come, this cross seems to me to be wisely awarded. I suppose, had he found another additional vertebra, they would have made him a commander.


Very likely,


And who can that person be who has taken it into his head to wrap himself up in a blue coat embroidered with green?


Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it is the Republic’s, which deputed David12 to devise a uniform for the Academicians.


Indeed? so this gentleman is an Academician?


Within the last week he has been made one of the learned assembly.


And what is his especial talent?


His talent? I believe he thrusts pins through the heads of rabbits, he makes fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal marrow out of dogs with whalebone.


And he is made a member of the Academy of Sciences for this?


No; of the French Academy.


But what has the French Academy to do with all this?


I was going to tell you. It seems——


That his experiments have very considerably advanced the cause of science, doubtless?


No; that his style of writing is very good.


This must be very flattering to the feelings of the rabbits into whose heads he has thrust pins, to the fowls whose bones he has dyed red, and to the dogs whose spinal marrow he has punched out?


And the other one?


That one?


Yes. Yes, the third.


The one in the dark blue coat?


Yes. He is a colleague of the count, and one of the most active opponents to the idea of providing the Chamber of Peers with a uniform. He was very successful upon that question. He stood badly with the Liberal papers, but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court is now getting him into favor with the journalists. They talk of making him an ambassador.


And what are his claims to the peerage?


He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or five articles in the Siècle, and voted five or six years on the ministerial side.


Bravo, viscount, you are a delightful cicerone. And now you will do me a favor, will you not?


What is it?


Do not introduce me to any of these gentlemen; and should they wish it, you will warn me.


Ah! is it you, baron? Why do you call me baron? you know that I care nothing for my title. I am not like you, viscount; you like your title, do you not?


Certainly, seeing that without my title I should be nothing; while you, sacrificing the baron, would still remain the millionaire.


Which seems to me the finest title under the royalty of July,


Unfortunately, one’s title to a millionaire does not last for life, like that of baron, peer of France, or academician; for example, the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of Frankfurt, who have just become bankrupts.


Indeed? they have drawn on me for 200,000 francs!


Well, you can throw out the draft; their signature is worth five per cent.


Yes, but it is too late. I have honored their bills.


Then, here are 200,000 francs gone after——


Hush, do not mention these things, especially before young M. Cavalcanti;


Albert, did you notice that?


What, mother?


That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the roof of M. de Morcerf.


Yes; but then he breakfasted with me—indeed, he made his first appearance in the world on that occasion.


But your house is not M. de Morcerf’s, and since he has been here I have watched him.


Well?


Well, he has taken nothing yet.


The count is very temperate.


Approach him, and when the next waiter passes, insist upon his taking something.


But why, mother?


Just to please me, Albert,


It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?


Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors and the blinds. But you, with that light dress, and without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel cold?


Do you know where I am leading you?


No, madame, but you see I make no resistance.


We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the grove. See, count, see, our French grapes are not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make allowance for our northern sun. Do you refuse?


Pray excuse me, madame, but I never eat Muscatel grapes.


Take this peach, then. What, again? really, you pain me. Count, there is a beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have together eaten bread and salt under the same roof.


I know it, madame, but we are in France, and not in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom of dividing bread and salt with one another.


we are friends, are we not?


Certainly, we are friends, why should we not be?


Thank you. Sir, is it true that you have seen so much, travelled so far, and suffered so deeply?


I have suffered deeply, madame,


But now you are happy?


Doubtless, since no one hears me complain.


And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?


My present happiness equals my past misery,


Are you not married?


I, married? who could have told you so?


No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the Opera with a young and lovely woman.


She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter of a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to love in the world.


You live alone, then?


I do.


You have no sister—no son—no father?


I have no one.


How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life?


It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most men who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker than the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have done in my place; that is all.


Yes, and you have still preserved this love in your heart—one can only love once—and did you ever see her again?


Never.


Never?


I never returned to the country where she lived.


To Malta?


Yes; Malta.


She is, then, now at Malta?


I think so.


And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?


Her,—yes.


But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you?


I hate them? Not at all; why should I?


Take some,


Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,


Oh, mother, such a misfortune has happened!


What? What has happened? did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I should expect misfortunes.


M. de Villefort is here.


Well?


He comes to fetch his wife and daughter.


Why so?


Because Madame de Saint-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the news of M. de Saint-Méran’s death, which took place on the first stage after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good spirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth, notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless.


And how was M. de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?


He was her grandfather on the mother’s side. He was coming here to hasten her marriage with Franz. Ah, indeed!


So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Méran also grandfather to Mademoiselle Danglars? Albert, Albert,


what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him that he has spoken amiss. We are friends; are we not?


Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all times I am your most respectful servant.


Oh, sir,


oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of it; oh, yes, I shall certainly die of it!


Why, what can have happened? what has thus disturbed you? Is M. de Saint-Méran with you?


M. de Saint-Méran is dead,


Dead!—so suddenly?


A week ago, we went out together in the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Méran had been unwell for some days; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine again inspired him with courage, and notwithstanding his illness he would leave. At six leagues from Marseilles, after having eaten some of the lozenges he is accustomed to take, he fell into such a deep sleep, that it appeared to me unnatural; still I hesitated to wake him, although I fancied that his face was flushed, and that the veins of his temples throbbed more violently than usual. However, as it became dark, and I could no longer see, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a person suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back violently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to M. de Saint-Méran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over, and I arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse.


Of course you sent for a doctor?


Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.


Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis had died.


Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic stroke.


And what did you do then?


M. de Saint-Méran had always expressed a desire, in case his death happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be brought to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I am preceding him by a few days.


Oh! my poor mother! to have such duties to perform at your age after such a blow!


God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he would certainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It is true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot cry; at my age they say that we have no more tears,—still I think that when one is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where is Valentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to see Valentine.


This instant, sir—this instant, I beseech you!


Rest yourself, mother,


Oh, father, some misfortune has happened!


Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine,


And grandpapa?


What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah, yes, it is indeed strange!


M. Noirtier wishes to see you tonight,


Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma,


I think it would be better for me to retire, with your permission, for the sight of me appears still to afflict your mother-in-law.


Yes, yes, let her leave; but do you stay.


Alas, sir, a great misfortune has happened. Madame de Saint-Méran has arrived, and her husband is dead! Mademoiselle Valentine? She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say good-bye to you in full dress. Do you wish to see her? Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de Morcerf’s; I will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is that what you wish for?


Yes,


Yes, yes, you mean that I have yet a kind grandfather left, do you not. Ah, yes, happily I have. Without that, what would become of me? Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?


No, my child, no, but I was impatiently waiting for your arrival, that I might send for your father.


My father?


Yes, I wish to speak to him. Sir, you wrote to me concerning the marriage of this child?


Yes, madame, it is not only projected but arranged.


Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d’Épinay?


Yes, madame.


Is he not the son of General d’Épinay who was on our side, and who was assassinated some days before the usurper returned from the Island of Elba?


The same.


Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a Jacobin?


Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother. M. d’Épinay was quite a child when his father died, he knows very little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with pleasure, at least with indifference.


Is it a suitable match?


In every respect.


And the young man?


Is regarded with universal esteem.


You approve of him?


He is one of the most well-bred young men I know.


Well, sir. I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time to live.


You, madame?


You, dear mamma?


I know what I am saying. I must hurry you, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother to bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her belonging to my poor Renée, whom you have so soon forgotten, sir.


Ah, madame, you forget that I was obliged to give a mother to my child.


A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to the purpose,—our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead in peace.


It shall be as you wish, madame, more especially since your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M. d’Épinay arrives in Paris——


My dear grandmother, consider decorum—the recent death. You would not have me marry under such sad auspices?


My child, let us hear none of the conventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing for the future. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother, and certainly I have not been less happy on that account.


Still that idea of death, madame,


Still?—Always! I tell you I am going to die—do you understand? Well, before dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make my child happy; I wish to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey me;—in fact, I will know him—I will! that I may rise from the depths of my grave to find him, if he should not fulfil his duty!


Madame, you must lay aside these exalted ideas, which almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead, once buried in their graves, rise no more.


And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have had a fearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over my body, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will, and what will appear impossible above all to you, sir, I saw, with my eyes shut, in the spot where you are now standing, issuing from that corner where there is a door leading into Madame Villefort’s dressing-room—I saw, I tell you, silently enter, a white figure.


It was the fever that disturbed you, madame,


Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a white figure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of only one of my senses, I heard my glass removed—the same which is there now on the table.


Oh, dear mother, it was a dream.


So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the bell; but when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then entered with a light.


But she saw no one?


Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It was the soul of my husband!—Well, if my husband’s soul can come to me, why should not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter? the tie is even more direct, it seems to me.


Oh, madame, do not yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live with us, happy, loved, and honored, and we will make you forget——


Never, never, never. When does M. d’Épinay return?


We expect him every moment.


It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be expeditious. And then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be assured that all our property returns to Valentine.


Ah, grandmamma, do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must not send for a notary, but for a doctor!


A doctor? I am not ill; I am thirsty—that is all.


What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?


The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table—give it to me, Valentine.


The notary, the notary!


The notary! let him come in. Go, Valentine, and leave me with this gentleman.


But, grandmamma——


Leave me—go!


Oh, we have been waiting for you with such impatience, dear M. d’Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and Antoinette?


Antoinette is very well, and Madeleine tolerably so. But you sent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de Villefort who is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our patients of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to recommend you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field.


No, it is for my poor grandmother. You know the calamity that has happened to us, do you not?


I know nothing.


Alas, my grandfather is dead.


M. de Saint-Méran?


Yes.


Suddenly?


From an apoplectic stroke.


An apoplectic stroke?


Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never left, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M. d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!


Where is she?


In her room with the notary.


And M. Noirtier?


Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability of moving or speaking.


And the same love for you—eh, my dear child?


Yes, he was very fond of me.


Who does not love you? What are your grandmother’s symptoms?


An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep; she fancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering above her body, which she at the same time watched. It must have been delirium; she fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber and even heard the noise it made on touching her glass.


It is singular,


I was not aware that Madame de Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.


It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition, and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her mad; and my father, who you know is a strong-minded man, himself appeared deeply impressed.


We will go and see,


what you tell me seems very strange.


Go upstairs. Oh, I dare not—she forbade my sending for you; and, as you say, I am myself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and take a turn in the garden to recover myself.


You here at this hour?


Yes, my poor girl. I come to bring and to hear bad tidings.


This is, indeed, a house of mourning, speak, Maximilian, although the cup of sorrow seems already full.


Dear Valentine, listen, I entreat you; what I am about to say is very serious. When are you to be married?


I will tell you all, from you I have nothing to conceal. This morning the subject was introduced, and my dear grandmother, on whom I depended as my only support, not only declared herself favorable to it, but is so anxious for it, that they only await the arrival of M. d’Épinay, and the following day the contract will be signed.


Alas, it is dreadful thus to hear my condemnation from your own lips. The sentence is passed, and, in a few hours, will be executed; it must be so, and I will not endeavor to prevent it. But, since you say nothing remains but for M. d’Épinay to arrive that the contract may be signed, and the following day you will be his, tomorrow you will be engaged to M. d’Épinay, for he came this morning to Paris. I was at the house of Monte Cristo an hour since, we were speaking, he of the sorrow your family had experienced, and I of your grief, when a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Never, till then, had I placed any confidence in presentiments, but now I cannot help believing them, Valentine. At the sound of that carriage I shuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which terrified me as much as the footsteps of the commander did Don Juan. The door at last opened; Albert de Morcerf entered first, and I began to hope my fears were vain, when, after him, another young man advanced, and the count exclaimed: ‘Ah, here is the Baron Franz d’Épinay!’ I summoned all my strength and courage to my support. Perhaps I turned pale and trembled, but certainly I smiled; and five minutes after I left, without having heard one word that had passed.


Poor Maximilian!


Valentine, the time has arrived when you must answer me. And remember my life depends on your answer. What do you intend doing? Listen, it is not the first time you have contemplated our present position, which is a serious and urgent one; I do not think it is a moment to give way to useless sorrow; leave that for those who like to suffer at their leisure and indulge their grief in secret. There are such in the world, and God will doubtless reward them in heaven for their resignation on earth, but those who mean to contend must not lose one precious moment, but must return immediately the blow which fortune strikes. Do you intend to struggle against our ill-fortune? Tell me, Valentine for it is that I came to know.


What do you say, Maximilian? What do you mean by a struggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege. What? I resist my father’s order, and my dying grandmother’s wish? Impossible!


You are too noble not to understand me, and you understand me so well that you already yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my strength to struggle with myself and support my grief in secret, as you say. But to grieve my father—to disturb my grandmother’s last moments—never! You are right,


In what a tone you speak!


I speak as one who admires you, mademoiselle. Mademoiselle,


mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man! he sees me in despair, and pretends he cannot understand me!


You mistake—I understand you perfectly. You will not oppose M. Villefort, you will not displease the marchioness, and tomorrow you will sign the contract which will bind you to your husband.


But, mon Dieu! tell me, how can I do otherwise?


Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I shall be a bad judge in such a case; my selfishness will blind me. What would you have proposed, Maximilian, had you found me willing to accede? It is not for me to say.


You are wrong; you must advise me what to do.


Do you seriously ask my advice, Valentine?


Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it is good, I will follow it; you know my devotion to you.


give me your hand in token of forgiveness of my anger; my senses are confused, and during the last hour the most extravagant thoughts have passed through my brain. Oh, if you refuse my advice——


What do you advise?


I am free, and rich enough to support you. I swear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even shall have approached your forehead.


You make me tremble!


Follow me. I will take you to my sister, who is worthy also to be yours. We will embark for Algiers, for England, for America, or, if you prefer it, retire to the country and only return to Paris when our friends have reconciled your family.


I feared it, Maximilian, it is the counsel of a madman, and I should be more mad than you, did I not stop you at once with the word ‘Impossible, Morrel, impossible!’


You will then submit to what fate decrees for you without even attempting to contend with it?


Yes,—if I die!


Well, Valentine. I can only say again that you are right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and you prove to me that passion blinds the most well-meaning. I appreciate your calm reasoning. It is then understood that tomorrow you will be irrevocably promised to M. Franz d’Épinay, not only by that theatrical formality invented to heighten the effect of a comedy called the signature of the contract, but your own will?


Again you drive me to despair, Maximilian, again you plunge the dagger into the wound! What would you do, tell me, if your sister listened to such a proposition?


I am selfish—you have already said so—and as a selfish man I think not of what others would do in my situation, but of what I intend doing myself. I think only that I have known you not a whole year. From the day I first saw you, all my hopes of happiness have been in securing your affection. One day you acknowledged that you loved me, and since that day my hope of future happiness has rested on obtaining you, for to gain you would be life to me. Now, I think no more; I say only that fortune has turned against me—I had thought to gain heaven, and now I have lost it. It is an every-day occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he possesses but also what he has not.


But, in a word, what are you going to do?


I am going to have the honor of taking my leave of you, mademoiselle, solemnly assuring you that I wish your life may be so calm, so happy, and so fully occupied, that there may be no place for me even in your memory. mademoiselle,


Oh!


Adieu, Valentine, adieu! Valentine,


Where are you going? where are you going?


I am going, that I may not bring fresh trouble into your family: and to set an example which every honest and devoted man, situated as I am, may follow.


Before you leave me, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilian. Speak, speak!


Has your resolution changed, Valentine?


It cannot change, unhappy man; you know it must not!


Then adieu, Valentine!


I must know what you mean to do! Where are you going?


Oh, fear not. I do not intend to render another man responsible for the rigorous fate reserved for me. Another might threaten to seek M. Franz, to provoke him, and to fight with him; all that would be folly. What has M. Franz to do with it? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has already forgotten he has seen me. He did not even know I existed when it was arranged by your two families that you should be united. I have no enmity against M. Franz, and promise you the punishment shall not fall on him.


On whom, then!—on me?


On you? Valentine! Oh, Heaven forbid! Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy.


On yourself, then, unhappy man; on yourself?


I am the only guilty person, am I not?


Maximilian! Maximilian, come back, I entreat you!


Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine, those who, like us, have never had a thought for which we need blush before the world, such may read each other’s hearts. I never was romantic, and am no melancholy hero. I imitate neither Manfred nor Anthony; but without words, protestations, or vows, my life has entwined itself with yours; you leave me, and you are right in doing so,—I repeat it, you are right; but in losing you, I lose my life. The moment you leave me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My sister is happily married; her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is, a man whom the ties of social life alone attach to me; no one then longer needs my useless life. This is what I shall do; I will wait until the very moment you are married, for I will not lose the shadow of one of those unexpected chances which are sometimes reserved for us, since M. Franz may, after all, die before that time, a thunderbolt may fall even on the altar as you approach it,—nothing appears impossible to one condemned to die, and miracles appear quite reasonable when his escape from death is concerned. I will, then, wait until the last moment, and when my misery is certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will write a confidential letter to my brother-in-law, another to the prefect of police, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner of some wood, on the brink of some abyss, on the bank of some river, I will put an end to my existence, as certainly as I am the son of the most honest man who ever lived in France.


Oh, for pity’s sake, you will live, will you not?


No, on my honor, but that will not affect you. You have done your duty, and your conscience will be at rest.


Maximilian. Maximilian, my friend, my brother on earth, my true husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as I do, live in suffering; perhaps we may one day be united.


Adieu, Valentine,


My God. I have done my utmost to remain a submissive daughter; I have begged, entreated, implored; he has regarded neither my prayers, my entreaties, nor my tears. It is done. I am resolved not to die of remorse, but rather of shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be yours. Say when shall it be? Speak, command, I will obey.


Valentine, dear Valentine, you must not speak thus—rather let me die. Why should I obtain you by violence, if our love is mutual? Is it from mere humanity you bid me live? I would then rather die.


Truly, who on this earth cares for me, if he does not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he? On whom do my hopes rest? On whom does my bleeding heart repose? On him, on him, always on him! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I will leave the paternal home, I will give up all. Oh, ungrateful girl that I am. I will give up all, even my dear old grandfather, whom I had nearly forgotten.


No, you shall not leave him. M. Noirtier has evinced, you say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, before you leave, tell him all; his consent would be your justification in God’s sight. As soon as we are married, he shall come and live with us, instead of one child, he shall have two. You have told me how you talk to him and how he answers you; I shall very soon learn that language by signs, Valentine, and I promise you solemnly, that instead of despair, it is happiness that awaits us.


Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you have over me, you almost make me believe you; and yet, what you tell me is madness, for my father will curse me—he is inflexible—he will never pardon me. Now listen to me, Maximilian; if by artifice, by entreaty, by accident—in short, if by any means I can delay this marriage, will you wait?


Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as you have promised me that this horrible marriage shall not take place, and that if you are dragged before a magistrate or a priest, you will refuse.


I promise you by all that is most sacred to me in the world, namely, by my mother.


We will wait, then,


Yes, we will wait, there are so many things which may save unhappy beings such as we are.


I rely on you, Valentine, all you do will be well done; only if they disregard your prayers, if your father and Madame de Saint-Méran insist that M. d’Épinay should be called tomorrow to sign the contract——


Then you have my promise, Maximilian.


Instead of signing——


I will go to you, and we will fly; but from this moment until then, let us not tempt Providence, let us not see each other. It is a miracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. If we were surprised, if it were known that we met thus, we should have no further resource.


You are right, Valentine; but how shall I ascertain?


From the notary, M. Deschamps.


I know him.


And for myself—I will write to you, depend on me. I dread this marriage, Maximilian, as much as you.


Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank you; that is enough. When once I know the hour, I will hasten to this spot, you can easily get over this fence with my assistance, a carriage will await us at the gate, in which you will accompany me to my sister’s; there living, retired or mingling in society, as you wish, we shall be enabled to use our power to resist oppression, and not suffer ourselves to be put to death like sheep, which only defend themselves by sighs.


Yes. I will now acknowledge you are right, Maximilian; and now are you satisfied with your betrothal?


My adored Valentine, words cannot express one half of my satisfaction.


Adieu, then, till we meet again. I shall hear from you?


Yes.


Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!


Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed me nothing. Yesterday, for two hours, I was at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, and for two hours I prayed most fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as man, and the signature of the contract is fixed for this evening at nine o’clock. I have but one promise and but one heart to give; that promise is pledged to you, that heart is also yours. This evening, then, at a quarter to nine at the gate. P.S.—My poor grandmother gets worse and worse; yesterday her fever amounted to delirium; today her delirium is almost madness. You will be very kind to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me forget my sorrow in leaving her thus? I think it is kept a secret from grandpapa Noirtier, that the contract is to be signed this evening.


It is impossible, that the signing of a contract should occupy so long a time without unexpected interruptions. I have weighed all the chances, calculated the time required for all the forms; something must have happened.


Ah, my dear doctor. Heaven declares itself against my house! What a dreadful death—what a blow! Seek not to console me; alas, nothing can alleviate so great a sorrow—the wound is too deep and too fresh! Dead, dead! Dead, dead!


I have not led you here to console you; on the contrary——


What can you mean?


I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you, there is another, perhaps, still greater.


Can it be possible? What are you going to tell me?


Are we quite alone, my friend?


Yes, quite; but why all these precautions?


Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you. Let us sit down.


Speak, doctor—I am listening, strike—I am prepared for everything! Grief has consumed her, yes, grief, doctor! After living forty years with the marquis——


It is not grief, my dear Villefort, grief may kill, although it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in ten minutes. Were you present during the last struggle?


I was, you begged me not to leave.


Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de Saint-Méran has fallen a victim?


I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, at intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been panting for breath some minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous attack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and her limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then I understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had thought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could not. You held her hand—you were feeling her pulse—and the second fit came on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than the first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth contracted and turned purple. And at the third she expired.


At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you confirmed my opinion.


Yes, before others, but now we are alone—— What are you going to say? Oh, spare me!


That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances are the same. Listen. I know the full importance of the statement I have just made, and the disposition of the man to whom I have made it.


Do you speak to me as a magistrate or as a friend?


As a friend, and only as a friend, at this moment. The similarity in the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances is so great, that were I obliged to affirm by oath what I have now stated, I should hesitate; I therefore repeat to you, I speak not to a magistrate, but to a friend. And to that friend I say, ‘During the three-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the convulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, and am thoroughly convinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could also specify the poison.’


Can it be possible?


The symptoms are marked, do you see?—sleep broken by nervous spasms, excitation of the brain, torpor of the nerve centres. Madame de Saint-Méran succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine or of strychnine, which by some mistake, perhaps, has been given to her.


Oh, it is impossible. I must be dreaming! It is frightful to hear such things from such a man as you! Tell me, I entreat you, my dear doctor, that you may be deceived.


Doubtless I may, but——


But?


But I do not think so.


Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me lately that I am on the verge of madness.


Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-Méran?


No.


Has anything been sent for from a chemist’s that I have not examined?


Nothing.


Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?


Not to my knowledge.


Would her death affect anyone’s interest?


It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress—Valentine alone. Oh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to punish my heart for having for one instant harbored it.


Indeed, my dear friend. I would not accuse anyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand,—of a mistake,—but whether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience and compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry.


Of whom?—how?—of what?


May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given Madame de Saint-Méran a dose prepared for his master?


For my father?


Yes.


But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de Saint-Méran?


Nothing is more simple. You know poisons become remedies in certain diseases, of which paralysis is one. For instance, having tried every other remedy to restore movement and speech to M. Noirtier, I resolved to try one last means, and for three months I have been giving him brucine; so that in the last dose I ordered for him there were six grains. This quantity, which is perfectly safe to administer to the paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which has become gradually accustomed to it, would be sufficient to kill another person.


My dear doctor, there is no communication between M. Noirtier’s apartment and that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never entered my mother-in-law’s room. In short, doctor although I know you to be the most conscientious man in the world, and although I place the utmost reliance in you, I want, notwithstanding my conviction, to believe this axiom, errare humanum est.


Is there one of my brethren in whom you have equal confidence with myself?


Why do you ask me that?—what do you wish?


Send for him; I will tell him what I have seen, and we will consult together, and examine the body.


And you will find traces of poison?


No, I did not say of poison, but we can prove what was the state of the body; we shall discover the cause of her sudden death, and we shall say, ‘Dear Villefort, if this thing has been caused by negligence, watch over your servants; if from hatred, watch your enemies.’


What do you propose to me, d’Avrigny? so soon as another is admitted into our secret, an inquest will become necessary; and an inquest in my house—impossible! Still, if you wish it—if you demand it, why then it shall be done. But, doctor, you see me already so grieved—how can I introduce into my house so much scandal, after so much sorrow? My wife and my daughter would die of it! And I, doctor—you know a man does not arrive at the post I occupy—one has not been king’s attorney twenty-five years without having amassed a tolerable number of enemies; mine are numerous. Let this affair be talked of, it will be a triumph for them, which will make them rejoice, and cover me with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were you a priest I should not dare tell you that, but you are a man, and you know mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words; you have said nothing, have you?


My dear M. de Villefort, my first duty is to humanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-Méran, if science could have done it; but she is dead and my duty regards the living. Let us bury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am willing, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject should be imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always—watch carefully, for perhaps the evil may not stop here. And when you have found the culprit, if you find him, I will say to you, ‘You are a magistrate, do as you will!’


I thank you, doctor. I never had a better friend than you.


I am manifestly protected in a most wonderful, but most terrible manner, but Valentine, poor girl, how will she bear so much sorrow?


My friend, how came you here? Alas, I would say you are welcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house.


Valentine. I had waited since half-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the wall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the fatal event——


What voices?


Your servants, who were repeating the whole of the sorrowful story; from them I learned it all.


But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love.


Forgive me. I will go away.


No, you might meet someone; stay.


But if anyone should come here——


No one will come, do not fear, there is our safeguard,


But what has become of M. d’Épinay?


M. Franz arrived to sign the contract just as my dear grandmother was dying.


Alas, said Morrel with a feeling of selfish joy; for he thought this death would cause the wedding to be postponed indefinitely.


But what redoubles my sorrow, is that the poor old lady, on her death-bed, requested that the marriage might take place as soon as possible; she also, thinking to protect me, was acting against me.


Hark!


It is my father, who has just left his study.


To accompany the doctor to the door,


How do you know it is the doctor?


I imagined it must be,


Now, you can neither go out by the front door nor by the garden. There is but one way left you that is safe, it is through my grandfather’s room. Come,


Where?


To my grandfather’s room.


I in M. Noirtier’s apartment?


Can you mean it, Valentine? I have long wished it; he is my only remaining friend and we both need his help,—come.


Be careful, Valentine. I now see my error—I acted like a madman in coming in here. Are you sure you are more reasonable?


Yes, and I have but one scruple,—that of leaving my dear grandmother’s remains, which I had undertaken to watch.


Valentine, death is in itself sacred.


Yes, besides, it will not be for long. Barrois, shut the door, and let no one come in. Dear grandfather. you know poor grandmamma died an hour since, and now I have no friend in the world but you. To you alone, then, may I confide my sorrows and my hopes? Look attentively, then, at this gentleman. It is M. Maximilian Morrel, the son of that good merchant of Marseilles, whom you doubtless recollect. He brings an irreproachable name, which Maximilian is likely to render glorious, since at thirty years of age he is a captain, an officer of the Legion of Honor. Well, grandpapa. I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to marry another, I would destroy myself. You like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, grandpapa? And you will protect us, who are your children, against the will of my father?


Mademoiselle, you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your deceased grandmother’s room, will you allow me the honor of a few minutes’ conversation with M. Noirtier?


He knows everything I know,


But first, allow me, sir, to tell you who I am, how much I love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what are my designs respecting her.


And now, now I have told you of my love and my hopes, may I inform you of my intentions? This was our resolution; a cabriolet was in waiting at the gate, in which I intended to carry off Valentine to my sister’s house, to marry her, and to wait respectfully M. de Villefort’s pardon. We must not do so? You do not sanction our project? I will go. I will seek M. Franz d’Épinay—I am happy to be able to mention this in Mademoiselle de Villefort’s absence—and will conduct myself toward him so as to compel him to challenge me. You wish to know what I will do? I will find him, as I told you. I will tell him the ties which bind me to Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a sensible man, he will prove it by renouncing of his own accord the hand of his betrothed, and will secure my friendship, and love until death; if he refuse, either through interest or ridiculous pride, after I have proved to him that he would be forcing my wife from me, that Valentine loves me, and will have no other, I will fight with him, give him every advantage, and I shall kill him, or he will kill me; if I am victorious, he will not marry Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure Valentine will not marry him. No? you disapprove of this second project, as you did of the first? I do. But what then must be done? Madame de Saint-Méran’s last request was, that the marriage might not be delayed; must I let things take their course? I understand. I am to wait. But delay may ruin our plan, sir. Alone, Valentine has no power; she will be compelled to submit. I am here almost miraculously, and can scarcely hope for so good an opportunity to occur again. Believe me, there are only the two plans I have proposed to you; forgive my vanity, and tell me which you prefer. Do you authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to intrust herself to my honor? Do you prefer I should seek M. d’Épinay? Whence then will come the help we need—from chance? From you? You thoroughly understand me, sir? Pardon my eagerness, for my life depends on your answer. Will our help come from you? You are sure of it? Then I must wait? But the contract? Will you assure me it shall not be signed? The contract shall not be signed! Oh, pardon me, sir; I can scarcely realize so great a happiness. Will they not sign it?


What do you wish, sir? that I should renew my promise of remaining tranquil? Shall I swear to you, sir? I swear to you, on my honor, to await your decision respecting the course I am to pursue with M. d’Épinay. Now, do you wish me to retire? Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine? But, first allow me to embrace you as your daughter did just now.


I saw Madame de Saint-Méran only last year at Marseilles, when I was coming back from Algiers, she looked like a woman destined to live to be a hundred years old, from her apparent sound health and great activity of mind and body. How old was she?


Franz assured me, that she was sixty-six years old. But she has not died of old age, but of grief; it appears that since the death of the marquis, which affected her very deeply, she has not completely recovered her reason.


But of what disease, then, did she die?


It is said to have been a congestion of the brain, or apoplexy, which is the same thing, is it not?


Nearly.


It is difficult to believe that it was apoplexy. Madame de Saint-Méran, whom I once saw, was short, of slender form, and of a much more nervous than sanguine temperament; grief could hardly produce apoplexy in such a constitution as that of Madame de Saint-Méran.


At any rate, whatever disease or doctor may have killed her, M. de Villefort, or rather, Mademoiselle Valentine,—or, still rather, our friend Franz, inherits a magnificent fortune, amounting, I believe, to 80,000 livres per annum.


Tenacem propositi virum. I think he must have made an agreement with death to outlive all his heirs, and he appears likely to succeed. He resembles the old Conventionalist of ’93, who said to Napoleon, in 1814, ‘You bend because your empire is a young stem, weakened by rapid growth. Take the Republic for a tutor; let us return with renewed strength to the battle-field, and I promise you 500,000 soldiers, another Marengo, and a second Austerlitz. Ideas do not become extinct, sire; they slumber sometimes, but only revive the stronger before they sleep entirely.’


Ideas and men appeared the same to him. One thing only puzzles me, namely, how Franz d’Épinay will like a grandfather who cannot be separated from his wife. But where is Franz?


In the first carriage, with M. de Villefort, who considers him already as one of the family.


are you a friend of Villefort’s? How is it that I have never met you at his house?


I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort’s, but I was of Madame de Saint-Méran.


The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction. but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present to you M. Franz d’Épinay, a delightful travelling companion, with whom I made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an excellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you will hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit, or amiability.


Extremely, she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely knew her.


This is a magnificent habitation, a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my dear d’Épinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I, as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down there under the trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body. In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron: ‘Eo rus,’ and all will be over. But come, Franz, take courage, your wife is an heiress.


Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made you laugh at everything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But when you have the honor of associating with ordinary men, and the pleasure of leaving politics for a moment, try to find your affectionate heart, which you leave with your stick when you go to the Chamber.


But tell me, what is life? Is it not a halt in Death’s anteroom?


I am prejudiced against Beauchamp, and leaving the former to finish his philosophical dissertation with Debray.


When shall I see you again?


At what time you please, sir,


As soon as possible.


I am at your command, sir; shall we return together?


If not unpleasant to you.


On the contrary, I shall feel much pleasure.


M. d’Épinay, allow me to remind you at this moment,—which is perhaps not so ill-chosen as at first sight may appear, for obedience to the wishes of the departed is the first offering which should be made at their tomb,—allow me then to remind you of the wish expressed by Madame de Saint-Méran on her death-bed, that Valentine’s wedding might not be deferred. You know the affairs of the deceased are in perfect order, and her will bequeaths to Valentine the entire property of the Saint-Méran family; the notary showed me the documents yesterday, which will enable us to draw up the contract immediately. You may call on the notary, M. Deschamps, Place Beauveau, Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and you have my authority to inspect those deeds.


Sir, it is not, perhaps, the moment for Mademoiselle Valentine, who is in deep distress, to think of a husband; indeed, I fear——


Valentine will have no greater pleasure than that of fulfilling her grandmother’s last injunctions; there will be no obstacle from that quarter, I assure you.


In that case, as I shall raise none, you may make arrangements when you please; I have pledged my word, and shall feel pleasure and happiness in adhering to it.


Then, nothing further is required. The contract was to have been signed three days since; we shall find it all ready, and can sign it today.


But the mourning?


Don’t be uneasy on that score, no ceremony will be neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de Villefort may retire during the prescribed three months to her estate of Saint-Méran; I say hers, for she inherits it today. There, after a few days, if you like, the civil marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony. Madame de Saint-Méran wished her daughter should be married there. When that is over, you, sir, can return to Paris, while your wife passes the time of her mourning with her mother-in-law.


As you please, sir,


Then, have the kindness to wait half an hour; Valentine shall come down into the drawing-room. I will send for M. Deschamps; we will read and sign the contract before we separate, and this evening Madame de Villefort shall accompany Valentine to her estate, where we will rejoin them in a week.


Sir. I have one request to make.


What is it?


I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de Château-Renaud to be present at this signature; you know they are my witnesses.


Half an hour will suffice to apprise them; will you go for them yourself, or shall you send?


I prefer going, sir.


I shall expect you, then, in half an hour, baron, and Valentine will be ready.


allow me to inform you at the request of M. de Villefort, that your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Villefort has changed the feeling of M. Noirtier towards his grandchild, and that he disinherits her entirely of the fortune he would have left her. Let me hasten to add, that the testator, having only the right to alienate a part of his fortune, and having alienated it all, the will will not bear scrutiny, and is declared null and void. but I warn M. d’Épinay, that during my life-time my father’s will shall never be questioned, my position forbidding any doubt to be entertained. M. d’Épinay,


Sir. I regret much that such a question has been raised in the presence of Mademoiselle Valentine; I have never inquired the amount of her fortune, which, however limited it may be, exceeds mine. My family has sought consideration in this alliance with M. de Villefort; all I seek is happiness.


Besides, sir, excepting the loss of a portion of your hopes, this unexpected will need not personally wound you; M. Noirtier’s weakness of mind sufficiently explains it. It is not because Mademoiselle Valentine is going to marry you that he is angry, but because she will marry, a union with any other would have caused him the same sorrow. Old age is selfish, sir, and Mademoiselle de Villefort has been a faithful companion to M. Noirtier, which she cannot be when she becomes the Baroness d’Épinay. My father’s melancholy state prevents our speaking to him on any subjects, which the weakness of his mind would incapacitate him from understanding, and I am perfectly convinced that at the present time, although, he knows that his granddaughter is going to be married, M. Noirtier has even forgotten the name of his intended grandson.


Gentlemen. M. Noirtier de Villefort wishes to speak immediately to M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d’Épinay.


Grandpapa Noirtier can speak now, then,


Tell M. Nortier, that what he demands is impossible.


Then, M. Nortier gives notice to these gentlemen, that he will give orders to be carried to the drawing-room.


Pray go, Valentine, and see what this new fancy of your grandfather’s is. I will go with you.


Excuse me, sir, since M. Noirtier sent for me, I am ready to attend to his wish; besides, I shall be happy to pay my respects to him, not having yet had the honor of doing so.


Forgive me, sir,


I would not lose this opportunity of proving to M. Noirtier how wrong it would be of him to encourage feelings of dislike to me, which I am determined to conquer, whatever they may be, by my devotion.


Listen, if M. Noirtier wishes to communicate anything which would delay your marriage, I forbid you to understand him. Here is M. Franz d’Épinay, you requested to see him. We have all wished for this interview, and I trust it will convince you how ill-formed are your objections to Valentine’s marriage.


Shall I open the secretaire?


Yes,


And the drawers?


Yes.


Those at the side?


No.


The middle one?


Is that what you wish for?


But there are no more. Yes. Yes, I understand, grandfather. Ah! is there a secret spring?


And who knows it? Barrois? Shall I call him? Barrois, my grandfather has told me to open that drawer in the secretaire, but there is a secret spring in it, which you know—will you open it?


Obey. Shall I give these papers to M. de Villefort? To Mademoiselle Valentine? To M. Franz d’Épinay?


To me, sir? Well. Well, sir, what do you wish me to do with this paper?


To preserve it, sealed up as it is, doubtless,


No,


Do you wish him to read it?


You understand, baron, my grandfather wishes you to read this paper,


Then let us sit down,


Sit down. Read,


February 5th, 1815! it is the day my father was murdered. But it was on leaving this club, my father disappeared.


My father was a royalist; they need not have asked his sentiments, which were well known.


And hence, arose my affection for your father, my dear M. Franz. Opinions held in common are a ready bond of union.


Read again,


The president then sought to make him speak more explicitly, but M. de Quesnel replied that he wished first to know what they wanted with him. He was then informed of the contents of the letter from the Island of Elba, in which he was recommended to the club as a man who would be likely to advance the interests of their party. One paragraph spoke of the return of Bonaparte and promised another letter and further details, on the arrival of the Pharaon belonging to the shipbuilder Morrel, of Marseilles, whose captain was entirely devoted to the emperor. During all this time, the general, on whom they thought to have relied as on a brother, manifested evidently signs of discontent and repugnance. When the reading was finished, he remained silent, with knitted brows. I say that it is too soon after declaring myself for Louis XVIII. to break my vow in behalf of the ex-emperor. General,


Excuse me, gentlemen, you may not acknowledge Louis XVIII., but I do, as he has made me a baron and a field-marshal, and I shall never forget that for these two titles I am indebted to his happy return to France.


Sir,


be careful what you say; your words clearly show us that they are deceived concerning you in the Island of Elba, and have deceived us! The communication has been made to you in consequence of the confidence placed in you, and which does you honor. Now we discover our error; a title and promotion attach you to the government we wish to overturn. We will not constrain you to help us; we enroll no one against his conscience, but we will compel you to act generously, even if you are not disposed to do so.


you have been invited to join this assembly—you were not forced here; it was proposed to you to come blindfolded—you accepted. When you complied with this twofold request you well knew we did not wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or we should not take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police. It would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to aid you in the discovery of our secret, and then to remove it that you may ruin those who have confided in you. No, no, you must first say if you declare yourself for the king of a day who now reigns, or for his majesty the emperor. No. I am a royalist. I have taken the oath of allegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to it.


Sir. And you, sir. I advise you not to touch your sword.


I will not swear. Then you must die,


General,


I have a son, and I ought to think of him, finding myself among assassins.


one man may insult fifty—it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult.


It is this:—‘I swear by my honor not to reveal to anyone what I have seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and ten o’clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever violate this oath.’ Now am I at liberty to retire? Anywhere out of your presence. Beware, sir, you are no longer in the assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them unless you wish to be held responsible. You are still as brave in your carriage as in your assembly because you are still four against one. Because, sir, you have insulted a man, and that man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable reparation. Another method of assassination? Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for a shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword by your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage. At last. I shall know with whom I have to do.


The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely arrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water—it was the general’s body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river after ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal duel, and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of this we have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts, lest the moment should arrive when either of the actors in this terrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder or of infringement of the laws of honor. Signed, Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal.


Sir, since you are well acquainted with all these details, which are attested by honorable signatures,—since you appear to take some interest in me, although you have only manifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final satisfaction—tell me the name of the club, that I may at least know who killed my father.


Yes! Yes!


I?—where the devil did you find out that?


At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the proud Mercédès, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?


Ah, baron, baron, you are not listening—what barbarism in a megalomaniac like you!


Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker. But will you undertake to speak to the father?


Willingly, if you wish it.


But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my daughter let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more delay.


Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.


I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.


Bravi! bravo! brava!


I shall soon return, wait for me. I shall, perhaps, have something to say to you.


Come, leave music and compliments, and let us go and take tea.


Come, Louise,


I have just received my courier from Greece,


Ah, yes, that was the reason of your running away from us.


Yes.


How is King Otho getting on? We shall go together, shall we not?


If you like,


Did you see, how he looked at me?


Yes, but did you think there was anything particular in his look?


Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from Greece?


How can I tell you?


Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country. Stop, here he comes. I shall compliment Mademoiselle Danglars on her cameo, while the father talks to you.


If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at least,


No, everyone would do that.


My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent.


Your advice was excellent, there is a whole history connected with the names Fernand and Yanina.


Indeed?


Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I cannot endure his presence.


He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you?


Immediately.


Very well.


Well. I will ask you the same question which Charles IX. put to Catherine de’ Medici, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew: ‘How have I played my little part?’


To what do you allude?


To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars’.


What rival?


Ma foi! what rival? Why, your protégé, M. Andrea Cavalcanti!


Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize M. Andrea—at least, not as concerns M. Danglars.


And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the young man really needed your help in that quarter, but, happily for me, he can dispense with it.


What, do you think he is paying his addresses?


I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated tones when addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim his intentions. He aspires to the hand of the proud Eugénie.


What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit?


But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I am repulsed on all sides.


What!


It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugénie scarcely answers me, and Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to me at all.


But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,


He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart, tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points in their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be real and deadly.


Jealousy indicates affection.


True; but I am not jealous.


He is.


Of whom?—of Debray?


No, of you.


Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the door will be closed against me.


You are mistaken, my dear viscount.


Prove it to me.


Do you wish me to do so?


Yes.


Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to induce the Comte de Morcerf to make some definite arrangement with the baron.


By whom are you charged?


By the baron himself.


Oh. You surely will not do that, my dear count?


Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it.


Well, it seems you are determined to marry me.


I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody, at all events. But apropos of Debray, how is it that I have not seen him lately at the baron’s house?


There has been a misunderstanding.


What, with the baroness?


No, with the baron.


Has he perceived anything?


Ah, that is a good joke!


Do you think he suspects?


Where have you come from, my dear count?


From Congo, if you will.


It must be farther off than even that.


But what do I know of your Parisian husbands?


Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same everywhere; an individual husband of any country is a pretty fair specimen of the whole race.


But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars and Debray? They seemed to understand each other so well,


Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of Isis, in which I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti has become one of the family, you can ask him that question.


Here we are, it is only half-past ten o’clock, come in.


Certainly, I will.


My carriage shall take you back.


No, thank you; I gave orders for my coupé to follow me.


There it is, then. You will make tea for us, Baptistin,


Really, my dear count, what I admire in you is, not so much your riches, for perhaps there are people even wealthier than yourself, nor is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais might have possessed as much,—but it is your manner of being served, without any questions, in a moment, in a second; it is as if they guessed what you wanted by your manner of ringing, and made a point of keeping everything you can possibly desire in constant readiness.


What you say is perhaps true; they know my habits. For instance, you shall see; how do you wish to occupy yourself during tea-time?


Ma foi, I should like to smoke. It is quite wonderful,


Oh no, it is as simple as possible. Ali knows I generally smoke while I am taking my tea or coffee; he has heard that I ordered tea, and he also knows that I brought you home with me; when I summoned him he naturally guessed the reason of my doing so, and as he comes from a country where hospitality is especially manifested through the medium of smoking, he naturally concludes that we shall smoke in company, and therefore brings two chibouques instead of one—and now the mystery is solved.


Certainly you give a most commonplace air to your explanation, but it is not the less true that you——Ah, but what do I hear?


Ma foi, my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening; you have only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars’ piano, to be attacked by Haydée’s guzla.


Haydée—what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear the name of Haydée anywhere but in Byron’s poems?


Certainly there are. Haydée is a very uncommon name in France, but is common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example, Chastity, Modesty, Innocence,—it is a kind of baptismal name, as you Parisians call it.


Oh, that is charming, how I should like to hear my countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence, Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle Danglars, instead of being called Claire-Marie-Eugénie, had been named Mademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect that would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!


Hush, do not joke in so loud a tone; Haydée may hear you, perhaps.


And you think she would be angry?


No, certainly not,


She is very amiable, then, is she not?


It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not dictate to a master.


Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more slaves to be had who bear this beautiful name?


Undoubtedly.


Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The slave of the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a rank of itself in France, and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that must be worth a hundred thousand francs a year.


A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally possessed much more than that; she was born to treasures in comparison with which those recorded in the Thousand and One Nights would seem but poverty.


She must be a princess then.


You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her country too.


I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became a slave?


How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster? The fortune of war, my dear viscount,—the caprice of fortune; that is the way in which these things are to be accounted for.


And is her name a secret?


As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for you, my dear viscount, who are one of my most intimate friends, and on whose silence I feel I may rely, if I consider it necessary to enjoin it—may I not do so?


Certainly; on my word of honor.


You know the history of the Pasha of Yanina, do you not?


Of Ali Tepelini?13 Oh, yes; it was in his service that my father made his fortune.


True, I had forgotten that.


Well, what is Haydée to Ali Tepelini?


Merely his daughter.


What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?


Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki.


And your slave?


Ma foi, yes.


But how did she become so?


Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her one day, as I was passing through the market at Constantinople.


Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort of magic influence over all in which you are concerned; when I listen to you, existence no longer seems reality, but a waking dream. Now, I am perhaps going to make an imprudent and thoughtless request, but——


Say on.


But, since you go out with Haydée, and sometimes even take her to the Opera——


Well?


I think I may venture to ask you this favor.


You may venture to ask me anything.


Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess.


I will do so; but on two conditions.


I accept them at once.


The first is, that you will never tell anyone that I have granted the interview.


Very well. I swear I will not.


The second is, that you will not tell her that your father ever served hers.


I give you my oath that I will not.


Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will you not? But I know you to be a man of honor. Tell Haydée, that I will take coffee with her, and give her to understand that I desire permission to present one of my friends to her. Now, understand me, no direct questions, my dear Morcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I will ask her.


Agreed.


Let us go in,


Whom do you bring? is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy.


A friend,


What is his name?


Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the banditti at Rome.


In what language would you like me to converse with him?


Do you know modern Greek,


Alas! no, nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself.


Then, then I will speak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it.


You will speak in Italian. It is a pity you do not understand either ancient or modern Greek, both of which Haydée speaks so fluently; the poor child will be obliged to talk to you in Italian, which will give you but a very false idea of her powers of conversation.


Sir, you are most welcome as the friend of my lord and master.


Oh, take it—take it. Haydée is almost as civilized as a Parisian; the smell of a Havana is disagreeable to her, but the tobacco of the East is a most delicious perfume, you know.


My dear host, and you, signora, excuse my apparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard the rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to the East; not such as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have painted it. Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation, added to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish an evening of such delight as it would be impossible for me ever to forget.


I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with you, sir, and if you like what is Eastern, I will do my best to secure the gratification of your tastes while you are here.


On what subject shall I converse with her?


Well, I was but four years old when one night I was suddenly awakened by my mother. We were in the palace of Yanina; she snatched me from the cushions on which I was sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers filled with tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her weeping I began to cry too. ‘Hush, child!’ said she. At other times in spite of maternal endearments or threats, I had with a child’s caprice been accustomed to indulge my feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as much as I felt inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation of such extreme terror in my mother’s voice when she enjoined me to silence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command was given. She bore me rapidly away. I saw then that we were descending a large staircase; around us were all my mother’s servants carrying trunks, bags, ornaments, jewels, purses of gold, with which they were hurrying away in the greatest distraction. in this long file of slaves and women only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they appeared to me, who was myself scarcely awake. Here and there on the walls of the staircase, were reflected gigantic shadows, which trembled in the flickering light of the pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the vaulted roof above. Quick!


we halted on our march, and found ourselves on the borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing heart, and at the distance of a few paces I saw my father, who was glancing anxiously around. Four marble steps led down to the water’s edge, and below them was a boat floating on the tide. From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a large blank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going. This kiosk appeared to me to be at a considerable distance, perhaps on account of the darkness of the night, which prevented any object from being more than partially discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well that the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and when I leaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they were muffled with the sashes of our Palikares.14 Besides the rowers, the boat contained only the women, my father, mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had remained on the shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they were kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that manner intended making a rampart of the three others, in case of pursuit. Our bark flew before the wind. ‘Why does the boat go so fast?’ asked I of my mother. ‘Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!’ I did not understand. Why should my father fly?—he, the all-powerful—he, before whom others were accustomed to fly—he, who had taken for his device. They hate me; then they fear me!’


It was towards this kiosk that we were rowing. A ground floor, ornamented with arabesques, bathing its terraces in the water, and another floor, looking on the lake, was all which was visible to the eye. But beneath the ground floor, stretching out into the island, was a large subterranean cavern, to which my mother, myself, and the women were conducted. In this place were together 60,000 pouches and 200 barrels; the pouches contained 25,000,000 of money in gold, and the barrels were filled with 30,000 pounds of gunpowder. Near the barrels stood Selim, my father’s favorite, whom I mentioned to you just now. He stood watch day and night with a lance provided with a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he had orders to blow up everything—kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali Tepelini himself—at the first signal given by my father. I remember well that the slaves, convinced of the precarious tenure on which they held their lives, passed whole days and nights in praying, crying, and groaning. As for me, I can never forget the pale complexion and black eyes of the young soldier, and whenever the angel of death summons me to another world, I am quite sure I shall recognize Selim. I cannot tell you how long we remained in this state; at that period I did not even know what time meant. Sometimes, but very rarely, my father summoned me and my mother to the terrace of the palace; these were hours of recreation for me, as I never saw anything in the dismal cavern but the gloomy countenances of the slaves and Selim’s fiery lance. My father was endeavoring to pierce with his eager looks the remotest verge of the horizon, examining attentively every black speck which appeared on the lake, while my mother, reclining by his side, rested her head on his shoulder, and I played at his feet, admiring everything I saw with that unsophisticated innocence of childhood which throws a charm round objects insignificant in themselves, but which in its eyes are invested with the greatest importance. The heights of Pindus towered above us; the castle of Yanina rose white and angular from the blue waters of the lake, and the immense masses of black vegetation which, viewed in the distance, gave the idea of lichens clinging to the rocks, were in reality gigantic fir-trees and myrtles. One morning my father sent for us; my mother had been crying all the night, and was very wretched; we found the pasha calm, but paler than usual. ‘Take courage, Vasiliki,’ said he; ‘today arrives the firman of the master, and my fate will be decided. If my pardon be complete, we shall return triumphant to Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we must fly this night.’—‘But supposing our enemy should not allow us to do so?’ said my mother. ‘Oh, make yourself easy on that head,’ said Ali, smiling; ‘Selim and his flaming lance will settle that matter. They would be glad to see me dead, but they would not like themselves to die with me.’ My mother only answered by sighs to consolations which she knew did not come from my father’s heart. She prepared the iced water which he was in the habit of constantly drinking,—for since his sojourn at the kiosk he had been parched by the most violent fever,—after which she anointed his white beard with perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque, which he sometimes smoked for hours together, quietly watching the wreaths of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds and gradually melted away in the surrounding atmosphere. Presently he made such a sudden movement that I was paralyzed with fear. Then, without taking his eyes from the object which had first attracted his attention, he asked for his telescope. My mother gave it him, and as she did so, looked whiter than the marble against which she leaned. I saw my father’s hand tremble. ‘A boat!—two!—three!’ murmured my, father;—‘four!’ He then arose, seizing his arms and priming his pistols. ‘Vasiliki,’ said he to my mother, trembling perceptibly, ‘the instant approaches which will decide everything. In the space of half an hour we shall know the emperor’s answer. Go into the cavern with Haydée.’—‘I will not quit you,’ said Vasiliki; ‘if you die, my lord, I will die with you.’—‘Go to Selim!’ cried my father. ‘Adieu, my lord,’ murmured my mother, determining quietly to await the approach of death. ‘Take away Vasiliki!’ said my father to his Palikares. As for me, I had been forgotten in the general confusion; I ran toward Ali Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to him, and he stooped down and pressed my forehead with his lips. Oh, how distinctly I remember that kiss!—it was the last he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were still warm on my forehead. On descending, we saw through the lattice-work several boats which were gradually becoming more distinct to our view. At first they appeared like black specks, and now they looked like birds skimming the surface of the waves. During this time, in the kiosk at my father’s feet, were seated twenty Palikares, concealed from view by an angle of the wall and watching with eager eyes the arrival of the boats. They were armed with their long guns inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, and cartridges in great numbers were lying scattered on the floor. My father looked at his watch, and paced up and down with a countenance expressive of the greatest anguish. This was the scene which presented itself to my view as I quitted my father after that last kiss.


Go on, my child,


It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and although the day was brilliant out-of-doors, we were enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the cavern. One single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared like a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim’s flaming lance. My mother was a Christian, and she prayed. Selim repeated from time to time the sacred words: ‘God is great!’ However, my mother had still some hope. As she was coming down, she thought she recognized the French officer who had been sent to Constantinople, and in whom my father placed so much confidence; for he knew that all the soldiers of the French emperor were naturally noble and generous. She advanced some steps towards the staircase, and listened. ‘They are approaching,’ said she; ‘perhaps they bring us peace and liberty!’ God is great! They are approaching, perhaps they bring us peace and liberty!


What do you fear, Vasiliki? What do you fear, Vasiliki?’ said Selim, in a voice at once so gentle and yet so proud. ‘If they do not bring us peace, we will give them war; if they do not bring life, we will give them death.