In two hours’ time, these persons will depart richer by fifty piastres each, to go and risk their lives again by endeavoring to gain fifty more; then they will return with a fortune of six hundred francs, and waste this treasure in some city with the pride of sultans and the insolence of nabobs. At this moment hope makes me despise their riches, which seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance tomorrow deception will so act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a contemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no! that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be mistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to continue to lead this low and wretched life.


He has broken his ribs. No matter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him. We will try and carry him on board the tartan.


Well, let what may happen, it shall never be said that we deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening.


No, no. I was awkward, and it is just that I pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a gun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and a pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming back for me.


But you’ll die of hunger,


I would rather do so, than suffer the inexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me.


What are we to do, Maltese? We cannot leave you here so, and yet we cannot stay.


Go, go!


We shall be absent at least a week, and then we must run out of our course to come here and take you up again.


Why, if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat, desire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my passage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me.


Listen, Captain Baldi; there’s one way of settling this. Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man.


And give up your share of the venture, to remain with me?


Yes, and without any hesitation.


You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate, and heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do not wish anyone to stay with me. A day or two of rest will set me up, and I hope I shall find among the rocks certain herbs most excellent for bruises. ’Tis strange that it should be among such men that we find proofs of friendship and devotion.


And now, now, Open Sesame!


Come, be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I must not be cast down by the discovery that I have been deceived. What, then, would be the use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when, after having been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Cæsar Borgia, the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as I have done, raised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing. Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter of curiosity. Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied career of that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link in a long chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a sword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock, perhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea, while their master descended, as I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his awe-inspiring progress. But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret? The fate, of those who buried Alaric, and were interred with the corpse. Yet, had he come, he would have found the treasure, and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which he could devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to waste it in replacing this rock. I will go down. Perhaps!


Alas, these are the treasures the cardinal has left; and the good abbé, seeing in a dream these glittering walls, has indulged in fallacious hopes.


In the farthest angle of the second opening,


It is a casket of wood bound with iron,


I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe you made a mistake; you intended to give me a two-franc piece, and see, you gave me a double Napoleon.


Thank you, my good friend. I see that I have made a trifling mistake, as you say; but by way of rewarding your honesty I give you another double Napoleon, that you may drink to my health, and be able to ask your messmates to join you.


Some nabob from India,


Hush, La Carconte. It is God’s pleasure that things should be so.


You are welcome, sir, most welcome! Now, then, Margotin, will you be quiet? Pray don’t heed him, sir!—he only barks, he never bites. I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfully hot day. A thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had the honor to receive under my poor roof. What would the abbé please to have? What refreshment can I offer? All I have is at his service.


You are, I presume, M. Caderousse?


Yes, sir. I am Gaspard Caderousse, at your service.


Gaspard Caderousse. Yes,—Christian and surname are the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allées de Meilhan, on the fourth floor?


I did.


And you followed the business of a tailor?


True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot at Marseilles, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will in time go without any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is there nothing I can offer you by way of refreshment?


Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your permission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off.


As you please, sir,


Are you quite alone?


Quite, quite alone, or, at least, practically so, for my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself, is laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance, poor thing!


You are married, then?


Ah, sir, it is easy to perceive I am not a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for being honest.


Yes, honest—I can certainly say that much for myself. I can boast with truth of being an honest man; and, that is more than everyone can say nowadays.


So much the better for you, if what you assert be true, for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will be rewarded, and the wicked punished.


Such words as those belong to your profession, and you do well to repeat them; but, one is free to believe them or not, as one pleases.


You are wrong to speak thus, and perhaps I may, in my own person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error.


What mean you?


In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am in search of.


What proofs do you require?


Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor named Dantès?


Dantès? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantès and myself were intimate friends!


You remind me, that the young man concerning whom I asked you was said to bear the name of Edmond.


Said to bear the name! Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellation of Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poor Edmond? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous and happy?


He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.


Poor fellow, poor fellow! Well, there, sir, is another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and that none but the wicked prosper. Ah, the world grows worse and worse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said to do, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether?


You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès,


And so I did, though once, I confess, I envied him his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by everything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerely lamented his unhappy fate. You knew the poor lad, then?


I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to him the consolations of religion.


And of what did he die?


Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison, when they have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of imprisonment?


But the strangest part of the story is, that Dantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer, that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention.


And so he was. How should he have been otherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth.


And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he had never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any foul spot or stain have fallen on it.


A rich Englishman, who had been his companion in misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he bestowed on Dantès upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dantès had nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement. Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers, who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor, Dantès carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of prison he might have wherewithal to live, for the sale of such a diamond would have quite sufficed to make his fortune.


Then, I suppose, that it was a stone of immense value?


Why, everything is relative. To one in Edmond’s position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at fifty thousand francs.


Bless me! fifty thousand francs! Surely the diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that.


No, it was not of such a size as that; but you shall judge for yourself. I have it with me.


And that diamond, you say, is worth fifty thousand francs?


It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,


as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated innkeeper.


But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you his heir?


No, merely his testamentary executor. ‘I once possessed four dear and faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed’ he said; ‘and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss. The name of one of the four friends is Caderousse.’ Another of the number, is called Danglars; and the third, in spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for me. Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations to make, you can do so afterwards. ‘The third of my friends, although my rival, was much attached to me,—his name was Fernand; that of my betrothed was’—Stay, stay. I have forgotten what he called her.


Mercédès,


True. Mercédès it was.


Go on,


Bring me a carafe of water. Where did we leave off?


The name of Edmond’s betrothed was Mercédès.


To be sure. ‘You will go to Marseilles,’ said Dantès,—for you understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you understand?


Perfectly.


You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal parts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only persons who have loved me upon earth.


But why into five parts? you only mentioned four persons.


Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’s bequest, was his own father.


Too true, too true! the poor old man did die.


I learned so much at Marseilles, but from the length of time that has elapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, I was unable to obtain any particulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point?


I do not know who could if I could not. Why, I lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a year after the disappearance of his son the poor old man died.


Of what did he die?


Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I believe; his acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying moments, I say he died of——


Of what?


Why, of downright starvation.


Starvation! Why, the vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The very dogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some pitying hand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a Christian, should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other men who call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it is impossible!—utterly impossible!


What I have said, I have said,


And you are a fool for having said anything about it. Why should you meddle with what does not concern you?


Mind your own business, wife. This gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not permit me to refuse.


Politeness, you simpleton! What have you to do with politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common prudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying to extract all he can from you?


I pledge you my word, madam, that my intentions are good; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me candidly.


Ah, that’s all very fine. Nothing is easier than to begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but when poor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell all they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly forgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold trouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the unfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions come.


Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you. Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my instrumentality, that I solemnly promise you. It appears, then, that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by everyone. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have perished by so dreadful a death.


Why, he was not altogether forsaken, for Mercédès the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; but somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for Fernand—the very person, that you named just now as being one of Dantès’ faithful and attached friends.


And was he not so?


Gaspard, Gaspard! mind what you are saying!


Can a man be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? But Dantès was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he believed everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies. And, whatever people may say. I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living.


Imbecile!


Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?


Do I? No one better.


Speak out then, say what it was!


Gaspard! do as you will; you are master—but if you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.


Well, wife. I don’t know but what you’re right!


So you will say nothing?


Why, what good would it do? If the poor lad were living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not hesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing to do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with him.


You prefer, then, that I should bestow on men you say are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship?


That is true enough. You say truly, the gift of poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars; besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the ocean.


Remember, those two could crush you at a single blow!


How so? Are these persons, then, so rich and powerful?


Do you not know their history?


I do not. Pray relate it to me!


No, truly, it would take up too much time.


Well, my good friend, you are at liberty, either to speak or be silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples and admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty as conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My first business will be to dispose of this diamond.


Wife, wife! come here!


Diamond! what diamond are you talking about?


Why, did you not hear all we said? It is a beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantès, to be sold, and the money divided between his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand francs.


Oh, what a magnificent jewel!


The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does it not?


It does, with the addition of an equal division of that part intended for the elder Dantès, which I believe myself at liberty to divide equally with the four survivors.


And why among us four?


As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to him.


I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,


Of course not! no more do I, and that was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps crime.


Remember, it is your fault, not mine, that I do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of both Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last wishes.


There, you see, wife, this splendid diamond might all be ours, if we chose!


Do you believe it?


Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!


Well, do as you like. For my part, I wash my hands of the affair. Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do!


I have both reflected and decided,


what have you made up your mind to do?


To tell you all I know,


I certainly think you act wisely in so doing. Not because I have the least desire to learn anything you may please to conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so much the better, that is all.


I hope it may be so,


I am all attention,


Stop a minute, we might be interrupted in the most interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as well that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves.


this is no affair of mine,


Enough, enough! say no more about it; I will take all the consequences upon myself. First, sir, you must make me a promise.


What is that?


Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that you will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces like glass.


Make yourself easy, my friend. I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then, without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to God, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.


Well, then, under these circumstances. I will, I even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.


Begin with his father, if you please. Edmond talked to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.


The history is a sad one, sir, perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?


Yes. Edmond related to me everything until the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.


At La Réserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.


Was it not his betrothal feast?


It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending; a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantès was arrested.


Yes, and up to this point I know all. Dantès himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of anyone of them.


Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest men have been reduced to misery.


What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the most guilty?


What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken, on the recommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as cashier into a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was employed in the commissariat of the French army, and made a fortune; then with that money he speculated in the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his capital; and, having first married his banker’s daughter, who left him a widower, he has married a second time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne, daughter of M. de Servieux, the king’s chamberlain, who is in high favor at court. He is a millionaire, and they have made him a baron, and now he is the Baron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue du Mont-Blanc, with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his antechamber, and I know not how many millions in his strongbox.


Ah!


he is happy.


Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secret known but to one’s self and the walls—walls have ears but no tongue; but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy.


And Fernand?


Fernand? Why, much the same story.


But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education or resources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me.


And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life some strange secret that no one knows.


But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune or high position?


Both, sir—he has both fortune and position—both.


This must be impossible!


It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some days before the return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The Bourbons left him quietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, a special levy was made, and Fernand was compelled to join. I went too; but as I was older than Fernand, and had just married my poor wife, I was only sent to the coast. Fernand was enrolled in the active army, went to the frontier with his regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny. The night after that battle he was sentry at the door of a general who carried on a secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the general was to go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to accompany him; Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed the general.


Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had remained on the throne, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to France with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of the general, who is in the highest favor, was accorded to him, he was a captain in 1823, during the Spanish war—that is to say, at the time when Danglars made his early speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and being sent to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen, found Danglars there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over the support of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received promises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by paths known to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held by the royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this brief campaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made colonel, and received the title of count and the cross of an officer of the Legion of Honor.


Destiny! destiny!


Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being ended, Fernand’s career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely to endure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and had begun her war of independence; all eyes were turned towards Athens—it was the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government, without protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance to volunteer assistance. Fernand sought and obtained leave to go and serve in Greece, still having his name kept on the army roll.


Some time after, it was stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this was the name he bore) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank of instructor-general. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before he died he recompensed the services of Fernand by leaving him a considerable sum, with which he returned to France, when he was gazetted lieutenant-general.


So that now——?


So that now, he owns a magnificent house—No. 27, Rue du Helder, Paris.


And Mercédès—they tell me that she has disappeared?


Disappeared, yes, as the sun disappears, to rise the next day with still more splendor.


Has she made a fortune also?


Mercédès is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,


Go on, it seems as if I were listening to the story of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell me seems less astonishing than it otherwise might.


Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate M. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dantès. In the midst of her despair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure of Fernand—of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded as her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone.


Three months passed and still she wept—no news of Edmond, no news of Fernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with despair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of two roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her home more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew, turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her.


It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part of her past life had returned to her.


Mercédès seized Fernand’s hands with a transport which he took for love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and seeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then, it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated—he was only not precisely loved. Another possessed all Mercédès’ heart; that other was absent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought Mercédès burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but the thought, which she had always repelled before when it was suggested to her by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too, old Dantès incessantly said to her, ‘Our Edmond is dead; if he were not, he would return to us.’ Our Edmond is dead; if he were not, he would return to us.


The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Mercédès, perchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have been there to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learned of the old man’s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At his first coming he had not said a word of love to Mercédès; at the second he reminded her that he loved her.


Mercédès begged for six months more in which to await and mourn for Edmond.


So that, that makes eighteen months in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire? Frailty, thy name is woman.


Six months afterwards, the marriage took place in the church of Accoules.


The very church in which she was to have married Edmond, there was only a change of bridegrooms.


Well, Mercédès was married, but although in the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she passed La Réserve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had been celebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had she looked to the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not more at his ease—for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of Edmond’s return—Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away, and to depart himself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated with the Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left Marseilles.


Did you ever see Mercédès again?


Yes, during the Spanish war, at Perpignan, where Fernand had left her; she was attending to the education of her son.


Her son?


Yes, little Albert.


But, then, to be able to instruct her child, she must have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond that she was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated.


Oh, did he know so little of his lovely betrothed? Mercédès might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were to be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand’s fortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growing fortune. She learned drawing, music—everything. Besides, I believe, between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she might forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the weight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured, no doubt fortune and honors have comforted her; she is rich, a countess, and yet——


And yet what?


Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,


What makes you believe this?


Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friends would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not even receive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by his valet-de-chambre.


Then you did not see either of them?


No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me.


How was that?


As I went away a purse fell at my feet—it contained five-and-twenty louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercédès, who at once shut the blind.


And M. de Villefort?


Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I had nothing to ask of him.


Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond’s misfortunes?


No; I only know that some time after Edmond’s arrest, he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt he has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars, as high in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor, wretched, and forgotten.


You are mistaken, my friend. God may seem sometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there always comes a moment when he remembers—and behold—a proof! Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours.


What, for me only? ah, sir, do not jest with me!


This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond had one friend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond, then, and sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and I repeat my wish that this sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness.


Oh, sir. Oh, sir, do not make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man.


I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange—— In exchange, give me the red silk purse that M. Morrel left on old Dantès’ chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still in your hands.


Oh, you are a man of God, sir, for no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it.


Which, you would have done. Well, all you have told me is perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular.


See, sir, in this corner is a crucifix in holy wood—here on this shelf is my wife’s testament; open this book, and I will swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will swear to you by my soul’s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything to you as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the ear of God at the day of the last judgment!


’Tis well, ’Tis well, and may this money profit you! Adieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure each other.


Is, then, all that I have heard really true?


What? That he has given the diamond to us only? yes, nothing more true! See, here it is.


Suppose it’s false?


False! False! Why should that man give me a false diamond?


To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead!


Oh! we will soon find out.


In what way?


Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers from Paris there, and I will show it to them. Look after the house, wife, and I shall be back in two hours,


Fifty thousand francs! it is a large sum of money, but it is not a fortune.


Sir. I am chief clerk of the house of Thomson & French, of Rome. We are, and have been these ten years, connected with the house of Morrel & Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred thousand francs or thereabouts loaned on their securities, and we are a little uneasy at reports that have reached us that the firm is on the brink of ruin. I have come, therefore, express from Rome, to ask you for information.


Sir. I know very well that during the last four or five years misfortune has seemed to pursue M. Morrel. He has lost four or five vessels, and suffered by three or four bankruptcies; but it is not for me, although I am a creditor myself to the amount of ten thousand francs, to give any information as to the state of his finances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is my opinion of M. Morrel, and I shall say that he is a man honorable to the last degree, and who has up to this time fulfilled every engagement with scrupulous punctuality. This is all I can say, sir; if you wish to learn more, address yourself to M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de Nouailles; he has, I believe, two hundred thousand francs in Morrel’s hands, and if there be any grounds for apprehension, as this is a greater amount than mine, you will most probably find him better informed than myself.


Oh, sir, your fears are unfortunately but too well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had two hundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these two hundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to be married in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs were payable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15th of next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have these payments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour to tell me that if his ship, the Pharaon, did not come into port on the 15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment.


But, this looks very much like a suspension of payment.


It looks more like bankruptcy!


From which it would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerable apprehension?


To tell you the truth, I consider it lost.


Well, then, I will buy it of you!


You?


Yes, I!


But at a tremendous discount, of course?


No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our house, does not do things in that way.


And you will pay——


Ready money.


Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not realize six per cent of this sum.


That’s no affair of mine, that is the affair of the house of Thomson & French, in whose name I act. They have, perhaps, some motive to serve in hastening the ruin of a rival firm. But all I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum in exchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage.


Of course, that is perfectly just. The commission is usually one and a half; will you have two—three—five per cent, or even more? Whatever you say.


Sir. I am like my house, and do not do such things—no, the commission I ask is quite different.


Name it, sir, I beg.


You are the inspector of prisons?


I have been so these fourteen years.


You keep the registers of entries and departures?


I do.


To these registers there are added notes relative to the prisoners?


There are special reports on every prisoner.


Well, sir, I was educated at Rome by a poor devil of an abbé, who disappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in the Château d’If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his death.


What was his name?


The Abbé Faria.


Oh, I recollect him perfectly, he was crazy.


So they said.


Oh, he was, decidedly.


Very possibly; but what sort of madness was it?


He pretended to know of an immense treasure, and offered vast sums to the government if they would liberate him.


Poor devil!—and he is dead?


Yes, sir, five or six months ago, last February.


You have a good memory, sir, to recollect dates so well.


I recollect this, because the poor devil’s death was accompanied by a singular incident.


May I ask what that was?


Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbé’s dungeon was forty or fifty feet distant from that of one of Bonaparte’s emissaries,—one of those who had contributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815, a very resolute and very dangerous man.


Indeed!


Yes. I myself had occasion to see this man in 1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file of soldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forget his countenance!


And you say, sir, that the two dungeons——


Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that this Edmond Dantès——


This dangerous man’s name was——


Edmond Dantès. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantès had procured tools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the prisoners held communication with one another.


This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an intention of escape?


No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbé Faria had an attack of catalepsy, and died.


That must have cut short the projects of escape.


For the dead man, yes, but not for the survivor; on the contrary, this Dantès saw a means of accelerating his escape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Château d’If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed the dead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they had sewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment.


It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage,


As I have already told you, sir, he was a very dangerous man; and, fortunately, by his own act disembarrassed the government of the fears it had on his account.


How was that?


How? Do you not comprehend?


No.


The Château d’If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead into the sea, after fastening a thirty-six-pound cannon-ball to their feet.


Well?


Well, they fastened a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet, and threw him into the sea.


Really!


Yes, sir. You may imagine the amazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the rocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment.


That would have been difficult.


No matter, no matter, I can fancy it.


So can I, at the end of his teeth. And so, he was drowned?


Unquestionably.


So that the governor got rid of the dangerous and the crazy prisoner at the same time?


Precisely.


But some official document was drawn up as to this affair, I suppose?


Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dantès’ relations, if he had any, might have some interest in knowing if he were dead or alive.


So that now, if there were anything to inherit from him, they may do so with easy conscience. He is dead, and no mistake about it.


Oh, yes; and they may have the fact attested whenever they please.


So be it. But to return to these registers.


True, this story has diverted our attention from them. Excuse me.


Excuse you for what? For the story? By no means; it really seems to me very curious.


Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see all relating to the poor abbé, who really was gentleness itself.


Yes, you will much oblige me.


Go into my study here, and I will show it to you.


Thanks. I have all I want; now it is for me to perform my promise. Give me a simple assignment of your debt; acknowledge therein the receipt of the cash, and I will hand you over the money.


Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers.


M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?


Yes; I think so, at least. Go and see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman.


It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle. M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman has only to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French of Rome, with whom your father does business.


Monsieur, you wish to speak to me?


Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come?


The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier tells me.


He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had 300,000 or 400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing your strict punctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your signature, and charged me as they became due to present them, and to employ the money otherwise.


So then, sir, you hold bills of mine?


Yes, and for a considerable sum.


What is the amount?


Here is, an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You acknowledge, of course, that you owe this sum to him?


Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per cent nearly five years ago.


When are you to pay?


Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next.


Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they are all signed by you, and assigned to our house by the holders.


I recognize them. Is this all?


No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been assigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild & Turner of Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all, 287,500 francs.


Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs,


Yes, sir. I will not, conceal from you, that while your probity and exactitude up to this moment are universally acknowledged, yet the report is current in Marseilles that you are not able to meet your liabilities.


Sir, up to this time—and it is now more than four-and-twenty years since I received the direction of this house from my father, who had himself conducted it for five-and-thirty years—never has anything bearing the signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored.


I know that. But as a man of honor should answer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the same punctuality?


To questions frankly put, a straightforward answer should be given. Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely; for its arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous accidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but if the Pharaon should be lost, and this last resource be gone——


Well,


it is a cruel thing to be forced to say, but, already used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to shame. I fear I shall be forced to suspend payment.


Have you no friends who could assist you?


In business, sir, one has no friends, only correspondents.


It is true, then you have but one hope.


But one.


The last?


The last.


So that if this fail——


I am ruined,—completely ruined!


As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port.


I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes, passes a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in hopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed me of the arrival of this ship.


And it is not yours?


No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, La Gironde; she comes from India also; but she is not mine.


Perhaps she has spoken to the Pharaon, and brings you some tidings of her?


Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is still hope. This delay is not natural. The Pharaon left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to have been here a month ago.


What is that? What is the meaning of that noise?


Oh, my God! what is it?


There are only two persons who have the key to that door, Cocles and Julie.


Oh, father! forgive your child for being the bearer of evil tidings. courage!


The Pharaon has gone down, then?


Saved, saved by the crew of the vessel that has just entered the harbor.


Thanks, my God, at least thou strikest but me alone. Come in, come in, for I presume you are all at the door.


How did this happen? Draw nearer, Penelon, and tell us all about it.


Good-day, M. Morrel,


Good-day, Penelon, where is the captain?


The captain, M. Morrel,—he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please God, it won’t be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and hearty.


Well, now tell your story, Penelon.


You see, M. Morrel, we were somewhere between Cape Blanc and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a week’s calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me—I was at the helm I should tell you—and says, ‘Penelon, what do you think of those clouds coming up over there?’ I was just then looking at them myself. ‘What do I think, captain? Why I think that they are rising faster than they have any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they didn’t mean mischief.’—‘That’s my opinion too,’ said the captain, ‘and I’ll take precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas. Avast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sails and stow the flying jib.’ It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel. ‘Ah,’ said the captain, ‘we have still too much canvas set; all hands lower the mainsail!’ Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed under mizzen-topsails and top-gallant sails. ‘Well, Penelon,’ said the captain, ‘what makes you shake your head?’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘I still think you’ve got too much on.’ ‘I think you’re right,’ answered he, ‘we shall have a gale.’ ‘A gale? More than that, we shall have a tempest, or I don’t know what’s what.’ You could see the wind coming like the dust at Montredon; luckily the captain understood his business. ‘Take in two reefs in the top-sails,’ cried the captain; ‘let go the bowlin’s, haul the brace, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the reef-tackles on the yards.’


That was not enough for those latitudes. I should have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the spanker.


We did better than that, sir, we put the helm up to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck our top-sails and scudded under bare poles.


The vessel was very old to risk that,


Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for twelve hours we sprung a leak. ‘Penelon,’ said the captain, ‘I think we are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.’ I gave him the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water. ‘All hands to the pumps!’ I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the more we pumped the more came in. ‘Ah,’ said I, after four hours’ work, ‘since we are sinking, let us sink; we can die but once.’ ‘Is that the example you set, Penelon?’ cries the captain; ‘very well, wait a minute.’ He went into his cabin and came back with a brace of pistols. ‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,’ said he.


Well done!


There’s nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons, and during that time the wind had abated, and the sea gone down, but the water kept rising; not much, only two inches an hour, but still it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve hours that makes two feet, and three we had before, that makes five. ‘Come,’ said the captain, ‘we have done all in our power, and M. Morrel will have nothing to reproach us with, we have tried to save the ship, let us now save ourselves. To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can.’ Now, you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to his ship, but still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told twice; the more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to say, ‘Get along—save yourselves.’ We soon launched the boat, and all eight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he did not descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round the waist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after him. It was time, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise like the broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched forward, then the other way, spun round and round, and then good-bye to the Pharaon. As for us, we were three days without anything to eat or drink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should feed the rest, when we saw La Gironde; we made signals of distress, she perceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now, M. Morrel, that’s the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not it true, you fellows there?


Well, well. I know there was no one in fault but destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his name. What wages are due to you?


Oh, don’t let us talk of that, M. Morrel.


Yes, but we will talk of it.


Well, then, three months,


Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows. At another time. I should have said, Give them, besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed, and the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think me mean on this account.


As for that, M. Morrel, as for that——


As for what?


The money.


Well——


Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present, and that we will wait for the rest.


Thanks, my friends, thanks! take it—take it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are free to do so.


What, M. Morrel! you send us away; you are then angry with us!


No, no. I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not want any sailors.


No more ships! well, then, you’ll build some; we’ll wait for you.


I have no money to build ships with, Penelon, so I cannot accept your kind offer.


No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the Pharaon, under bare poles.


Enough, enough! leave me, I pray you; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with them, and see that my orders are executed.


At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?


Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go. Now,


you have heard all, and I have nothing further to tell you.


I see, that a fresh and unmerited misfortune has overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire to serve you.


Oh, sir!


Let me see. I am one of your largest creditors. Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due. Do you wish for time to pay?


A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life.


How long a delay do you wish for?


Two months,


I will give you three,


But, will the house of Thomson & French consent?


Oh, I take everything on myself. Today is the 5th of June.


Yes.


Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the 5th of September at eleven o’clock (the hand of the clock pointed to eleven), I shall come to receive the money.


I shall expect you, and I will pay you—or I shall be dead.


one day you will receive a letter signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ Do exactly what the letter bids you, however strange it may appear.


Yes, sir. I swear to you I will.


It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet girl you are at present, and I have great hopes that Heaven will reward you by giving you Emmanuel for a husband.


Come with me, my friend. I wish to speak to you.


Worthy fellows! may your new master love you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been!


Then, we are indeed ruined.


Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who could ever have believed it!


He is writing,


What have I done wrong, father, that you should take this key from me?


Nothing, my dear, nothing, only I want it.


I must have left it in my room,


Do not give this key to your father, and tomorrow morning, if possible, do not quit him for a moment.


Remain with your mother, dearest. I wish you to do so,


Maximilian, my dearest brother!


Mother, what has occurred—what has happened? Your letter has frightened me, and I have come hither with all speed.


Julie, go and tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived.


Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?


Yes, sir, what is your pleasure? I do not know you.


Read this letter. It concerns the best interests of your father,


Go this moment to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in red silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should receive it before eleven o’clock. You promised to obey me implicitly. Remember your oath. It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything about it.


You must go, then, mademoiselle,


Go there?


Yes; I will accompany you.


But did you not read that I must be alone?


And you shall be alone. I will await you at the corner of the Rue du Musée, and if you are so long absent as to make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you shall have cause to complain to me!


Then, Emmanuel? it is your opinion that I should obey this invitation?


Yes. Did not the messenger say your father’s safety depended upon it?


But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?


Listen, today is the 5th of September, is it not?


Yes.


Today, then, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred thousand francs to pay?


Yes, we know that.


Well, then, we have not fifteen thousand francs in the house.


What will happen then?


Why, if today before eleven o’clock your father has not found someone who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o’clock to declare himself a bankrupt.


Oh, come, then, come!


Father, what are you going to do with that brace of pistols under your coat?


Oh, this is what I feared!


Father, father, in Heaven’s name, what are these weapons for?


Maximilian, you are a man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you. Read!


And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this disastrous result?


I have,


You have no money coming in on which you can rely?


None.


You have exhausted every resource?


All.


And in half an hour, our name is dishonored!


Blood washes out dishonor,


You are right, father; I understand you. There is one for you and one for me—thanks!


Your mother—your sister! Who will support them?


Father, do you reflect that you are bidding me to live?


Yes, I do so bid you, it is your duty. You have a calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I make no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as if it were your own, and then judge for yourself.


Be it so, then, my father, die in peace, my father; I will live.


You know it is not my fault,


I know, father, you are the most honorable man I have ever known.


Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your mother and sister.


My father, bless me!


Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, ‘The edifice which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.’ On seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you. To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me. Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work, labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself, your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day to day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn, that day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very office, ‘My father died because he could not do what I have this day done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I should do.’ The edifice which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.


My father died because he could not do what I have this day done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I should do.


My father, my father! why should you not live?


If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last home. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your head and say, ‘I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first time, he has been compelled to break his word.’ I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first time, he has been compelled to break his word. And now, leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your mother and sister away.


Will you not see my sister once more?


I saw her this morning, and bade her adieu.


Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?


Yes; my son, and a sacred command.


Say it, my father.


The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or, it may be, selfishness—it is not for me to read men’s hearts—has had any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to receive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted, but offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my son, and respect this man.


Father, I will,


And now, once more, adieu. Go, leave me; I would be alone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom. Hear me, Maximilian. Suppose I were a soldier like you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now, ‘Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable to shame!’ Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable to shame!


Yes, yes, yes; Be it so, my father.


My worthy Cocles, do you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months ago—the agent of Thomson & French—arrives, announce his arrival to me.


My father! saved, you are saved!


Saved, my child! what do you mean?


Yes, saved—saved! See, see!


Explain, my child. Explain, my child, explain—where did you find this purse?


In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor.


But, this purse is not yours! And did you go alone?


Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the corner of the Rue du Musée, but, strange to say, he was not there when I returned.


Monsieur Morrel!


It is his voice!


The Pharaon! the Pharaon!


What!—what!—the Pharaon! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel is lost.


The Pharaon, sir—they signal the Pharaon! The Pharaon is entering the harbor!


Father, how could you say the Pharaon was lost? The lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into port.


My dear friends, if this be so, it must be a miracle of heaven! Impossible, impossible!


Ah, sir, what can it mean?—the Pharaon?


Come, dear ones, let us go and see, and Heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!


Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your good deeds.


Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!


And now,


farewell kindness, humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have been Heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!


To the Island of Elba!


Ah, if your excellency chose, you might have capital sport.


Where?


Do you see that island?


Well, what is this island?


The Island of Monte Cristo.


But I have no permission to shoot over this island.


Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is uninhabited.


Ah, indeed! A desert island in the midst of the Mediterranean must be a curiosity.


It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not contain an acre of land capable of cultivation.


To whom does this island belong?


To Tuscany.


What game shall I find there!


Thousands of wild goats.


Who live upon the stones, I suppose,


No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the crevices of the rocks.


Where can I sleep?


On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if your excellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like—we can sail as well by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use our oars.


Well, what now? Is there any difficulty in the way?


No. but we must warn your excellency that the island is an infected port.


What do you mean?


Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a refuge for the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica, Sardinia, and Africa, and if it becomes known that we have been there, we shall have to perform quarantine for six days on our return to Leghorn.


The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days! Why, that’s as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too long a wait—too long.


But who will say your excellency has been to Monte Cristo?


Oh, I shall not,


Nor I, nor I,


Then steer for Monte Cristo. Gaetano, you tell me Monte Cristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very different kind of game from the goats.


Yes, your excellency, and it is true.


I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of Algiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates existed only in the romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat.


Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the bandits who were believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII., and who yet, every day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has not your excellency heard that the French chargé d’affaires was robbed six months ago within five hundred paces of Velletri?


Oh, yes, I heard that.


Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you would hear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an English yacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita Vecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of it, but, doubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this rock it has met has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or eight men, who have surprised and plundered it, some dark and stormy night, near some desert and gloomy island, as bandits plunder a carriage in the recesses of a forest.


But, why do not those who have been plundered complain to the French, Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?


Why?


Yes, why?


Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to their own boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the crew hand and foot, they attach to everyone’s neck a four-and-twenty-pound ball, a large hole is chopped in the vessel’s bottom, and then they leave her. At the end of ten minutes the vessel begins to roll heavily and settle down. First one gun’l goes under, then the other. Then they lift and sink again, and both go under at once. All at once there’s a noise like a cannon—that’s the air blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes out of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last groan, spins round and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool in the ocean, and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but the eye of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the sea. Do you understand now, why no complaints are made to the government, and why the vessel never reaches port?


Bah! I have travelled through Sicily and Calabria—I have sailed two months in the Archipelago, and yet I never saw even the shadow of a bandit or a pirate.


I did not tell your excellency this to deter you from your project, but you questioned me, and I have answered; that’s all.


Yes, and your conversation is most interesting; and as I wish to enjoy it as long as possible, steer for Monte Cristo.


What is this light?


Hush! it is a fire.


But you told me the island was uninhabited?


I said there were no fixed habitations on it, but I said also that it served sometimes as a harbor for smugglers.


And for pirates?


And for pirates. It is for that reason I have given orders to pass the island, for, as you see, the fire is behind us.


But this fire? It seems to me rather reassuring than otherwise; men who did not wish to be seen would not light a fire.


Oh, that goes for nothing. If you can guess the position of the island in the darkness, you will see that the fire cannot be seen from the side or from Pianosa, but only from the sea.


You think, then, this fire indicates the presence of unpleasant neighbors?


That is what we must find out,


How can you find out?


You shall see.


Well?


They are Spanish smugglers, they have with them two Corsican bandits.


And what are these Corsican bandits doing here with Spanish smugglers?


Alas, we ought always to help one another. Very often the bandits are hard pressed by gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see a vessel, and good fellows like us on board, they come and demand hospitality of us; you can’t refuse help to a poor hunted devil; we receive them, and for greater security we stand out to sea. This costs us nothing, and saves the life, or at least the liberty, of a fellow-creature, who on the first occasion returns the service by pointing out some safe spot where we can land our goods without interruption.


Ah! then you are a smuggler occasionally, Gaetano?


Your excellency, we must live somehow,


Then you know the men who are now on Monte Cristo?


Oh, yes, we sailors are like freemasons, and recognize each other by signs.


And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land?


Nothing at all; smugglers are not thieves.


But these two Corsican bandits?


It is not their fault that they are bandits, but that of the authorities.


How so?


Because they are pursued for having made a stiff, as if it was not in a Corsican’s nature to revenge himself.


What do you mean by having made a stiff?—having assassinated a man?


I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very different thing,


Well, let us demand hospitality of these smugglers and bandits. Do you think they will grant it?


Without doubt.


How many are they?


Four, and the two bandits make six.


Just our number, so that if they prove troublesome, we shall be able to hold them in check; so, for the last time, steer to Monte Cristo. Yes, but your excellency will permit us to take all due precautions. By all means, be as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses; I do more than permit, I exhort you.


Silence, then!


Who comes there?


My name must rest unknown, merely say I am a Frenchman travelling for pleasure.


S'accommodi.


Besides, if the smell of their roast meat tempts you, I will go and offer them two of our birds for a slice. You are a born diplomat, go and try. Well, anything new?—do they refuse?


On the contrary, the chief, who was told you were a young Frenchman, invites you to sup with him.


Well, this chief is very polite, and I see no objection—the more so as I bring my share of the supper.


Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and to spare, for supper; but he makes one condition, and rather a peculiar one, before he will receive you at his house.


His house? Has he built one here, then?


No, but he has a very comfortable one all the same, so they say.


You know this chief, then?


I have heard talk of him.


Favorably or otherwise?


Both.


The deuce!—and what is this condition?


That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until he himself bids you. I know this is a serious matter.


What should you do in my place?


I, who have nothing to lose,—I should go.


You would accept?


Listen. I do not know if what they say is true


What do they say?


That this chief inhabits a cavern to which the Pitti Palace is nothing.


What nonsense!


It is no nonsense; it is quite true. Cama, the pilot of the Saint Ferdinand, went in once, and he came back amazed, vowing that such treasures were only to be heard of in fairy tales.


Do you know, that with such stories you make me think of Ali Baba’s enchanted cavern?


I tell you what I have been told.


Then you advise me to accept?


Oh, I don’t say that; your excellency will do as you please; I should be sorry to advise you in the matter.


Never mind that. I know their vessel. Is it a very beautiful vessel?


I would not wish for a better to sail round the world.


Of what burden is she?


About a hundred tons; but she is built to stand any weather. She is what the English call a yacht.


Where was she built?


I know not; but my own opinion is she is a Genoese.


And how did a leader of smugglers venture to build a vessel designed for such a purpose at Genoa?


I did not say that the owner was a smuggler,


No; but Gaetano did, I thought.


Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a distance, he had not then spoken to anyone.


And if this person be not a smuggler, who is he?


A wealthy signor, who travels for his pleasure.


Come, he is still more mysterious, since the two accounts do not agree. What is his name?


If you ask him, he says Sinbad the Sailor; but I doubt if it be his real name.


Sinbad the Sailor?


Yes.


And where does he reside?


On the sea.


What country does he come from?


I do not know.


Have you ever seen him?


Sometimes.


What sort of a man is he?


Your excellency will judge for yourself.


Where will he receive me?


No doubt in the subterranean palace Gaetano told you of.


Have you never had the curiosity, when you have landed and found this island deserted, to seek for this enchanted palace?


Oh, yes, more than once, but always in vain; we examined the grotto all over, but we never could find the slightest trace of any opening; they say that the door is not opened by a key, but a magic word.


Decidedly, this is an Arabian Nights’ adventure.


His excellency waits for you,


He promised.


Welcome, sir. I beg you will remove your bandage.


Sir, a thousand excuses for the precaution taken in your introduction hither; but as, during the greater portion of the year, this island is deserted, if the secret of this abode were discovered, I should doubtless, find on my return my temporary retirement in a state of great disorder, which would be exceedingly annoying, not for the loss it occasioned me, but because I should not have the certainty I now possess of separating myself from all the rest of mankind at pleasure. Let me now endeavor to make you forget this temporary unpleasantness, and offer you what no doubt you did not expect to find here—that is to say, a tolerable supper and pretty comfortable beds.


Ma foi, my dear sir, make no apologies. I have always observed that they bandage people’s eyes who penetrate enchanted palaces, for instance, those of Raoul in the Huguenots, and really I have nothing to complain of, for what I see makes me think of the wonders of the Arabian Nights.


Alas! I may say with Lucullus, if I could have anticipated the honor of your visit, I would have prepared for it. But such as is my hermitage, it is at your disposal; such as is my supper, it is yours to share, if you will. Ali, is the supper ready? Now, I do not know if you are of my opinion, but I think nothing is more annoying than to remain two or three hours together without knowing by name or appellation how to address one another. Pray observe, that I too much respect the laws of hospitality to ask your name or title. I only request you to give me one by which I may have the pleasure of addressing you. As for myself, that I may put you at your ease, I tell you that I am generally called ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’


And I, will tell you, as I only require his wonderful lamp to make me precisely like Aladdin, that I see no reason why at this moment I should not be called Aladdin. That will keep us from going away from the East whither I am tempted to think I have been conveyed by some good genius.


Well, then, Signor Aladdin, you heard our repast announced, will you now take the trouble to enter the dining-room, your humble servant going first to show the way?


Yes, he is a poor devil who is much devoted to me, and does all he can to prove it. He remembers that I saved his life, and as he has a regard for his head, he feels some gratitude towards me for having kept it on his shoulders.


Would it be impertinent, Signor Sinbad, to ask you the particulars of this kindness?


Oh, they are simple enough. It seems the fellow had been caught wandering nearer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than etiquette permits to one of his color, and he was condemned by the Bey to have his tongue cut out, and his hand and head cut off; the tongue the first day, the hand the second, and the head the third. I always had a desire to have a mute in my service, so learning the day his tongue was cut out, I went to the Bey, and proposed to give him for Ali a splendid double-barreled gun, which I knew he was very desirous of having. He hesitated a moment, he was so very desirous to complete the poor devil’s punishment. But when I added to the gun an English cutlass with which I had shivered his highness’s yataghan to pieces, the Bey yielded, and agreed to forgive the hand and head, but on condition that the poor fellow never again set foot in Tunis. This was a useless clause in the bargain, for whenever the coward sees the first glimpse of the shores of Africa, he runs down below, and can only be induced to appear again when we are out of sight of that quarter of the globe.


And like the celebrated sailor whose name you have assumed, you pass your life in travelling?


Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be able to accomplish it, and I made some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season.


You have suffered a great deal, sir?


What makes you suppose so?


Everything—your voice, your look, your pallid complexion, and even the life you lead.


I?—I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am king of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I get tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like one; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by delivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you had tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never return to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish there.


Revenge, for instance!


And why revenge?


Because you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by society, has a fearful account to settle with it.


Ah! You have not guessed rightly. Such as you see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I shall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the man in the little blue cloak.


And will that be the first time you ever took that journey?


Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you that it is not my fault I have delayed it so long—it will happen one day or the other.


And do you propose to make this journey very shortly?


I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain arrangements.


I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor to repay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality displayed to me at Monte Cristo.


I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure, but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability, incognito.


You cannot guess what there is in that small vase, can you?


No, I really cannot.


Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia which Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.


But this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human name; in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which, to tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?


Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed. We frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without regarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing it. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste this, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you. Are you a man of imagination—a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of possibility disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you advance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of unfettered reverie. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the greatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a king, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe like France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the universe, king of creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you will be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is only to do thus? look!


Diable! I do not know if the result will be as agreeable as you describe, but the thing does not appear to me as palatable as you say.


Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity of the substances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted oysters, tea, porter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you now adore, did you like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans stuffed their pheasants with assafœtida, and the Chinese eat swallows’ nests? Eh? no! Well, it is the same with hashish; only eat for a week, and nothing in the world will seem to you to equal the delicacy of its flavor, which now appears to you flat and distasteful. Let us now go into the adjoining chamber, which is your apartment, and Ali will bring us coffee and pipes.


How do you take it? in the French or Turkish style, strong or weak, sugar or none, cool or boiling? As you please; it is ready in all ways.


I will take it in the Turkish style,


And you are right, it shows you have a tendency for an Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they are the only men who know how to live. As for me, when I have completed my affairs in Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and should you wish to see me again, you must seek me at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan.


Ma foi, it would be the easiest thing in the world; for I feel eagle’s wings springing out at my shoulders, and with those wings I could make a tour of the world in four-and-twenty hours.


Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its work. Well, unfurl your wings, and fly into superhuman regions; fear nothing, there is a watch over you; and if your wings, like those of Icarus, melt before the sun, we are here to ease your fall.


The Signor Sinbad has left his compliments for your excellency, and desires us to express the regret he feels at not being able to take his leave in person; but he trusts you will excuse him, as very important business calls him to Malaga.


So, then, Gaetano, this is, then, all reality; there exists a man who has received me in this island, entertained me right royally, and has departed while I was asleep?


He exists as certainly as that you may see his small yacht with all her sails spread; and if you will use your glass, you will, in all probability, recognize your host in the midst of his crew.


There, do you hear? he is bidding you adieu. What are your excellency’s orders?


In the first place, light me a torch.


Ah, yes, I understand, to find the entrance to the enchanted apartment. With much pleasure, your excellency, if it would amuse you; and I will get you the torch you ask for. But I too have had the idea you have, and two or three times the same fancy has come over me; but I have always given it up. Giovanni, light a torch, and give it to his excellency.


Why, you told me that Signor Sinbad was going to Malaga, while it seems he is in the direction of Porto-Vecchio.


Don’t you remember. I told you that among the crew there were two Corsican brigands?


True; and he is going to land them,


Precisely so. Ah, he is one who fears neither God nor Satan, they say, and would at any time run fifty leagues out of his course to do a poor devil a service.


But such services as these might involve him with the authorities of the country in which he practices this kind of philanthropy,


And what cares he for that, or any authorities? He smiles at them. Let them try to pursue him! Why, in the first place, his yacht is not a ship, but a bird, and he would beat any frigate three knots in every nine; and if he were to throw himself on the coast, why, is he not certain of finding friends everywhere?


Very good, signor Pastrini, but we must have some supper instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days.


As to supper, you shall be served immediately; but as for the carriage——


What as to the carriage? Come, come, Signor Pastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage.


Sir, we will do all in our power to procure you one—this is all I can say.


And when shall we know?


Tomorrow morning,


Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that’s all, I see plainly enough. At Drake’s or Aaron’s one pays twenty-five lire for common days, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast days; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and there’s an end of it. Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the journey, but that’s no matter. Do you understand that, my dear Franz—no horses?


I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am accustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is supper ready, Signor Pastrini?


Yes, your excellency.


Well, then, let us sup.


But the carriage and horses?


Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a question of how much shall be charged for them.


Well, excellency. I feared yesterday, when I would not promise you anything, that you were too late—there is not a single carriage to be had—that is, for the three last days


Yes, for the very three days it is most needed.


What is the matter? no carriage to be had?


Just so, you have guessed it.


Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort of place.


That is to say, excellency, that there are no carriages to be had from Sunday to Tuesday evening, but from now till Sunday you can have fifty if you please.


Ah, that is something, today is Thursday, and who knows what may arrive between this and Sunday?


Ten or twelve thousand travellers will arrive, which will make it still more difficult.


My friend, let us enjoy the present without gloomy forebodings for the future.


At least we can have a window?


Where?


In the Corso.


Ah, a window! utterly impossible; there was only one left on the fifth floor of the Doria Palace, and that has been let to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day.


Well, do you know what is the best thing we can do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of obtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages.


Ah, the devil, no. I came to Rome to see the Carnival, and I will, though I see it on stilts.


Bravo! an excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete success.


Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday morning?


Parbleu! do you think we are going to run about on foot in the streets of Rome, like lawyers’ clerks?


I hasten to comply with your excellencies’ wishes; only, I tell you beforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day.


And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next apartments. I warn you, that as I have been four times before at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give you twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then you will make a good profit.


But, excellency


Now go, or I shall go myself and bargain with your affettatore, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has plundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out of me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will lose the preference, and that will be your fault.


Do not give yourselves the trouble, excellency. I will do all I can, and I hope you will be satisfied.


And now we understand each other. When do you wish the carriage to be here? In an hour.


In an hour it will be at the door.


Excellency, shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace?


Where do your excellencies wish to go?


To Saint Peter’s first, and then to the Colosseum,


Excellency. I am delighted to have your approbation, but it was not for that I came.


Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?


No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any longer; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told anything cannot be done, there is an end of it.


It is much more convenient at Paris,—when anything cannot be done, you pay double, and it is done directly.


That is what all the French say, for that reason, I do not understand why they travel.


But, only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel. Men in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their walk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Café de Paris.


But, you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was?


Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o’clock precisely?


I have.


You intend visiting Il Colosseo.


You mean the Colosseum?


It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni?


These are my words exactly.


Well, this route is impossible.


Impossible!


Very dangerous, to say the least.


Dangerous!—and why?


On account of the famous Luigi Vampa.


Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be? he may be very famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at Paris. What! do you not know him? I have not that honor. You have never heard his name? Never.


Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the Gasparones were mere children.


Now then, Albert, here is a bandit for you at last.


I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of what you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin. ‘Once upon a time——’ Well, go on.


Excellency, if you look upon me as a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your interest I——


Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini, but that he will not believe what you are going to tell us,—but I will believe all you say; so proceed.


But if your excellency doubt my veracity——


Signor Pastrini, you are more susceptible than Cassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while you, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come, sit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa.


I had told your excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had since the days of Mastrilla.


Well, what has this bandit to do with the order I have given the coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, and to re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni?


This, that you will go out by one, but I very much doubt your returning by the other.


Why?


Because, after nightfall, you are not safe fifty yards from the gates.


On your honor, is that true?


Count. I do not say this to you, but to your companion, who knows Rome, and knows, too, that these things are not to be laughed at.


My dear fellow, here is an admirable adventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and double-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him—we bring him back to Rome, and present him to his holiness the Pope, who asks how he can repay so great a service; then we merely ask for a carriage and a pair of horses, and we see the Carnival in the carriage, and doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the Capitol, and proclaim us, like Curtius and Horatius Cocles, the preservers of their country.


And pray, where are these pistols, blunderbusses, and other deadly weapons with which you intend filling the carriage?


Not out of my armory, for at Terracina I was plundered even of my hunting-knife. And you?


I shared the same fate at Aquapendente.


Do you know, Signor Pastrini, that this practice is very convenient for bandits, and that it seems to be due to an arrangement of their own.


Your excellency knows that it is not customary to defend yourself when attacked by bandits.


What! not make any resistance!


No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits who spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces at you?


Eh, parbleu!—they should kill me.


your friend is decidedly mad. My dear Albert, your answer is sublime, and worthy the ‘Let him die,’ of Corneille, only, when Horace made that answer, the safety of Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it is only to gratify a whim, and it would be ridiculous to risk our lives for so foolish a motive. Well, Signor Pastrini, now that my companion is quieted, and you have seen how peaceful my intentions are, tell me who is this Luigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a nobleman?—young or old?—tall or short? Describe him, in order that, if we meet him by chance, like Jean Sbogar or Lara, we may recognize him.


You could not apply to anyone better able to inform you on all these points, for I knew him when he was a child, and one day that I fell into his hands, going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, fortunately for me, recollected me, and set me free, not only without ransom, but made me a present of a very splendid watch, and related his history to me.


Let us see the watch,


Here it is,


Peste! I compliment you on it; I have its fellow and it cost me 3,000 francs.


Let us hear the history,


Your excellencies permit it?


Pardieu! you are not a preacher, to remain standing!


You tell me, that you knew Luigi Vampa when he was a child—he is still a young man, then?


A young man? he is only two-and-twenty;—he will gain himself a reputation.


What do you think of that, Albert?—at two-and-twenty to be thus famous?


Yes, and at his age, Alexander, Cæsar, and Napoleon, who have all made some noise in the world, were quite behind him.


So, the hero of this history is only two-and-twenty?


Scarcely so much.


Is he tall or short?


Of the middle height—about the same stature as his excellency,


Thanks for the comparison,


Go on, Signor Pastrini. To what class of society does he belong?


He was a shepherd-boy attached to the farm of the Count of San-Felice, situated between Palestrina and the Lake of Gabri; he was born at Pampinara, and entered the count’s service when he was five years old; his father was also a shepherd, who owned a small flock, and lived by the wool and the milk, which he sold at Rome. When quite a child, the little Vampa displayed a most extraordinary precocity. One day, when he was seven years old, he came to the curate of Palestrina, and asked to be taught to read; it was somewhat difficult, for he could not quit his flock; but the good curate went every day to say mass at a little hamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was called Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and that then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be short, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child accepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road that leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o’clock in the morning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and the little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest’s breviary. At the end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough—he must now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make three alphabets—one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out to him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the letters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a sort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of slate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write. The curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a present of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but nothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well with this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to the Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him read and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with the domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi purchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to everything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep, houses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of objects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had commenced.


A girl of six or seven—that is, a little younger than Vampa—tended sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone and was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other, let their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed together; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice’s flock from those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their respective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they kept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and Teresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself. Beside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as he could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness and enthusiasm, was often angry and capricious, and always sarcastic. None of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able to gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His disposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make them) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might have broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and gay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received every month from the Count of San-Felice’s steward, and the price of all the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in ear-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her friend’s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired peasant near Rome.


Well, have you executed your commission?


Yes, captain. At nine o’clock tomorrow Rita’s father will be here with the money.


It is well; in the meantime, we will have a merry night; this young girl is charming, and does credit to your taste. Now, as I am not egotistical, we will return to our comrades and draw lots for her.


You have determined, then, to abandon her to the common law?


Why should an exception be made in her favor?


I thought that my entreaties——


What right have you, any more than the rest, to ask for an exception?


It is true.


But never mind, sooner or later your turn will come. Now, then, are you coming?


I follow you.


Let us draw lots! let us draw lots!


Captain, just now Carlini would not drink your health when I proposed it to him; propose mine to him, and let us see if he will be more condescending to you than to me.


Your health, Diavolaccio. My supper, my expedition has given me an appetite.


Well done, Carlini! that is acting like a good fellow;


Ah, ah. I now understand why Carlini stayed behind.


Now, then, does anyone dispute the possession of this woman with me?


No, she is thine.


Here, here are three hundred piastres; give me back my child.


There, demand thy child of Carlini; he will tell thee what has become of her;


I expected thee,


Wretch! what hast thou done?


Cucumetto had violated thy daughter. I loved her, therefore I slew her; for she would have served as the sport of the whole band. Now, if I have done wrongly, avenge her;


Thou hast done well! embrace me, my son. Now, aid me to bury my child.


I thank you, my son; and now leave me alone.


Yet——


Leave me, I command you.


I am pursued; can you conceal me?


That is very annoying, for the man we are looking for is the chief.


Cucumetto?


Yes, and as his head is valued at a thousand Roman crowns, there would have been five hundred for you, if you had helped us to catch him.


Yes, it is very annoying, but we have not seen him.


Will you allow me, father?


Certainly, are we not in Carnival time?


Teresa, what were you thinking of as you danced opposite the young Countess of San-Felice?


I thought, that I would give half my life for a costume such as she wore.


And what said your cavalier to you?


He said it only depended on myself to have it, and I had only one word to say.’


He was right,’ said Luigi. ‘Do you desire it as ardently as you say?


Yes.’


Well, then, you shall have it!


Teresa,’ said Luigi, ‘yesterday evening you told me you would give all the world to have a costume similar to that of the count’s daughter.’


Yes,’ replied Teresa with astonishment; ‘but I was mad to utter such a wish.’


And I replied, “Very well, you shall have it.”’


Yes,’ replied the young girl, whose astonishment increased at every word uttered by Luigi, ‘but of course your reply was only to please me.’


I have promised no more than I have given you, Teresa,’ said Luigi proudly. ‘Go into the grotto and dress yourself.’


That is your road, excellency, and now you cannot again mistake.’


And here is your recompense,’ said the traveller, offering the young herdsman some small pieces of money.


Thank you,’ said Luigi, drawing back his hand; ‘I render a service, I do not sell it.’


Well,’ replied the traveller, who seemed used to this difference between the servility of a man of the cities and the pride of the mountaineer, ‘if you refuse wages, you will, perhaps, accept a gift.’


Ah, yes, that is another thing.’


Then,’ said the traveller, ‘take these two Venetian sequins and give them to your bride, to make herself a pair of earrings.’


And then do you take this poniard,’ said the young herdsman; ‘you will not find one better carved between Albano and Civita-Castellana.’


I accept it,’ answered the traveller, ‘but then the obligation will be on my side, for this poniard is worth more than two sequins.’


For a dealer perhaps; but for me, who engraved it myself, it is hardly worth a piastre.’


What is your name?’ inquired the traveller.


Luigi Vampa,’ replied the shepherd, with the same air as he would have replied, Alexander, King of Macedon. ‘And yours?’


I,’ said the traveller, ‘am called Sinbad the Sailor.’


Sinbad the Sailor? Proceed!


Ah,’ said he—‘good, good! You are dressed; it is now my turn to dress myself.’


Now, are you ready to share my fortune, whatever it may be?


Oh, yes!


And follow me wherever I go?


To the world’s end.


Then take my arm, and let us on; we have no time to lose.