Yes; I will mention one to you. He had a remarkably fine garden, full of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From amongst these vegetables he selected the most simple—a cabbage, for instance. For three days he watered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the cabbage began to droop and turn yellow. At that moment he cut it. In the eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its wholesome appearance. It was only poisoned to the Abbé Adelmonte. He then took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits—for the Abbé Adelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as fine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the Abbé Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage. The rabbit died. What magistrate would find, or even venture to insinuate, anything against this? What procureur has ever ventured to draw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in consequence of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed?—not one. So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no notice. This rabbit dead, the Abbé Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook and thrown on the dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking these intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day. At the moment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is flying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte’s country); this bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it dines off its prey. Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has been very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy while flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond. The pike, eels, and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows—well, they feast on the vulture. Now suppose that next day, one of these eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at your table. Well, then, your guest will be poisoned at the fifth remove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the intestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open the body and say with an air of profound learning, ‘The subject has died of a tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever!’


But, all these circumstances which you link thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the vulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the fish-pond.


Ah, that is where the art comes in. To be a great chemist in the East, one must direct chance; and this is to be achieved.


But, arsenic is indelible, indestructible; in whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of the victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient quantity to cause death.


Precisely so, precisely so; and this is what I said to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by a Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb, ‘My son, the world was not made in a day—but in seven. Return on Sunday.’ On the Sunday following I did return to him. Instead of having watered his cabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of salts, having their basis in strychnine, strychnos colubrina, as the learned term it. Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of disease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust; yet, five minutes afterwards, the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at the rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen. This time we were the vultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had disappeared, there were only general symptoms. There was no peculiar indication in any organ—an excitement of the nervous system—that was it; a case of cerebral congestion—nothing more. The fowl had not been poisoned—she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among fowls, I believe, but very common among men.


It is very fortunate, that such substances could only be prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning each other.


By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry,


And then, however skilfully it is prepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it does not escape the eye of God. The Orientals are stronger than we are in cases of conscience, and, very prudently, have no hell—that is the point.


Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure mind like yours, but which would easily yield before sound reasoning. The bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of Jean Jacques Rousseau,—you remember,—the mandarin who is killed five hundred leagues off by raising the tip of the finger. Man’s whole life passes in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by reflecting on them. You will find very few persons who will go and brutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature, or will administer to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe on which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of which we just now talked. Such a thing is really out of rule—eccentric or stupid. To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least, at ninety, and the feelings excited beyond the ordinary limit. But suppose one pass, as is permissible in philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym, then, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an ‘elimination;’ you merely and simply remove from your path the individual who is in your way, and that without shock or violence, without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense of the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid and compromising moment of accomplishing the act,—then one escapes the clutch of the human law, which says, ‘Do not disturb society!’ This is the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance.


Yet conscience remains,


Yes, happily, yes, conscience does remain; and if it did not, how wretched we should be! After every action requiring exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons, howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard III., for instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the putting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say, ‘These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their juvenile propensities—these two children are impediments in my way of promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they (the children) would infallibly have caused.’ Thus was Lady Macbeth served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is a great virtue, a powerful motive—so powerful that it excuses a multitude of things, even if, after Duncan’s death, Lady Macbeth had been at all pricked by her conscience.


Do you know, my dear count, that you are a very terrible reasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered medium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through alembics and crucibles? For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the elixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost instantaneously——


Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; one drop of that elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was; ten would have destroyed him. You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched him from those phials which he so imprudently touched?


Is it then so terrible a poison?


Oh, no! In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not exist, because in medicine use is made of the most violent poisons, which become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies.


What, then, is it?


A skilful preparation of my friend’s the worthy Abbé Adelmonte, who taught me the use of it.


Oh, it must be an admirable anti-spasmodic.


Perfect, madame, as you have seen, and I frequently make use of it—with all possible prudence though, be it observed,


Most assuredly. As for me, so nervous, and so subject to fainting fits, I should require a Doctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and tranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of suffocation. In the meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to find in France, and your abbé is not probably disposed to make a journey to Paris on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche’s anti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman’s drops are among my favorite remedies. Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they are compounded doubly strong.


They are indeed exquisite, but as they are necessarily submitted to the process of deglutition—a function which it is frequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish—I prefer my own specific.


Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen produced; but of course it is a secret, and I am not so indiscreet as to ask it of you.


But I. I am gallant enough to offer it you.


How kind you are.


Only remember one thing—a small dose is a remedy, a large one is poison. One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured into a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its flavor. But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were prescribing for you.


If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time, count, instead of only for the second, if I had had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the happiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on detaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be daunted by a first refusal.


A thousand thanks, madame, but I have an engagement which I cannot break. I have promised to escort to the Académie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your grand opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither.


Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription.


Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour’s conversation I have had with you, which is indeed impossible.


He is a very strange man, and in my opinion is himself the Adelmonte he talks about.


Good, this is a fruitful soil, and I feel certain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground.


Surely, that must be the Countess G——.


And who is the Countess G——?


What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick a quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who the Countess G—— was.


Ah, to be sure, the lovely Venetian, is it not?


Herself.


You know her, it seems?


Franz introduced me to her at Rome,


Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you in Rome?


With pleasure.


Shut up!


The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,


Today?


Yes.


Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet?


Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis.


And who was the winner?


Nautilus. I staked on him.


But there were three races, were there not?


Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club—a gold cup, you know—and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race.


What was it?


Oh, shut up!


Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course.


Is that possible?


True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist, presented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider’s pockets, to make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare, against whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths.


And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey belonged?


No.


You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?


Exactly; that was the title.


Then. I am better informed than you are, and know who the owner of that horse was.


Shut up, there!


Ha, ha, here come some friends of yours, viscount! What are you looking at there? don’t you see they are trying to catch your eye? I tell you what, my dear fellow. I cannot imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle Danglars—that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat inferior rank, which by the way I don’t think you care very much about. Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!


Handsome, certainly, but not to my taste, which I confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine.


Ah, well, you young people are never satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you a bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not content.


No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this chase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actæon.


So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we? it was really very good of you to recognize me so quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me.


Be assured, that if I had been aware of your arrival in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to you before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de Château-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday.


So you were at the races, baron?


Yes, madame.


Well, then, you can probably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes?


I am sorry to say I cannot,


and I was just asking the same question of Albert.


Are you very anxious to know, countess?


To know what?


The name of the owner of the winning horse?


Excessively; only imagine—but do tell me, viscount, whether you really are acquainted with it or no?


I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story, were you not? You said, ‘only imagine,’—and then paused. Pray continue.


Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments, I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written these words—‘From Lord Ruthven to Countess G——.’


Precisely; I was sure of it. Sure of what? That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.


What Lord Ruthven do you mean?


Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!


Is it possible? is he here in Paris?


To be sure,—why not?


And you visit him?—meet him at your own house and elsewhere?


I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Château-Renaud has also the honor of his acquaintance.


But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club prize?


Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?


What of that?


Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I was made prisoner?


Oh, yes.


And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a manner?


To be sure, I remember it all now.


He called himself Vampa. You see, it’s evident where the count got the name.


But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?


In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.


I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish remarks we used to make about him?


I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven——


Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.


Does his action appear like that of an enemy?


No; certainly not.


Well, then——


And so he is in Paris?


Yes.


And what effect does he produce?


Why, he was talked about for a week; then the coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.


the count is your friend and you treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you, countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon myself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth 32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain, in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which, after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.


Perhaps you are right, meanwhile, who is in the Russian ambassador’s box?


Which box do you mean?


The one between the pillars on the first tier—it seems to have been fitted up entirely afresh.


Did you observe anyone during the first act?


Where?


In that box.


No, it was certainly empty during the first act; And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that gained the prize?


I am sure of it.


And who afterwards sent the cup to me?


Undoubtedly.


But I don’t know him. I have a great mind to return it.


Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is his way, and you must take him as you find him.


Shall I see you again?


At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?


Pray take notice, that my present residence is 22 Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday evening. So now, you are both forewarned.


Hullo, it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!


Upon my word. Paris is a strange city, and the Parisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one might suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that way.


That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant—you, who are at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.


Really? and what has procured me so flattering a distinction?


What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the name of Major Black you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the first handsome woman you think of!


And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?


Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly, from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call your horse Vampa?


That was an oversight, certainly, but tell me, does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking for him, but without success.


He will be here tonight.


In what part of the house?


In the baroness’s box, I believe.


That charming young woman with her is her daughter?


Yes.


I congratulate you.


We will discuss that subject at length some future time. But what do you think of the music?


What music?


Why, the music you have been listening to.


Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.


From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of paradise?


You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go to sleep.


Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what else was opera invented for?


No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain preparation——


I know—the famous hashish!


Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with music come and sup with me.


I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,


Do you mean at Rome?


I do.


Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haydée’s guzla; the poor exile frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her native land. You will excuse my leaving you,


What? Are you going?


Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—— on the part of her friend the vampire.


And what message shall I convey to the baroness!


That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my respects in the course of the evening.


You are welcome, count! I have been most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing can so ill express.


Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.


But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity restored to me.


This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort.


Was it Ali,


in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your debt—if indeed there existed one—and I feel almost mortified to find you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to honor me with an introduction to your daughter?


Oh, you are no stranger—at least not by name, and the last two or three days we have really talked of nothing but you. Eugénie, this is the Count of Monte Cristo.


You have a charming young person with you tonight, count. Is she your daughter?


No, mademoiselle. She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my care.


And what is her name?


Haydée,


A Greek?


and tell me, did you ever see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?


Did I hear rightly, monsieur, that you served at Yanina?


I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops, and it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality of the illustrious Albanese chief.


Where?


what has happened to your ward? she seems to have been taken suddenly ill.


Very probably. But do not be alarmed on her account. Haydée’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers—nay, there are some which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However. I have an infallible remedy.


Who was it you were talking with over there?


With the Count of Morcerf. He tells me he served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him.


Wretch! he sold my father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?


Something of this I heard in Epirus, but the particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.


Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain long near that dreadful man.


that man does nothing like other people; he listens most devoutly to the third act of Robert le Diable, and when the fourth begins, takes his departure.


You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?


Yes, count, you know what I told you?


It is more than ever a settled thing,


Ah. I did not expect that the affair would be so promptly concluded.


Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when, again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M. Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M. Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father, ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.


Yes. I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit which I paid him; and. Mademoiselle Eugénie is pretty—I think I remember that to be her name.


Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful, but of that style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow.


You speak as if you were already her husband.


Ah,


Really, you do not appear to me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.


Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me, and that frightens me.


Bah, that’s a fine reason to give. Are you not rich yourself?


My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.


That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris especially, but everything does not depend on wealth, and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent; and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin; disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.


There is still something else,


I confess, that I have some difficulty in comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and beautiful.


Oh, this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called, is not all on my side.


Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the marriage.


It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the Danglars.


Ah, that may be easily explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.


I do not know if that is her reason, but one thing I do know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of indisposition——


Real?


Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless,—at any rate they postponed the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet twenty-one, and Eugénie is only seventeen; but the two months expire next week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!


Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from being so?


Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not marry Mademoiselle Danglars.


Marry her then,


Yes, but that will plunge my mother into positive grief.


Then do not marry her,


Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.


Ah, what are you doing there? Are you making a sketch after Poussin?


Oh, no. I am too fond of art to attempt anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.


In arithmetic?


Yes; I am calculating—by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you—I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must have made 300,000 livres.


That is not his biggest scoop, did he not make a million in Spaniards this last year?


My dear fellow, here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say to you, as the Italians do,— Denaro e santità, Metà della metà. When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say nothing.


But you were speaking of Haitians?


Ah, Haitians,—that is quite another thing! Haitians are the écarté of French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always come back to écarté—it is not only a game, it is a hors-d’œuvre! M. Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but waited till today, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of gaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000.


And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206? I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing intrigues.


Because, one piece of news follows another, and there is often great dissimilarity between them.


Ah. I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich.


It is not he who plays! it is Madame Danglars; she is indeed daring.


But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,


How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her? you know the character of the baroness—no one has any influence with her, and she does precisely what she pleases.


Ah, if I were in your place——


Well?


I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future son-in-law.


How would you set about it?


Ah, that would be easy enough—I would give her a lesson.


A lesson?


Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.


I do not understand,


It is very clear, notwithstanding, tell her some fine morning an unheard-of piece of intelligence—some telegraphic despatch, of which you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s. That would boom the market; she will buy heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the following day, in his gazette, ‘The report circulated by some usually well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s house, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his majesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf.’


Do you not think, on reflection, that you have done wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M. Debray?


My dear count. I beg of you not to apply that title so prematurely.


Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very much averse to this marriage?


So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my mother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole life.


Then. I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M. Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune enabled me to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of dinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my country-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the Count and Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of being a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the honor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to stand high in her esteem.


Indeed, count. I thank you sincerely for having used so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which you propose. You say you desire my mother’s good opinion; I assure you it is already yours to a very unusual extent.


Do you think so?


Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the other day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could know of this attention on your part—and I will venture to tell her—I am sure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father will be equally angry.


Well,


Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what will be agreeable to you, that is all. This very day.


Before tomorrow?—that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides, I shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure. You are today free as air—come and dine with me; we shall be a small party—only yourself, my mother, and I. You have scarcely seen my mother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely. She is a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist another like her, about twenty years younger; in that case, I assure you, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As to my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines with the chief referendary. We will talk over our travels; and you, who have seen the whole world, will relate your adventures—you shall tell us the history of the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night at the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet treat like a princess. We will talk Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my invitation, and my mother will thank you.


A thousand thanks,


Humph,


Oh, you do not mean that. I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?


Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer for it.


At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner.


Probably not.


Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I called you into my laboratory?


To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,


Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.


Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours, then?


By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and agreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of very ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence, Bologna and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his arrival in Paris. The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort of claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention which you once paid them by chance, as though the civilities of a passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your journey. This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire, when he was on his way to Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he will confide his son to my care, I will promise to watch over him, I shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then I shall have done my part.


Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor. Have you? Is he still amusing himself in Italy? I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy; I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains.


His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?


No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible and mysterious of beings.


and I felt a lively interest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion of mine. He is, I think, the son of General d’Épinay?


He is.


The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?


By the Bonapartists.


Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial engagement contemplated for him?


Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort. And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. Yes.


Why do you do so?


I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination for the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my own. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they do of us; it is unpardonable. Are you going? Really, that is a good idea!—two hours have I been boring you to death with my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if I am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world. And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite a style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get such a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see in a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit themselves in the most awkward manner possible. Therefore, if you part with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him.


By all means.


That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese, Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance he should be wishing to establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her mother’s side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will help you in the search.


Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you?


Yes.


Well, really, nothing is certain in this world.


Oh, count, what a service you might render me! I should like you a hundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain a bachelor, even were it only for ten years.


Nothing is impossible. Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company on Saturday at Auteuil.


There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your excellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old.


Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of the sleeping-chamber which is hung with red damask; you will leave that exactly as it is.


I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your excellency. I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency’s commands concerning the dinner.


Really, my dear M. Bertuccio, since you have been in Paris, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your element; you no longer seem to understand me.


But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you are expecting to receive?


I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do so. ‘Lucullus dines with Lucullus,’ that is quite sufficient.


Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you.


Indeed,


Yes; I had been told that I should see you today at seven o’clock.


Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?


Of course.


Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have been forgotten. What precaution? Oh, no, never mind that,


Yes, yes. Let me see,


Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,


Half a million,


Half a million, is it?


Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbé knows correctly the amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe.


Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea that it was so much.


Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation in that quarter.


You have opened my eyes,


And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.


Yes, indeed but one!


Which is to recover a lost and adored son.


A lost and adored son!


Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or by the gypsies.


At the age of five years!


Unhappy father. I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for fifteen years.


I have the power of so doing,


So, then,


No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office, as does the Abbé Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a joke; but your excellency has not read all.


Ah, true,


Yes, yes,


In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which you still owe me.


Very good. He said ‘very good,’


Then what?


Then the postscript——


Well; what of the postscript?


Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the letter?


Certainly; the Abbé Busoni and myself have a small account open between us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference. You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?


I must explain to you, fully confiding in the signature of the Abbé Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.


Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed anywhere?


Why, really I know no one,


But then you yourself are known to others?


Yes, I am known, so that——


Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti.


So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?


Certainly, at your first request. But sit down, really I do not know what I have been thinking of—I have positively kept you standing for the last quarter of an hour.


Don’t mention it.


Now, what will you take—a glass of sherry, port, or Alicante?


Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine.


I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, will you not?


Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging.


Well?


The young man is here,


Into what room did you take him?


Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency’s orders.


That’s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits.


Really, I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am giving you.


Pray don’t mention such a thing,


So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held in great esteem—had all that could render a man happy?


All, positively all.


And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your happiness?


Only one thing, that consummation of my happiness was indeed wanting.


Let me hear, then, who this deeply regretted son was; for I always understood you were a bachelor.


That was the general opinion, sir, and I——


Yes, and you confirmed the report. A youthful indiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from the world at large?


Yes. I did wish this fault to be hidden from every eye.


Not on your own account, surely,


Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,


But for the sake of the mother?


Yes, for the mother’s sake—his poor mother!


Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti, your emotion has quite overcome you.


His poor mother,


She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she not?


She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.


And her name was——


Do you desire to know her name——?


Oh, it would be quite superfluous for you to tell me, for I already know it.


The count knows everything,


Oliva Corsinari, was it not?


Oliva Corsinari!


A marchioness?


A marchioness!


And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her family?


Yes, that was the way it ended.


And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?


What papers?


The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the register of your child’s birth.


The register of my child’s birth?


The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not his name Andrea?


I believe so,


What? You believe so?


I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a time.


Well, then, you have all the documents with you?


Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.


That is unfortunate,


Were they, then, so necessary?


They were indispensable.


Ah, perbacco, indispensable, were they?


Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?


True, there might be doubts raised.


In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.


It would be fatal to his interests.


It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance.


O peccato!


You must know that in France they are very particular on these points; it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say, ‘We love each other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have papers which undeniably establish your identity.


That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers.


Fortunately, I have them, though,


You?


Yes.


You have them?


I have them.


Ah, indeed? ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them.


I do not at all wonder at it—one cannot think of everything; but, happily, the Abbé Busoni thought for you.


He is an excellent person.


He is extremely prudent and thoughtful.


He is an admirable man, and he sent them to you?


Here they are.


You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate. Yes indeed, there it is truly,


And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curé of Saravezza.


All quite correct.


Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.


I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them——


Well, and if he were to lose them?


In that case, it would be necessary to write to the curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be obtained.


It would be a difficult matter to arrange,


Almost an impossibility,


I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.


I regard them as invaluable.


Now, as to the mother of the young man——


As to the mother of the young man——


As regards the Marchesa Corsinari——


Really, difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will she be wanted in any way?


No, sir,


Yes, sir, she has——


Paid the last debt of nature?


Alas, yes,


I knew that, she has been dead these ten years.


And I am still mourning her loss,


What would you have? We are all mortal. Now, you understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient.


You think so?


Certainly.


Very well, then.


If they should hear of the separation——


Ah, yes; what could I say?


That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family——


By the Corsinari?


Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might become extinct.


That is reasonable, since he is an only son.


Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened remembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?


An agreeable one?


Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his heart.


Hum!


Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was here.


That who was here?


Your child—your son—your Andrea!


I did guess it. Then he is here?


He is, when the valet de chambre came in just now, he told me of his arrival.


Ah, very well, very well,


My dear sir, I understand your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is not less impatient for it than yourself.


I should quite imagine that to be the case,


Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.


You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to present him to me yourself?


No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview will be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by this door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion—a little too fair, perhaps—pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for yourself.


By the way, you know I have only the 2,000 francs which the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling expenses, and——


And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.


Does your excellency wish for a receipt?


For what?


I thought you might want it to show the Abbé Busoni.


Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a receipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I think, quite unnecessary.


Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people.


One word more,


Say on.


You will permit me to make one remark?


Certainly; pray do so.


Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress.


Indeed,


Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant in itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris.


That’s unfortunate.


Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can easily resume it when you leave Paris.


But what shall I wear?


What you find in your trunks.


In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau.


I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring one’s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes to march with as little baggage as possible.


That is just the case—precisely so.


But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your luggage on before you. It has arrived at the Hôtel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters.


Then, in these trunks——


I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all you are likely to need,—your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not forget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always wear them, for all that.


Very well, very well,


Now, that you have fortified yourself against all painful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet your lost Andrea.


The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe? Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea Cavalcanti?


Count Andrea Cavalcanti,


You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you not?


I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so strange.


The letter signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ is it not?


Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception of the one celebrated in the Thousand and One Nights——


Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name is Lord Wilmore.


Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary. He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met—at—ah—yes, indeed. Well, monsieur, I am at your service.


If what you say be true, perhaps you will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your family?


Certainly, I will do so. I am (as you have said) the Count Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at Florence. Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my existence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my own master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for information respecting him.


Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting, and you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.


My father? Is my father here?


Most undoubtedly, your father, Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.


Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here?


Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company. The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might furnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of ransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were in the south of France, I think?


Yes. I was in the south of France.


A carriage was to await you at Nice?


Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, from Turin to Chambéry, from Chambéry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.


Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for it is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we have been able to trace your journey to this place.


But, if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me.


Oh, the voice of nature,


True. I had not looked upon it in that light.


Now, there is only one source of uneasiness left in your father’s mind, which is this—he is anxious to know how you have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves towards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad moral influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely more to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover if the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been weakened by want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider yourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high position to which your rank entitles you.


Sir! I hope no false report——


As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the philanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive. Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been interesting. He told me that he was anxious to restore you to the position which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until he found him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is here now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave me a few other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite aware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as rich as a gold mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities without any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to his instructions. Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I am about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your patron. I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to you—misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degree diminish my regard for you—I would wish to know if they have not, in some measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in which your fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous figure?


Sir,


And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your excellency? Ah, when may we hope for that pleasure?


On Saturday, if you will—Yes.—Let me see—Saturday—I am to dine at my country house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28. Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your banker. I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should know you, as he is to pay your money.


Full dress?


Oh, yes, certainly, uniform, cross, knee-breeches.


And how shall I be dressed?


Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin or Véronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do not know their address. The less pretension there is in your attire, the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go to Baptiste for it.


At what hour shall we come?


About half-past six.


We will be with you at that time,


There go two miscreants; it is a pity they are not really related! Come, I will go to see the Morrels. I think that disgust is even more sickening than hatred.


Good-evening, Valentine,


Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw the cause of my delay.


Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were so intimate with her.


Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?


No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls telling your secrets to each other.


We were having a confidential conversation, she was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to think of marrying M. d’Épinay.


Dear Valentine!


That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed between me and Eugénie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections were fixed.


Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.


It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.


No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot understand how any man can really love her.


The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.


Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf on account of loving another?


I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugénie.


Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling.


If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security.


Come, what did she say?


She told me that she loved no one, that she disliked the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.


Ah, you see——


Well, what does that prove?


Nothing,


Then why did you smile?


Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine.


Do you want me to go away?


Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak.


True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together.


Ma foi!


Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.


Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to separate us at last.


Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both, Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.


But why must you leave me so soon?


I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune, I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were poor, would you not, Maximilian?


Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication may relate to your marriage?


I do not think that is the case.


However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you that, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else!


Do you think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian?


Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.


Well?


Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.


What then?


Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his immediate return.


Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come through Madame de Villefort.


Why not?


Because—I scarcely know why—but it has appeared as if Madame de Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not choose openly to oppose it.


Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.


Do not be in such a hurry to do that. If she objects to your marrying M. d’Épinay, she would be all the more likely to listen to any other proposition. No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort objects, it is marriage itself.


Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry herself?


You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I exclaimed,—‘Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had ceased speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for all.


Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know what I—sabring right and left among the Bedouins—can have done to merit your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, Heaven took into consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining unmarried?


Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian—too rich? I possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran, will leave me as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My brother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore, be poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his son.


Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should be so avaricious.


It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of maternal love.


But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your fortune to her son?


How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always professes to be so entirely disinterested?


Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even my sister, is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?


A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I tremble to give my permission.


Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for anyone that sudden and irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the first time you had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse, and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of the past?


Yes.


Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first saw that extraordinary man.


Extraordinary, did you say?


You have known him for some time, then?


Scarcely longer than eight or ten days.


And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight or ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the title of friend.


Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession of my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me, and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according to his own will.


He must be a prophet, then,


Indeed, I have often been almost tempted to attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a wonderful power of foretelling any future good.


Ah, do let me see this man, Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently to make amends for all I have suffered.


My poor girl, you know him already.


I know him?


Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son.


The Count of Monte Cristo?


The same.


Ah, he is too much the friend of Madame de Villefort ever to be mine.


The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine, you are mistaken?


No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household is almost unlimited. Courted by my step-mother, who regards him as the epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the count’s large black eyes, runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he is sure to find some delightful present,—M. de Monte Cristo appears to exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the members of our family.


If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt, or at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence. He meets Albert de Morcerf in Italy—it is to rescue him from the hands of the banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars—it is that he may give her a royal present; your step-mother and her son pass before his door—it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man evidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards men and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to greater magnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget it ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you will be happy.


Me? he never even glances at me; on the contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid me. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and since, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart with one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how do you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like you, with a fierce moustache and a long sabre, but they think they may crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.


Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken.


If it were otherwise—if he treated me diplomatically—that is to say, like a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its occupants—he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no attention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in his power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any reason. Ah, forgive me. I have done wrong, for I have given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even know existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has been productive of evil rather than good.


Well, Valentine, we will not discuss the matter further. I will not make a confidant of him.


Alas! I see that I have given you pain. I can only say how sincerely I ask pardon for having grieved you. But, indeed, I am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this Count of Monte Cristo has done for you.


I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say that the count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have already told you, I have an instinctive affection for him, the source of which I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No; he warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see you—nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No; its odor charms one of my senses—that is all I can say when I am asked why I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable as his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of friendship. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret thoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me when I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which has befallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a little to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on Saturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do. Well, what have I learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming to this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future advantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some hidden plot in the arrangement—something, in fact, more than is apparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular man, who appears to fathom the motives of everyone, has purposely arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he was in possession of the secret of our love.


My good friend. I should take you for a visionary, and should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk in a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything more than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My father, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father to accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian,—there is no one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my grandfather, who is little better than a corpse—no support to cling to but my mother in heaven!


I see that you are right, logically speaking, but the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince me today.


I feel the same as regards yourself. and I own that, if you have no stronger proof to give me——


I have another, but I fear you will deem it even more absurd than the first.


So much the worse, said Valentine, smiling.


It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service have also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which directed me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side, while it left me unharmed.


Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers for your safety? When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but for you.


Yes, since you have known me, but that cannot apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine.


You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd.


Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new horse which I rode here.


Ah! what a beautiful creature! why did you not bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?


He is, as you see, a very valuable animal. You know that my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man of moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer’s, where I saw this magnificent horse, which I have named Médéah. I asked the price; they told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy heart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with him. The same evening some friends of mine visited me,—M. de Château-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom you do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of bouillotte. I never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently poor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did. Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived. He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at midnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and drove to the horse dealer’s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door. The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed at once to the stable. Médéah was standing at the rack, eating his hay. I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs into the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs-Élysées. As I rode by the count’s house I perceived a light in one of the windows, and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain. Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of procuring him.


My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love even me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common, every-day sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do you hear?


Ah, Valentine, give me but one finger through this opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I may have the happiness of kissing it.


Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two shadows.


As you will, Valentine.


Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?


Oh, yes!


I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come with us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one which could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either. Madame de Villefort and I have a communication to make to you. This communication will, we are sure, meet with your approbation. Sir, we are thinking of marrying Valentine. The marriage will take place in less than three months,


We thought this news would possess an interest for you, sir, who have always entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only now remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she is destined. It is one of the most desirable connections which could possibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and every personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely happy,—his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you. It is M. Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Épinay.


Sir, you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her nineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no time in forming a suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you have not been forgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that Valentine’s future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for that might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should live with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each other, would not be separated, and you would be able to pursue exactly the same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead of losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you two children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you.


This marriage is quite agreeable to the wishes of M. d’Épinay and his family; besides, he had no relations nearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and his father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he was but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was permitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom acknowledged any other authority but that of his own will.


That assassination was a mysterious affair, and the perpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has fallen on the head of more than one person. Now, those to whom the guilt really belongs, by whom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may probably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a peace-offering as Valentine on the son of him whose life they so ruthlessly destroyed.


Now sir. I must bid you farewell. Would you like me to send Edward to you for a short time? Then shall I send Valentine to you?


Dear grandpapa, what has happened? They have vexed you, and you are angry? Who has displeased you? Is it my father?


No.


Madame de Villefort?


Me? Are you displeased with me? And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with me? I have not seen you all day. Has anyone been speaking to you against me?


Yes,


Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa—Ah—M. and Madame de Villefort have just left this room, have they not?


Yes.


And it was they who told you something which made you angry? What was it then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of making my peace with you? No. Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said? Ah, I know. They have been speaking of my marriage,—have they not? I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on the subject. The reason of it was, that they had insisted on my keeping the matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it. They did not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered them by chance, that is why I have been so reserved with you, dear grandpapa. Pray forgive me. What is it, then? Perhaps you think I shall abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when I am married? They told you, then, that M. d’Épinay consented to our all living together? Then why are you still vexed and grieved? Yes, I understand, it is because you love me. And you are afraid I shall be unhappy? You do not like M. Franz? Then you are vexed with the engagement? Well, listen. I am vexed, too, for I do not love M. Franz d’Épinay. When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you were with me? Well, the reason of my proposing it was that I might escape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair. Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah, if you could but help me—if we could both together defeat their plan! But you are unable to oppose them,—you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am myself. Alas, you, who would have been such a powerful protector to me in the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my joys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them. However, this is much, and calls for gratitude and Heaven has not taken away all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness. You are mistaken; I can still do much for you. Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa? What is it you want, dear grandpapa? Come, since this plan does not answer, I will have recourse to another. Ah, the thing you desire begins with the letter N; it is with N that we have to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you want that begins with N? Na—Ne—Ni—No—— Yes, yes, yes. Ah, it is No, then?


Notary, do you want a notary, dear grandpapa? You would wish a notary to be sent for then? Shall my father be informed of your wish? Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately? Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that all you want? Are you satisfied now? I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that.


What do you want me for, sir? Sir,


my grandfather wishes for a notary.


Will


Sir,


Permit me to state that the case in question is just one of those in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act without thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility. The first thing necessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should be thoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and wishes of the person dictating the act. Now I cannot be sure of the approbation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the object of his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me, on account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite useless, and cannot be legally exercised.


Sir, the language which I speak with my grandfather may be easily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it almost as well as I can myself. Will you tell me what you require, in order to set your conscience quite at ease on the subject? In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation or disapprobation of my client. Illness of body would not affect the validity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite. Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you presently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather is still in the full possession of all his mental faculties. M. Noirtier, being deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey his meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to signify ‘yes,’ and to wink when he means ‘no.’ You now know quite enough to enable you to converse with M. Noirtier;—try. You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying, sir, have you? And you approve of what she said—that is to say, you declare that the signs which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are accustomed to convey your thoughts? It was you who sent for me? To make your will? And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original intentions? do you understand now, and is your conscience perfectly at rest on the subject? Sir,


do you suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment to his mental faculties? It is not exactly that, sir, which makes me uneasy, but the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so as to be able to get his answers. You must see that to be an utter impossibility,


that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it may at first sight appear to be. I can discover and explain to you my grandfather’s thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and fears on the subject. I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a thought which he was unable to make me understand. Let us try what we can do, then. You accept this young lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier? Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you wish to be drawn up? It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants. Wait. Wa—We—Wi—— Will it is very evident that M. Noirtier is desirous of making his will.


Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary, and I think the will promises to be yet more extraordinary, for I cannot see how it is to be drawn up without the intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as too much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable interpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes of her grandfather. What? do you mean to say that Valentine is not interested in your will?


what appeared so impossible to me an hour ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be a perfectly valid will, provided it be read in the presence of seven witnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the presence of the witnesses. As to the time, it will not require very much more than the generality of wills. There are certain forms necessary to be gone through, and which are always the same. As to the details, the greater part will be furnished afterwards by the state in which we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having had the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the subject. But besides all this, in order that the instrument may not be contested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity, therefore, one of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom, will assist in the dictation of the testament. Are you satisfied, sir? Yes. What is he going to do?


When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in prejudice of some person. Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune? I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you will stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own possessions? Your fortune exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not? Do you possess 400,000 francs? 500,000? 600,000—700,000—800,000—900,000? You are then in possession of 900,000 francs? In landed property? In stock? The stock is in your own hands?


Do you permit us to open this casket? It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the mind still retains its full force and vigor. You possess, then, 900,000 francs of capital, which, according to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring in an income of about 40,000 livres?


To whom do you desire to leave this fortune?


Oh! there is not much doubt on that subject. M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de Villefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and has, by her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had almost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is but just that she should reap the fruit of her devotion.


Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave these 900,000 francs?


What, do you not intend making Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?


No.


Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you deprive me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed.


Ah, yes, most assuredly,


Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to your grandson, Edward de Villefort?


No? then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de Villefort?


What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa? you no longer seem to love any of us? Well, if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love to bear upon your actions at this present moment. You know me well enough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune; besides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother—too rich, even. Explain yourself, then.


My hand? Yes.


Her hand!


Ah, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father’s mind is really impaired,


I understand. It is my marriage you mean, is it not, dear grandpapa?


Yes, yes, yes,


You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?


Yes?


Really, this is too absurd,


Excuse me, sir, on the contrary, the meaning of M. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I can quite easily connect the train of ideas passing in his mind.


You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d’Épinay?


I do not wish it,


And you disinherit your granddaughter because she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?


I consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in question. I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my daughter’s hand. It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz d’Épinay—and she shall marry him.


Sir, how do you intend disposing of your fortune in case Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz? You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other? In favor of some member of your family?


No.


Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then? But, you are aware that the law does not allow a son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony? You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which the law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son? Do you still wish to dispose of all? But they will contest the will after your death?


My father knows me; he is quite sure that his wishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that in my position I cannot plead against the poor.


What do you decide on, sir?


Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know he never alters his mind. I am quite resigned. These 900,000 francs will go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is ridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall, therefore, act according to my conscience.


Ma foi! what is the matter with you, M. de Villefort? Have I arrived at the moment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime?


No, count, I am the only victim in this case. It is I who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have caused it to be decided against me.


To what do you refer? Have you really met with some great misfortune?


Oh, no, monsieur, it is only a loss of money which I have sustained—nothing worth mentioning, I assure you.


True, the loss of a sum of money becomes almost immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your philosophic spirit.


It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me, though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old man relapsed into second childhood.


What do you say? 900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum which might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of all this annoyance?


My father, as I told you.


M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?


Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak, nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described. I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating his will to two notaries.


But to do this he must have spoken?


He has done better than that—he has made himself understood. By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.


My dear, perhaps you exaggerate the evil.


Good-morning, madame, and what incomprehensible misfortune——


Incomprehensible is the word! It is an old man’s caprice!


Yes; and it is still entirely in the power of my husband to cause the will, which is now in prejudice of Valentine, to be altered in her favor.


My dear, you know I have never been accustomed to play the patriarch in my family, nor have I ever considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my nod. Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in my family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained for so many years. The Baron d’Épinay was my friend, as you know, and an alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly be arranged.


Do you think that Valentine is in league with him? She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should not be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing but the execution of a plan concerted between them.


Madame, believe me, a fortune of 900,000 francs is not so easily renounced.


She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir, since it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a convent.


Never mind, I say that this marriage shall be consummated.


Notwithstanding your father’s wishes to the contrary? That is a serious thing.


I can truly say that I have always entertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural feeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral superiority. The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be reverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to obey. But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting the wisdom of an old man who, because he hated the father, vents his anger on the son. It would be ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct by such caprices. I shall still continue to preserve the same respect toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary deprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in my determination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his side. Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz d’Épinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match for her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my daughter’s hand on whomever I please.


What? Do you say that M. Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry M. le Baron Franz d’Épinay?


Yes, sir, that is the reason,


The apparent reason, at least,


The real reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father.


I believe I know M. Franz d’Épinay; is he not the son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d’Épinay by Charles X.?


The same,


Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas.


He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier to prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in their affection,


But do you not know any cause for this hatred?


Ah, ma foi! who is to know?


Perhaps it is some political difference?


My father and the Baron d’Épinay lived in the stormy times of which I only saw the ending.


Was not your father a Bonapartist? I think I remember that you told me something of that kind.