Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!


His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart. Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something from us.


Pshaw! you will see him return to you gay, smiling, and joyful. We must leave you.


Before you quit us, count, will you permit us to express to you all that the other day——


Madame all that you could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; the thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing you again, but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so far as to say, ‘Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you will never see me again.’


Never see you again? never behold you again? It is not a man, then, but some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good.


Say not so say not so, my friends; angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate is not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited as your words are sacrilegious.


Restore my brother to peace and happiness


You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?


Oh, yes,


Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in the Lord. Well have you been to see the old man? And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do? And what did he say, or rather do? Good; he accepts. Now let us go.


Morrel do you repent having followed me?


No, count; but to leave Paris——


If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have left you there.


Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like losing her a second time.


Maximilian the friends that we have lost do not repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them. I have two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one who gave me being, and the other who conferred knowledge and intelligence on me. Their spirits live in me. I consult them when doubtful, and if I ever do any good, it is due to their beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice of your heart, Morrel, and ask it whether you ought to preserve this melancholy exterior towards me.


My friend the voice of my heart is very sorrowful, and promises me nothing but misfortune.


It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising.


That may possibly be true,


Here, here is the spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered the port; it was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and dishonor, threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting wept also.


I was there;


Oh, heavens! I do not deceive myself—that young man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, is Albert de Morcerf!


Yes. I recognized him. Dear Maximilian have you nothing to do in this land?


I have to weep over the grave of my father.


Well, then, go,—wait for me there, and I will soon join you.


You leave me, then?


Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay.


Madame it is no longer in my power to restore you to happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it as coming from a friend?


I am, indeed, most wretched. Alone in the world, I had but my son, and he has left me!


He possesses a noble heart, madame, and he has acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country; some contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote their blood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he remained with you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor would he have participated in your griefs. He will increase in strength and honor by struggling with adversity, which he will convert into prosperity. Leave him to build up the future for you, and I venture to say you will confide it to safe hands.


Oh, the prosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart, I pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup of adversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that the grave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing me back to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to meet death on the same spot where happiness was once all my own.


Alas, your words sear and embitter my heart, the more so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause of all your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? You render me still more unhappy——


Hate you, blame you—you, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that has spared my son’s life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary intention to destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh, look at me closely, and discover, if you can, even the semblance of a reproach in me. Oh, look at me, my eyes no longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has long fled since I used to smile on Edmond Dantès, who anxiously looked out for me from the window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his old father. Years of grief have created an abyss between those days and the present. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no, Edmond, it is myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable creature that I am! I once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the three ingredients of the happiness of angels, and now what am I? No, no, my friend, touch me not. You have spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your vengeance I was the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by avarice, and by self-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted against my judgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I am sure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me, reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See see, misfortune has silvered my hair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are encircled by a rim of purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary,—you are still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith; because you have had strength, because you have had trust in God, and God has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I have denied God and he has abandoned me. It often happens, that a first fault destroys the prospects of a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you? What good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the secret recesses of my heart?—only to make a woman of thirty-nine look like a woman of fifty. Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to do so—why was I able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have rescued the man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he were? Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not accessory to his death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for him, not remembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my sake he had become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by accompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him to depart alone to the baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been base, cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured my affections, and like all renegades I am of evil omen to those who surround me!


No, Mercédès, no; you judge yourself with too much severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your grief that disarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an invisible and offended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal blow that I was destined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at whose feet I have prostrated myself daily for the last ten years, that I would have sacrificed my life to you, and with my life the projects that were indissolubly linked with it. But—and I say it with some pride, Mercédès—God needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present, and endeavor to dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not a divine instrument. The most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful sufferings, the abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecution of those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth; when suddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was restored to light and liberty, and became the possessor of a fortune so brilliant, so unbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to be conscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his own great designs. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something confided to me for a particular purpose. Not a thought was given to a life which you once, Mercédès, had the power to render blissful; not one hour of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an exterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on some enterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my weapons, I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my body to the most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I taught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and my mouth to smile at the most horrid spectacles. Good-natured, confiding, and forgiving as I had been, I became revengeful, cunning, and wicked, or rather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the path that was opened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and reached the goal; but woe to those who stood in my pathway!


Enough, enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she who alone recognized you has been the only one to comprehend you; and had she crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass, still, Edmond, still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me and the past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of mankind; and I tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you and other men will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is nothing in the world to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must say farewell, Edmond, and let us part.


Before I leave you, Mercédès, have you no request to make?


I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond,—the happiness of my son.


Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself to promote his happiness.


Thank you, Edmond.


But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercédès?


For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One is that of Edmond Dantès, lost to me long, long since. He had my love! That word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to my heart, and one that I would not lose for all that the world contains. The other grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand of Edmond Dantès. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead.


Your son shall be happy, Mercédès,


Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly confer.


But what are your intentions?


To say that I shall live here, like the Mercédès of other times, gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you believe me. I have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend my days in prayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the little sum of money buried by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned, will be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy respecting me, my occupations, my manner of living—that will signify but little, that concerns God, you, and myself.


Mercédès. I do not say it to blame you, but you made an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the fortune amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right belonged to you, in virtue of your vigilance and economy.


I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot accept it, Edmond—my son would not permit it.


Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de Morcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and will submit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you oppose them?


You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I am become passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die. If succor be sent to me, I will accept it.


Ah, madame, you should not talk thus! It is not so we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the contrary, we are all free agents.


Alas! if it were so, if I possessed free-will, but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive me to despair.


Will you not even say you will see me again?


On the contrary, we shall meet again. I tell you so to prove to you that I still hope. Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!


I cannot have deceived myself. I must look upon the past in a false light. What! can I have been following a false path?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour have sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I cannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason why I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he received it. Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible millionaire,—once again review thy past life of starvation and wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted, and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks to behold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living body for a corpse! And yet they were the same, only now it is broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the place, and makes it appear so cheerful.


Sir, we are at the landing.


Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau? are there any traditions respecting these dismal abodes,—in which it is difficult to believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?


Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this very dungeon. Would you like to hear the story, sir?


Yes; relate it,


This dungeon, was, it appears, some time ago occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of industry. Another person was confined in the Château at the same time, but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest.


Ah, indeed?—mad! and what was his mania?


He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty.


Could the prisoners see each other?


Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other.


And which of them made this passage?


Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and industrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was too vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea.


Blind fools!


However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet remaining of his work. Do you see it?


Ah, yes; I see,


The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. Now guess what the young one did?


Tell me.


He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the entrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body. Did you ever hear of such an idea?


Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the Château d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Château frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of the rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth was guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what they had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared.


No,


the doubt I felt was but the commencement of forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts for vengeance. And the prisoner,


was he ever heard of afterwards?


Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow, from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to the bottom, where he remained—poor fellow!


Then you pity him?


Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element.


What do you mean?


The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined for plotting with the Bonapartists.


Great is truth,


fire cannot burn, nor water drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to be swallowed by the deep.


Was his name ever known?


Oh, yes; but only as No. 34.


Do you wish to see anything more, sir?


Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbé’s room.


Ah! No. 27.


Yes; No. 27.


Follow me, sir;


This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the young man entered;


Sir,


you have made a mistake; you have given me gold.


I know it.


sir, I cannot understand your generosity!


Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your story touched me more than it would others.


Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something.


What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank you!


No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.


Really? What is it?


Listen,


Something is always left in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,


Ah,


After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the head of the bed, and at the hearth.


Yes,


yes.


I raised the stones, and found——


A rope-ladder and some tools?


How do you know that?


I do not know—I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally found in prisoners’ cells.


Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.


And have you them yet?


No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great curiosities; but I have still something left.


What is it?


A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth.


Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do well.


I will run for it, sir;


Oh, second father,


thou who hast given me liberty, knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then, noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!


Here, sir,


Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions under foot, saith the Lord.


Ah,


here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.


Here,


take this pocket-book.


Do you give it to me?


Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;


To Marseilles!


Woe,


to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and woe to those who forgot that I was there!


Maximilian,


you should not look on the graves, but there;


The dead are everywhere,


did you not yourself tell me so as we left Paris?


you asked me during the journey to allow you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?


I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less painfully here than anywhere else.


So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with me, do I not?


Ah, count, I shall forget it.


No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel, because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again.


Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy.


I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel.


Impossible!


Alas,


it is the infirmity of our nature always to believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!


What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and desired in the world?


Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of Providence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the present), and cast him into a dungeon.


Ah,


one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year.


He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,


Fourteen years!


During that time he had many moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the unhappiest of men.


Well?


Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for his father; but that father was dead.


My father, too, is dead,


Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of Providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father you so well loved.’


Oh!


He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not even find his father’s grave.


But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?


You are deceived, Morrel, that woman——


She was dead?


Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more unhappy lover than you.


And has he found consolation?


He has at least found peace.


And does he ever expect to be happy?


He hopes so, Maximilian.


You have my promise,


Only remember——


On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will give your name to the captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood—is it not?


But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October——


Child,


not to know the value of a man’s word! I have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will assist you. Morrel, farewell!


Do you leave me?


Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not a fable, but an allegory.


When do you leave?


Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?


I am entirely yours, count.


Good! I have it still!


Messrs. Thomson & French?


Whom shall I announce?


Baron Danglars.


Follow me,


Ah, ha, here you are, Peppino!


Yes. You have found out that there is something worth having about this large gentleman?


There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it.


You know his business here, then.


Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I don’t know how much!


You will know presently, my friend.


Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other day.


What do you mean?—of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?


No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000.


You must have searched badly.


Luigi Vampa himself searched.


In that case he must either have paid his debts——


A Russian do that?


Or spent the money?


Possibly, after all.


Certainly. But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman will transact his business without my knowing the sum. Well?


Joy, joy—the sum is large!


Five or six millions, is it not?


Yes, you know the amount.


On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?


Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?


I told you we were informed beforehand.


Then why do you apply to me?


That I may be sure I have the right man.


Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions—a pretty sum, eh, Peppino? Hush—here is our man!


Will your excellency visit Saint Peter’s?


I did not come to Rome to see. I came to touch!


Then your excellency is going——


To the hotel.


Casa Pastrini!


Which road?


The Ancona road,


Non capisco


I will stop at the first posting-house,


Eh? eh, mio caro? Come, my friend, where are we going?


Dentro la testa!


Some gendarme! Can I have been intercepted by French telegrams to the pontifical authorities? Where are you taking me?


Dentro la testa,


Decidedly. I must be under arrest. Oh, unfortunate! they must have obtained my arrest. Mon dieu! we are not returning to Rome; then it is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea presents itself—what if they should be—— They are robbers, perhaps,


Scendi!


Di quà,


Avanti!


Who comes there?


A friend, a friend! but where is the captain?


There,


Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!


Is this the man?


Himself, captain—himself.


Very well, show him to me. The man is tired, conduct him to his bed.


Oh, that bed is probably one of the coffins hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from one of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness.


Oh, God be praised, it is a real bed!


Ecco!


Yes, yes. I am in the hands of the brigands of whom Albert de Morcerf spoke. No, they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed me! Singular bandits! they have left me my purse and pocket-book. As I was saying last night, they intend me to be ransomed. Hello, here is my watch! Let me see what time it is.


Faugh! Ah, ha, this fellow is more like an ogre than anything else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be very good eating! May I be hanged, may I be hanged if I can understand how people can eat such filth!


Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a nice little fricassee today.


Che cosa?


Come, come. I think it is quite time to think of giving me something to eat!


Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any dinner? Happen to be hungry,—that’s pretty good, when I haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours! Yes, sir, I am hungry—very hungry. At once, if possible Of course! Although, in justice, the people who arrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you. A bad reason, but I am content. Let me have some dinner! Have you kitchens here? And cooks? Well, a fowl, fish, game,—it signifies little, so that I eat. Yes, a fowl. I could almost believe myself at the Café de Paris. Here, your excellency. Pardon me, excellency, people pay here before they eat. They might not be satisfied, and—— Ah, ha, this is not so much like Paris, except that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I’ll fix that all right. I have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a fowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome.—There. I said they would skin me. Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl? Very droll, very droll indeed. What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl! Come, come, this is very droll—very amusing—I allow; but, as I am very hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you. Oh, as for that, as for that you won’t get them at all. Go to the devil! You do not know with whom you have to deal! Brute! Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what they want. Then open the door directly. Now look here, I want something to eat! To eat—do you hear? Are you hungry? Come, you understand me. What would your excellency like to eat? A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this accursed place. How much? What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf? But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl! What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is perfectly ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you intend starving me to death. And what am I to pay with, brute? Do you suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket? Come, if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease? Here, here is a draft at sight. The next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of that dungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner expected that he would be at no expense that day, for like an economical man he had concealed half of his fowl and a piece of the bread in the corner of his cell. But he had no sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had forgotten that. He struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called out. The sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He thought it would be better to transact business with his old acquaintance, so he sent for Peppino. Here I am, your excellency. What do you want? Something to drink. Then give me water. Come, it is the same old story. Come, my friend, you will not refuse me a glass of wine? Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive. Tell me, tell me that you wish to despoil me of all; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal. The master?—who is he? Where is he? Let me see him. Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here? How much do you require for my ransom? But this is all I have left in the world, out of an immense fortune. If you deprive me of that, take away my life also. You do, then, obey someone? I thought you said you were the chief? And did your superior order you to treat me in this way? Come, will you take a million? Two millions?—three?—four? Come, four? I will give them to you on condition that you let me go. Take all, then—take all, I tell you, and kill me! But when I have no more money left to pay you? Suffer hunger? And yet you will let me perish with hunger? Well, then, wretches. I will defy your infamous calculations—I would rather die at once! You may torture, torment, kill me, but you shall not have my signature again!


Are you not a Christian? Do you wish to assassinate a man who, in the eyes of Heaven, is a brother? Oh, my former friends, my former friends! The chief, the chief!


Here I am, what do you want?


Take my last gold, and let me live here; I ask no more for liberty—I only ask to live!


Then you suffer a great deal?


Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!


Still, there have been men who suffered more than you.


I do not think so.


Yes; those who have died of hunger.


Yes, there have been some who have suffered more than I have, but then they must have been martyrs at least.


Do you repent?


Of what must I repent?


Of the evil you have done,


Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent.


Then I forgive you,


The Count of Monte Cristo!


You are mistaken—I am not the Count of Monte Cristo.


Then who are you?


I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—I am Edmond Dantès!


Rise,


your life is safe; the same good fortune has not happened to your accomplices—one is mad, the other dead. Keep the 50,000 francs you have left—I give them to you. The 5,000,000 you stole from the hospitals has been restored to them by an unknown hand. And now eat and drink; I will entertain you tonight. Vampa, when this man is satisfied, let him be free.


Is that Monte Cristo?


yes, your excellency, we have reached it.


We have reached it! Yes; that is the haven.


Your excellency, that was the land signal, will you answer yourself?


What signal? Ah, yes. Give it to me.


Give way,


Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of our men, they will carry you ashore? Ah, your excellency, you should not have done so; our master will scold us for it.


Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!


Ah, is it you, count?


Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus. Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon forget fatigue and cold.


Count, you are not the same here as in Paris.


How so?


Here you laugh.


You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian,


I was delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting.


Oh, no, no, count, pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is endurable to sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety to inspire me with courage.


You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy.


Then you forget me, so much the better.


Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the arena, ‘He who is about to die salutes you.’


Then you are not consoled?


Oh, do you think it possible that I could be?


Listen,


Do you understand the meaning of my words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the same feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded lion? Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the grave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the living to the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if this be the case,—if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled—do not complain.


Count, listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though he remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly, there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,—I love her husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand, and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more than mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you not?


My friend,


I have still one doubt,—are you weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?


No, indeed,—I am calm, my pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I have reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell,—something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait—yes, I did hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death. My friend, you named the fifth of October as the end of the period of waiting,—today is the fifth of October, it is now nine o’clock,—I have yet three hours to live.


Be it so,


come.


Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently glided into death, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?


As you please, death is always death,—that is forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief. Let us talk like men,


Go on!


Count, you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and you seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world than ours.


There is something true in what you say,


I have descended from a planet called grief.


I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had experienced death, ‘is it painful to die?’


Yes,


yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger into your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the least shock disorders,—then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you will repent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a price.


Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as well as in life; the only thing is to understand it.


You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the world is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the destructive powers in nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the secrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved.


And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?


Yes.


Now I understand, why you had me brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this subterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It was because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet means of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine’s name and pressing your hand.


Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,


that is what I intended.


Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to my heart.


Do you then regret nothing?


No,


Not even me?


What, do you still regret anything in the world, and yet die? Oh, I entreat you, do not speak another word, count; do not prolong my punishment.


Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul.


Count. I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.


Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son, I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.


What do you mean?


I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal—but live.


Count, I have your word. It is half-past eleven.


Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?


Then let me go, or I shall think you did not love me for my own sake, but for yours;


It is well, you wish it—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait.


This is what you asked for, and what I promised to give you.


I thank you from the depths of my heart. What are you going to do, my friend?


Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life, and since an opportunity presents itself——


Stay! You who love, and are beloved; you, who have faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go and tell Valentine what you have done for me.


Friend. I feel that I am dying; thanks!


Is it heaven that opens before me? that angel resembles the one I have lost.


He is calling you, he to whom you have confided your destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him. Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never again be separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement in the preservation of these two existences! Oh, thank me again! tell me till you are weary, that I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require this assurance.


Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart, and if you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! ask my beloved sister Haydée, who ever since our departure from France, has caused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of you.


You then love Haydée?


Oh, yes, with all my soul.


Well, then, listen, Valentine. I have a favor to ask of you.


Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?


Yes; you have called Haydée your sister,—let her become so indeed, Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me; protect her, for henceforth she will be alone in the world.


Alone in the world! and why?


Because tomorrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume your proper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and name of your father.


Then you leave me, my lord?


Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and be happy.


It is well, your order shall be executed, my lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy.


Oh, heavens, do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see how she suffers?


Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.


Oh, heavens, can my suspicions be correct? Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?


I am young. I love the life you have made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.


You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——


I should die; yes, my lord.


Do you then love me?


Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love Maximilian. Oh, yes. I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created beings!


Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my struggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let me end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has pardoned me. Love me then, Haydée! Who knows? perhaps your love will make me forget all that I do not wish to remember.


What do you mean, my lord?


I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty years of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through you I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you rejoice.


Do you hear him, Valentine? he says that through me he will suffer—through me, who would yield my life for his.


Have I discovered the truth? but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come, Haydée, come!


Oh, the count has deceived me; I am yet living;


Dearest, awake, and look at me!


Ah, it is Jacopo, the captain of the yacht;


Do you wish to speak to us?


I have a letter to give you from the count.


From the count!


Yes; read it.


My Dear Maximilian. There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs-Élysées, and my château at Tréport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès upon the son of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother who died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who, like Satan, thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living. Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—‘Wait and hope.’—Your friend,


But, the count’s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? Lead me to him.


What do you mean? Where is the count?—where is Haydée?


Look!


Gone, gone!—adieu, my friend—adieu, my father!


Gone, adieu, my sweet Haydée—adieu, my sister!


Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?


Darling, has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words: Wait and hope (Fac et spera)!