Not another step, or you are a dead man.


What, then, do wolves rend each other?


Who are you?


I am Luigi Vampa, shepherd of the San-Felice farm.


What do you want?


I would speak with your companions who are in the glade at Rocca Bianca.


Follow me, then, or, as you know your way, go first.


Good! you may now go on.


Here is a young man who seeks and wishes to speak to you,


What has he to say?


I wish to say that I am tired of a shepherd’s life,


Ah, I understand, and you seek admittance into our ranks?


Welcome!


Yes, but I came to ask something more than to be your companion.


And what may that be?


I come to ask to be your captain,


And what have you done to aspire to this honor?


I have killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose dress I now wear; and I set fire to the villa San-Felice to procure a wedding-dress for my betrothed.


Well, my dear Albert, what think you of citizen Luigi Vampa?


I say he is a myth, and never had an existence.


And what may a myth be?


The explanation would be too long, my dear landlord,


And you say that Signor Vampa exercises his profession at this moment in the environs of Rome?


And with a boldness of which no bandit before him ever gave an example.


Then the police have vainly tried to lay hands on him?


Why, you see, he has a good understanding with the shepherds in the plains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and the smugglers of the coast. They seek for him in the mountains, and he is on the waters; they follow him on the waters, and he is on the open sea; then they pursue him, and he has suddenly taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio, Giannutri, or Monte Cristo; and when they hunt for him there, he reappears suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La Riccia.


And how does he behave towards travellers?


Alas! his plan is very simple. It depends on the distance he may be from the city, whether he gives eight hours, twelve hours, or a day wherein to pay their ransom; and when that time has elapsed he allows another hour’s grace. At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if the money is not forthcoming, he blows out the prisoner’s brains with a pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his heart, and that settles the account. Well, Albert, are you still disposed to go to the Colosseum by the outer wall?


Quite so, if the way be picturesque.


Excellencies, the coach is ready.


Well, then, let us to the Colosseum.


By the Porta del Popolo or by the streets, your excellencies?


By the streets, morbleu! by the streets!


Ah, my dear fellow, really, I thought you had more courage.


Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, and the wonders of Babylon be talked of no more among us; all must bow to the superiority of the gigantic labor of the Cæsars, and the many voices of Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this incomparable monument.


I beg your excellency’s pardon for keeping you waiting, but I don’t think I’m many minutes after my time, ten o’clock has just struck by the clock of Saint John Lateran.


Say not a word about being late, ’tis I who am too soon. But even if you had caused me to wait a little while, I should have felt quite sure that the delay was not occasioned by any fault of yours.


Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking. I came here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo, and I had an immense deal of trouble before I could get a chance to speak to Beppo.


And who is Beppo?


Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much a year to let me know what is going on within his holiness’s castle.


Indeed! You are a provident person, I see.


Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of these days I may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be very glad to have some little nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my net, and so help me out of prison.


Briefly, what did you learn?


That two executions of considerable interest will take place the day after tomorrow at two o’clock, as is customary at Rome at the commencement of all great festivals. One of the culprits will be mazzolato;3 he is an atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who brought him up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer is sentenced to be decapitato;4 and he, your excellency, is poor Peppino.


The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical government, but also the neighboring states, with such extreme fear, that they are glad of all opportunity of making an example.


But Peppino did not even belong to my band; he was merely a poor shepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us with provisions.


Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and purposes. But mark the distinction with which he is treated; instead of being knocked on the head as you would be if once they caught hold of you, he is simply sentenced to be guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the day are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every spectator.


Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing to surprise them with.


My good friend, excuse me for saying that you seem to me precisely in the mood to commit some wild or extravagant act.


Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that is, to stop at nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty, who has got into this scrape solely from having served me. I should hate and despise myself as a coward did I desert the brave fellow in his present extremity.


And what do you mean to do?


To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who, at a signal from me, will rush forward directly Peppino is brought for execution, and, by the assistance of their stilettos, drive back the guard, and carry off the prisoner.


That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces me that my scheme is far better than yours.


And what is your excellency’s project?


Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres, that the person receiving them shall obtain a respite till next year for Peppino; and during that year, another skilfully placed 1,000 piastres will afford him the means of escaping from his prison.


And do you feel sure of succeeding?


Pardieu!


What did your excellency say?


I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the means of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos, pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included. Leave me, then, to act, and have no fears for the result.


At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in readiness, in case your excellency should fail.


None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is any satisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining the reprieve I seek.


Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after tomorrow, and that you have but one day to work in.


And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each hour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very many things can be done.


And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded or not.


Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three lower windows at the Café Rospoli; should I have obtained the requisite pardon for Peppino, the two outside windows will be hung with yellow damasks, and the centre with white, having a large cross in red marked on it.


And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the officer directing the execution?


Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I will give it to him. His dress will procure him the means of approaching the scaffold itself, and he will deliver the official order to the officer, who, in his turn, will hand it to the executioner; in the meantime, it will be as well to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if it be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses, because in either case a very useless expense will have been incurred.


Your excellency, you are fully persuaded of my entire devotion to you, are you not?


Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,


Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino, and henceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but the most absolute obedience from myself and those under me that one human being can render to another.


Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend, for I may remind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not very distant period, when I, in my turn, may require your aid and influence.


Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will find me what I have found you in this my heavy trouble; and if from the other end of the world you but write me word to do such or such a thing, you may regard it as done, for done it shall be, on the word and faith of——


Hush! I hear a noise.


’Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by torchlight.


’Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides are nothing but spies, and might possibly recognize you; and, however I may be honored by your friendship, my worthy friend, if once the extent of our intimacy were known, I am sadly afraid both my reputation and credit would suffer thereby.


Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve?


The middle window at the Café Rospoli will be hung with white damask, bearing a red cross.


And if you fail?


Then all three windows will have yellow draperies.


And then?


And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and I further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess.


We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your excellency; depend upon me as firmly as I do upon you.


Do you know the woman who has just entered that box?


Yes; what do you think of her?


Oh, she is perfectly lovely—what a complexion! And such magnificent hair! Is she French?


No; a Venetian.


And her name is——


Countess G——.


Ah, I know her by name! she is said to possess as much wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have been presented to her when I met her at Madame Villefort’s ball.


Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?


My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her as to venture to take me to her box?


Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and conversing with her three or four times in my life; but you know that even such an acquaintance as that might warrant my doing what you ask.


Upon my word, you seem to be on excellent terms with the beautiful countess.


You are mistaken in thinking so, but you merely fall into the same error which leads so many of our countrymen to commit the most egregious blunders,—I mean that of judging the habits and customs of Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions; believe me, nothing is more fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree of intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the familiar terms they seem upon; there is a similarity of feeling at this instant between ourselves and the countess—nothing more.


Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it sympathy of heart?


No; of taste,


And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been evinced?


By the countess’s visiting the Colosseum, as we did last night, by moonlight, and nearly alone.


You were with her, then?


I was.


And what did you say to her?


Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that magnificent ruin is a glorious monument!


Upon my word, you must have been a very entertaining companion alone, or all but alone, with a beautiful woman in such a place of sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better to talk about than the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a chance, the living should be my theme.


And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen.


But, never mind the past; let us only remember the present. Are you not going to keep your promise of introducing me to the fair subject of our remarks?


Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage.


What a confounded long time this first act lasts. I believe, on my soul, that they never mean to finish it.


Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale. How exquisitely Coselli sings his part.


But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is.


Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever see anything more perfect than her acting?


Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don’t make the same impression on you they perhaps do on others.


At least, you must admire Moriani’s style and execution.


I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a voice like a woman’s.


My good friend, you seem determined not to approve; you are really too difficult to please.


All I can tell about her, is, that she has been at Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her where she now sits the very first night of the season, and since then she has never missed a performance. Sometimes she is accompanied by the person who is now with her, and at others she is merely attended by a black servant.


And what do you think of her personal appearance?


Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely—she is just my idea of what Medora must have been.


Countess. I asked you a short time since if you knew any particulars respecting the Albanian lady opposite; I must now beseech you to inform me who and what is her husband?


Nay. I know no more of him than yourself.


Perhaps you never before noticed him?


What a question—so truly French! Do you not know that we Italians have eyes only for the man we love?


True,


All I can say is, that the gentleman, whose history I am unable to furnish, seems to me as though he had just been dug up; he looks more like a corpse permitted by some friendly grave-digger to quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of ours, than anything human. How ghastly pale he is!


Oh, he is always as colorless as you now see him,


Then you know him? Oh, pray do, for heaven’s sake, tell us all about—is he a vampire, or a resuscitated corpse, or what?


I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he recognizes me.


And I can well understand, that those who have once seen that man will never be likely to forget him.


Well. what do you think of our opposite neighbor?


Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form.


I must positively find out who and what he is,


No, no, you must not leave me. I depend upon you to escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot permit you to go.


Is it possible, that you entertain any fear?


I’ll tell you. Byron had the most perfect belief in the existence of vampires, and even assured me that he had seen them. The description he gave me perfectly corresponds with the features and character of the man before us. Oh, he is the exact personification of what I have been led to expect! The coal-black hair, large bright, glittering eyes, in which a wild, unearthly fire seems burning,—the same ghastly paleness. Then observe, too, that the woman with him is altogether unlike all others of her sex. She is a foreigner—a stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or where she comes from. No doubt she belongs to the same horrible race he does, and is, like himself, a dealer in magical arts. I entreat of you not to go near him—at least tonight; and if tomorrow your curiosity still continues as great, pursue your researches if you will; but tonight you neither can nor shall. For that purpose I mean to keep you all to myself. Listen to me, and do not be so very headstrong. I am going home. I have a party at my house tonight, and therefore cannot possibly remain till the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for one instant believe you so devoid of gallantry as to refuse a lady your escort when she even condescends to ask you for it.


Excuse my little subterfuge, but that horrid man had made me feel quite uncomfortable, and I longed to be alone, that I might compose my startled mind. Nay, do not smile; it ill accords with the expression of your countenance, and I am sure it does not spring from your heart. However, promise me one thing.


What is it?


Promise me, I say.


I will do anything you desire, except relinquish my determination of finding out who this man is. I have more reasons than you can imagine for desiring to know who he is, from whence he came, and whither he is going.


Where he comes from I am ignorant; but I can readily tell you where he is going to, and that is down below, without the least doubt.


Let us only speak of the promise you wished me to make,


Well, then, you must give me your word to return immediately to your hotel, and make no attempt to follow this man tonight. There are certain affinities between the persons we quit and those we meet afterwards. For heaven’s sake, do not serve as a conductor between that man and me. Pursue your chase after him tomorrow as eagerly as you please; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me die of terror. And now, good-night; go to your rooms, and try to sleep away all recollections of this evening. For my own part, I am quite sure I shall not be able to close my eyes.


My dear fellow! is it really you? Why, I did not expect to see you before tomorrow.


My dear Albert. I am glad of this opportunity to tell you, once and forever, that you entertain a most erroneous notion concerning Italian women. I should have thought the continual failures you have met with in all your own love affairs might have taught you better by this time.


Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to read them aright. Why, here—they give you their hand—they press yours in return—they keep up a whispering conversation—permit you to accompany them home. Why, if a Parisian were to indulge in a quarter of these marks of flattering attention, her reputation would be gone forever.


And the very reason why the women of this fine country, ‘where sounds the si,’ as Dante writes, put so little restraint on their words and actions, is because they live so much in public, and have really nothing to conceal. Besides, you must have perceived that the countess was really alarmed.


At what? At the sight of that respectable gentleman sitting opposite to us in the same box with the lovely Greek girl? Now, for my part, I met them in the lobby after the conclusion of the piece; and hang me, if I can guess where you took your notions of the other world from. I can assure you that this hobgoblin of yours is a deuced fine-looking fellow—admirably dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from the cut of his clothes, they are made by a first-rate Paris tailor—probably Blin or Humann. He was rather too pale, certainly; but then, you know, paleness is always looked upon as a strong proof of aristocratic descent and distinguished breeding.


Well, that tends to confirm my own ideas, that the countess’s suspicions were destitute alike of sense and reason. Did he speak in your hearing? and did you catch any of his words?


I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew that from the mixture of Greek words. I don’t know whether I ever told you that when I was at college I was rather—rather strong in Greek.


He spoke the Romaic language, did he?


I think so.


That settles it, ’Tis he, past all doubt.


What do you say?


Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about when I came in?


Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you.


Indeed. Of what nature?


Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a carriage.


Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human means afforded to endeavor to get one.


Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed across my brain. I tell you what, M. Franz, you deserve to be called out for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as that you were pleased to bestow on me just now.


And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman if your scheme turns out as ingenious as you assert.


Well, then, hearken to me.


I listen.


You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of the question?


I do.


Neither can we procure horses?


True; we have offered any sum, but have failed.


Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a thing might be had.


Very possibly.


And a pair of oxen?


As easily found as the cart.


Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of oxen our business can be managed. The cart must be tastefully ornamented; and if you and I dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a striking tableau, after the manner of that splendid picture by Léopold Robert. It would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join us in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group would then be quite complete, more especially as the countess is quite beautiful enough to represent a Madonna.


Well, this time, M. Albert, I am bound to give you credit for having hit upon a most capital idea.


And quite a national one, too. A mere masque borrowed from our own festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans! you thought to make us, unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your processions, like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are to be had in your beggarly city. But you don’t know us; when we can’t have one thing we invent another.


And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody?


Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I then explained to him what I wished to procure. He assured me that nothing would be easier than to furnish all I desired. One thing I was sorry for; when I bade him have the horns of the oxen gilded, he told me there would not be time, as it would require three days to do that; so you see we must do without this little superfluity.


And where is he now?


Who?


Our host.


Gone out in search of our equipage, by tomorrow it might be too late.


Then he will be able to give us an answer tonight.


Oh, I expect him every minute.


Permesso?


Certainly—certainly. Come in, my host.


Now, then, have you found the desired cart and oxen?


Better than that!


Take care, my worthy host, better is a sure enemy to well.


Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,


But what have you done? Speak out, there’s a worthy fellow.


Your excellencies are aware, that the Count of Monte Cristo is living on the same floor with yourselves!


I should think we did know it, since it is owing to that circumstance that we are packed into these small rooms, like two poor students in the back streets of Paris.


When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, hearing of the dilemma in which you are placed, has sent to offer you seats in his carriage and two places at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli.


But do you think, that we ought to accept such offers from a perfect stranger?


What sort of person is this Count of Monte Cristo?


A very great nobleman, but whether Maltese or Sicilian I cannot exactly say; but this I know, that he is noble as a Borghese and rich as a gold mine.


It seems to me, that if this person merited the high panegyrics of our landlord, he would have conveyed his invitation through another channel, and not permitted it to be brought to us in this unceremonious way. He would have written—or—— Come in,


Faith, Franz, there is not much to find fault with here.


Tell the count, that we will do ourselves the pleasure of calling on him.


Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided me.


Pray, Signor Pastrini, is not some execution appointed to take place today?


Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is that you may procure a window to view it from, you are much too late.


Oh, no. I had no such intention; and even if I had felt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have done so from Monte Pincio; could I not?


Ah! I did not think it likely your excellency would have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as are always collected on that hill, which, indeed, they consider as exclusively belonging to themselves.


Very possibly I may not go, but in case I feel disposed, give me some particulars of today’s executions.


What particulars would your excellency like to hear?


Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their names, and description of the death they are to die.


Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets the evening before an execution, on which is pasted up a paper containing the names of the condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment. The reason for so publicly announcing all this is, that all good and faithful Catholics may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate culprits, and, above all, beseech of Heaven to grant them a sincere repentance.


And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your prayers to those of the faithful, are they?


Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for anybody’s affairs but my own and those of my honorable guests; but I make an agreement with the man who pastes up the papers, and he brings them to me as he would the playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel should like to witness an execution, he may obtain every requisite information concerning the time and place etc.


Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your part, Signor Pastrini,


Why, your excellency. I think I may take upon myself to say I neglect nothing to deserve the support and patronage of the noble visitors to this poor hotel.


I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you may rely upon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your attention to your guests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one of these tavolettas.


Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency’s wish. I have caused one to be placed on the landing, close by your apartment.


The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23rd, being the first day of the Carnival, executions will take place in the Piazza del Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of two persons, named Andrea Rondolo, and Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former found guilty of the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named Don César Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and the latter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious and sanguinary bandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The first-named malefactor will be mazzolato, the second culprit decapitato. The prayers of all good Christians are entreated for these unfortunate men, that it may please God to awaken them to a sense of their guilt, and to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for their crimes.


Most assuredly. The Count of Monte Cristo is always an early riser; and I can answer for his having been up these two hours.


Then you really consider we shall not be intruding if we pay our respects to him directly?


Perfectly.


Let us go and return our best thanks for his courtesy.


Yes, let us do so.


I signori Francesi.


If your excellencies will please to be seated,


I will let the count know that you are here.


Well, what think you of all this?


Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it strikes me that our elegant and attentive neighbor must either be some successful stock-jobber who has speculated in the fall of the Spanish funds, or some prince travelling incog.


Hush, hush! we shall ascertain who and what he is—he comes!


Gentlemen. I pray you excuse me for suffering my visit to be anticipated; but I feared to disturb you by presenting myself earlier at your apartments; besides, you sent me word that you would come to me, and I have held myself at your disposal.


Franz and I have to thank you a thousand times, count, you extricated us from a great dilemma, and we were on the point of inventing a very fantastic vehicle when your friendly invitation reached us.


Indeed. It was the fault of that blockhead Pastrini, that I did not sooner assist you in your distress. He did not mention a syllable of your embarrassment to me, when he knows that, alone and isolated as I am, I seek every opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. As soon as I learned I could in any way assist you, I most eagerly seized the opportunity of offering my services.


Count, you have offered us places in your carriage, and at your windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you tell us where we can obtain a sight of the Piazza del Popolo?


Ah, is there not something like an execution upon the Piazza del Popolo?


Yes,


Stay, I think I told my steward yesterday to attend to this; perhaps I can render you this slight service also. Did you ever occupy yourself, with the employment of time and the means of simplifying the summoning your servants? I have. When I ring once, it is for my valet; twice, for my majordomo; thrice, for my steward,—thus I do not waste a minute or a word. Here he is. Monsieur Bertuccio, you have procured me windows looking on the Piazza del Popolo, as I ordered you yesterday.


Yes, excellency, but it was very late.


Did I not tell you I wished for one?


And your excellency has one, which was let to Prince Lobanieff; but I was obliged to pay a hundred——


That will do—that will do, Monsieur Bertuccio; spare these gentlemen all such domestic arrangements. You have the window, that is sufficient. Give orders to the coachman; and be in readiness on the stairs to conduct us to it. Ah! be good enough to ask Pastrini if he has received the tavoletta, and if he can send us an account of the execution.


There is no need to do that, for I saw the account, and copied it down.


Very well, you can retire, M. Bertuccio; I need you no longer. Let us know when breakfast is ready. These gentlemen, will, I trust, do me the honor to breakfast with me?


But, my dear count, we shall abuse your kindness.


Not at all; on the contrary, you will give me great pleasure. You will, one or other of you, perhaps both, return it to me at Paris. M. Bertuccio, lay covers for three. We announce, that today, the 23rd of February, will be executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of murder on the person of the respected and venerated Don César Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran, and Peppino, called Rocca Priori, convicted of complicity with the detestable bandit Luigi Vampa, and the men of his band. Hum! ‘The first will be mazzolato, the second decapitato.’ Yes, it was at first arranged in this way; but I think since yesterday some change has taken place in the order of the ceremony.


Really?


Yes, I passed the evening at the Cardinal Rospigliosi’s, and there mention was made of something like a pardon for one of the two men.


For Andrea Rondolo?


No, for the other (he glanced at the tablets as if to recall the name), for Peppino, called Rocca Priori. You are thus deprived of seeing a man guillotined; but the mazzolata still remains, which is a very curious punishment when seen for the first time, and even the second, while the other, as you must know, is very simple. The mandaïa6 never fails, never trembles, never strikes thirty times ineffectually, like the soldier who beheaded the Count of Chalais, and to whose tender mercy Richelieu had doubtless recommended the sufferer. Ah, do not tell me of European punishments, they are in the infancy, or rather the old age, of cruelty.


Really, count, one would think that you had studied the different tortures of all the nations of the world.


There are, at least, few that I have not seen, said the count coldly.


And you took pleasure in beholding these dreadful spectacles?


My first sentiment was horror, the second indifference, the third curiosity.


Curiosity—that is a terrible word.


Why so? In life, our greatest preoccupation is death; is it not then, curious to study the different ways by which the soul and body can part; and how, according to their different characters, temperaments, and even the different customs of their countries, different persons bear the transition from life to death, from existence to annihilation? As for myself, I can assure you of one thing,—the more men you see die, the easier it becomes to die yourself; and in my opinion, death may be a torture, but it is not an expiation.


I do not quite understand you, pray explain your meaning, for you excite my curiosity to the highest pitch.


Listen, and deep hatred mounted to his face, as the blood would to the face of any other. “If a man had by unheard-of and excruciating tortures destroyed your father, your mother, your betrothed,—a being who, when torn from you, left a desolation, a wound that never closes, in your breast,—do you think the reparation that society gives you is sufficient when it interposes the knife of the guillotine between the base of the occiput and the trapezal muscles of the murderer, and allows him who has caused us years of moral sufferings to escape with a few moments of physical pain?


Yes, I know, that human justice is insufficient to console us; she can give blood in return for blood, that is all; but you must demand from her only what it is in her power to grant.


I will put another case to you, continued the count; “that where society, attacked by the death of a person, avenges death by death. But are there not a thousand tortures by which a man may be made to suffer without society taking the least cognizance of them, or offering him even the insufficient means of vengeance, of which we have just spoken? Are there not crimes for which the impalement of the Turks, the augers of the Persians, the stake and the brand of the Iroquois Indians, are inadequate tortures, and which are unpunished by society? Answer me, do not these crimes exist?


Yes, answered Franz; “and it is to punish them that duelling is tolerated.


Ah, duelling, cried the count; “a pleasant manner, upon my soul, of arriving at your end when that end is vengeance! A man has carried off your mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a man has dishonored your daughter; he has rendered the whole life of one who had the right to expect from Heaven that portion of happiness God has promised to everyone of his creatures, an existence of misery and infamy; and you think you are avenged because you send a ball through the head, or pass a sword through the breast, of that man who has planted madness in your brain, and despair in your heart. And remember, moreover, that it is often he who comes off victorious from the strife, absolved of all crime in the eyes of the world. No, no, continued the count, “had I to avenge myself, it is not thus I would take revenge.


Then you disapprove of duelling? You would not fight a duel?


Oh, yes, replied the count; “understand me, I would fight a duel for a trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and the more so that, thanks to my skill in all bodily exercises, and the indifference to danger I have gradually acquired, I should be almost certain to kill my man. Oh, I would fight for such a cause; but in return for a slow, profound, eternal torture, I would give back the same, were it possible; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the Orientalists say,—our masters in everything,—those favored creatures who have formed for themselves a life of dreams and a paradise of realities.


But, said Franz to the count, “with this theory, which renders you at once judge and executioner of your own cause, it would be difficult to adopt a course that would forever prevent your falling under the power of the law. Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.


Yes, if he be poor and inexperienced, not if he be rich and skilful; besides, the worst that could happen to him would be the punishment of which we have already spoken, and which the philanthropic French Revolution has substituted for being torn to pieces by horses or broken on the wheel. What matters this punishment, as long as he is avenged? On my word, I almost regret that in all probability this miserable Peppino will not be beheaded, as you might have had an opportunity then of seeing how short a time the punishment lasts, and whether it is worth even mentioning; but, really this is a most singular conversation for the Carnival, gentlemen; how did it arise? Ah, I recollect, you asked for a place at my window; you shall have it; but let us first sit down to table, for here comes the servant to inform us that breakfast is ready.


Al suo commodo!


Well, what are you doing?


You must excuse us, count, but we have still much to do.


What may that be?


We have no masks, and it is absolutely necessary to procure them.


Do not concern yourself about that; we have, I think, a private room in the Piazza del Popolo; I will have whatever costumes you choose brought to us, and you can dress there.


After the execution?


Before or after, whichever you please.


Opposite the scaffold?


The scaffold forms part of the fête.


Count, I have reflected on the matter, said Franz, “I thank you for your courtesy, but I shall content myself with accepting a place in your carriage and at your window at the Rospoli Palace, and I leave you at liberty to dispose of my place at the Piazza del Popolo.


But I warn you, you will lose a very curious sight, returned the count.


You will describe it to me, replied Franz, “and the recital from your lips will make as great an impression on me as if I had witnessed it. I have more than once intended witnessing an execution, but I have never been able to make up my mind; and you, Albert?


I, replied the viscount,—“I saw Castaing executed, but I think I was rather intoxicated that day, for I had quitted college the same morning, and we had passed the previous night at a tavern.


Besides, it is no reason because you have not seen an execution at Paris, that you should not see one anywhere else; when you travel, it is to see everything. Think what a figure you will make when you are asked, ‘How do they execute at Rome?’ and you reply, ‘I do not know!’ And, besides, they say that the culprit is an infamous scoundrel, who killed with a log of wood a worthy canon who had brought him up like his own son. Diable! when a churchman is killed, it should be with a different weapon than a log, especially when he has behaved like a father. If you went to Spain, would you not see the bull-fights? Well, suppose it is a bull-fight you are going to see? Recollect the ancient Romans of the Circus, and the sports where they killed three hundred lions and a hundred men. Think of the eighty thousand applauding spectators, the sage matrons who took their daughters, and the charming Vestals who made with the thumb of their white hands the fatal sign that said, ‘Come, despatch the dying.’


Shall you go, then, Albert?


Ma foi, yes; like you, I hesitated, but the count’s eloquence decides me.


Let us go, then, said Franz, “since you wish it; but on our way to the Piazza del Popolo, I wish to pass through the Corso. Is this possible, count?


On foot, yes, in a carriage, no.


I will go on foot, then.


Is it important that you should go that way?


Yes, there is something I wish to see.


Well, we will go by the Corso. We will send the carriage to wait for us on the Piazza del Popolo, by the Via del Babuino, for I shall be glad to pass, myself, through the Corso, to see if some orders I have given have been executed.


Excellency, a man in the dress of a penitent wishes to speak to you.


Ah! yes, returned the count, “I know who he is, gentlemen; will you return to the salon? you will find good cigars on the centre table. I will be with you directly.


Well, what think you of the Count of Monte Cristo? What do I think? said Albert, evidently surprised at such a question from his companion; “I think he is a delightful fellow, who does the honors of his table admirably; who has travelled much, read much, is, like Brutus, of the Stoic school, and moreover,” added he, sending a volume of smoke up towards the ceiling, “that he has excellent cigars.


But, said he, “did you observe one very singular thing?


What?


How attentively he looked at you.


At me? Ah, replied he, sighing, “that is not very surprising; I have been more than a year absent from Paris, and my clothes are of a most antiquated cut; the count takes me for a provincial. The first opportunity you have, undeceive him, I beg, and tell him I am nothing of the kind.


I am now quite at your service, gentlemen, said he. “The carriage is going one way to the Piazza del Popolo, and we will go another; and, if you please, by the Corso. Take some more of these cigars, M. de Morcerf.


With all my heart, returned Albert; “Italian cigars are horrible. When you come to Paris, I will return all this.


I will not refuse; I intend going there soon, and since you allow me, I will pay you a visit. Come, we have not any time to lose, it is half-past twelve—let us set off. Which are your windows? asked he of the count, with as much indifference as he could assume. The three last, returned he, with a negligence evidently unaffected, for he could not imagine with what intention the question was put.


I thought, that you told me there would be but one execution.


I told you true,


And yet here are two culprits.


Yes; but only one of these two is about to die; the other has many years to live.


If the pardon is to come, there is no time to lose.


And see, here it is,


Heaven be praised, and his Holiness also, here is a pardon for one of the prisoners!


A pardon! a pardon!


Pardon for whom?


A pardon for Peppino, called Rocca Priori,


For Peppino! Why for him and not for me? We ought to die together. I was promised he should die with me. You have no right to put me to death alone. I will not die alone—I will not!


What is going on?


Do you not see? that this human creature who is about to die is furious that his fellow-sufferer does not perish with him? and, were he able, he would rather tear him to pieces with his teeth and nails than let him enjoy the life he himself is about to be deprived of. Oh, man, man—race of crocodiles, how well do I recognize you there, and that at all times you are worthy of yourselves!


He ought to die!—he shall die!—I will not die alone!


Look, look, look, for on my soul it is curious. Here is a man who had resigned himself to his fate, who was going to the scaffold to die—like a coward, it is true, but he was about to die without resistance. Do you know what gave him strength? do you know what consoled him? It was, that another partook of his punishment—that another partook of his anguish—that another was to die before him! Lead two sheep to the butcher’s, two oxen to the slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his companion will not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will bellow with joy. But man—man, whom God created in his own image—man, upon whom God has laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his neighbor—man, to whom God has given a voice to express his thoughts—what is his first cry when he hears his fellow-man is saved? A blasphemy. Honor to man, this masterpiece of nature, this king of the creation!


Put him to death! put him to death!


What are you doing? Do you pity him? If you heard the cry of ‘Mad dog!’ you would take your gun—you would unhesitatingly shoot the poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of having been bitten by another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without being bitten by one of his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and who, now unable to kill anyone, because his hands are bound, wishes to see his companion in captivity perish. No, no—look, look!


Well, what has, then, happened?


Nothing, only, as you see, the Carnival has commenced. Make haste and dress yourself.


In fact, this horrible scene has passed away like a dream.


It is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you.


Yes, that I have suffered; but the culprit?


That is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have awakened; and who knows which of you is the most fortunate?


But Peppino—what has become of him?


Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in proportion as they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general attention was directed towards his companion. He profited by this distraction to slip away among the crowd, without even thanking the worthy priests who accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and egotistical animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you the example.


Well, Albert, do you feel much inclined to join the revels? Come, answer frankly.


Ma foi, no. But I am really glad to have seen such a sight; and I understand what the count said—that when you have once habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one that causes you any emotion.


Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study character, on the steps of the scaffold death tears off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is disclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the hideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress yourselves.


Gentlemen, when you are tired of being actors, and wish to become spectators of this scene, you know you have places at my windows. In the meantime, dispose of my coachman, my carriage, and my servants.


Ah, my dear fellow, you did not see?


What?


There,—that calash filled with Roman peasants.


No.


Well, I am convinced they are all charming women.


How unfortunate that you were masked, Albert, here was an opportunity of making up for past disappointments.


Oh. I hope the Carnival will not pass without some amends in one shape or the other.


Well, there is the beginning of an adventure.


Laugh if you please—I really think so. So I will not abandon this bouquet.


Pardieu, in token of your ingratitude. Bravo, bravo, things go wonderfully. Shall I leave you? Perhaps you would prefer being alone?


No. I will not be caught like a fool at a first disclosure by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the opera-balls. If the fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further, we shall find her, or rather, she will find us tomorrow; then she will give me some sign or other, and I shall know what I have to do.


On my word, you are as wise as Nestor and prudent as Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if she succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind.


A tailor, and for what?


To make us between now and tomorrow two Roman peasant costumes,


To make you two costumes between now and tomorrow? I ask your excellencies’ pardon, but this is quite a French demand; for the next week you will not find a single tailor who would consent to sew six buttons on a waistcoat if you paid him a crown a piece for each button.


Then I must give up the idea?


No; we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and tomorrow, when you awake, you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be satisfied.


My dear Albert, leave all to our host; he has already proved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards go and see l’Italienne à Alger!


Agreed, but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my friend and myself attach the greatest importance to having tomorrow the costumes we have asked for.


His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo had, given positive orders that the carriage was to remain at their lordships’ orders all day, and they could therefore dispose of it without fear of indiscretion.


Well, it seems you have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new Lord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world.


Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess. I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day.


All day?


Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all day, and now we have taken possession of his box.


You know him, then?


Yes, and no.


How so?


It is a long story.


Tell it to me.


It would frighten you too much.


So much the more reason.


At least wait until the story has a conclusion.


Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his acquaintance? Did anyone introduce you to him?


No; it was he who introduced himself to us.


When?


Last night, after we left you.


Through what medium?


The very prosaic one of our landlord.


He is staying, then, at the Hôtel de Londres with you?


Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor.


What is his name; for, of course, you know?


The Count of Monte Cristo.


That is not a family name?


No, it is the name of the island he has purchased.


And he is a count?


A Tuscan count.


Well, we must put up with that. What sort of a man is he?


Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf.


You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you,


We should be very hard to please, madam, did we not think him delightful. A friend of ten years’ standing could not have done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy.


Come. I see my vampire is only some millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid being confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?


Her?


The beautiful Greek of yesterday.


No; we heard, I think, the sound of her guzla, but she remained perfectly invisible.


When you say invisible, it is only to keep up the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with the white curtains?


Where was this window with white hangings?


At the Rospoli Palace.


The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?


Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?


Yes.


Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with white damask with a red cross? Those were the count’s windows.


Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were worth?


Two or three hundred Roman crowns?


Two or three thousand.


The deuce!


Does his island produce him such a revenue?


It does not bring him a bajocco.


Then why did he purchase it?


For a whim.


He is an original, then?


In reality, he seemed to me somewhat eccentric; were he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was a poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits worthy of Didier or Anthony.


Gentlemen, although a companion is agreeable, perfect freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that today, and for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at your disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so that you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray you, for your pleasure or your business.


Well, was I mistaken?


She has answered you!


Read.


Tuesday evening, at seven o’clock, descend from your carriage opposite the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your torch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of San Giacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the shoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be recognized. Until then you will not see me. —Constancy and Discretion.


Well, what do you think of that?


I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance.


I think so, also, and I very much fear you will go alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s ball.


Take care, Albert. All the nobility of Rome will be present, and if your fair incognita belong to the higher class of society, she must go there.


Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same. You have read the letter?


Yes.


You know how imperfectly the women of the mezzo cito are educated in Italy?


Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can, any blemish in the language or orthography.


You are born to good fortune,


Laugh as much as you will. I am in love.


You alarm me. I see that I shall not only go alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s, but also return to Florence alone.


If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful. I shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I have always had a great taste for archæology.


Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of seeing you a member of the Academy.


The evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres; that is, not in listening to the music, but in paying visits and conversing.


he had something far newer to tell her,


Then he has not returned?


I waited for him until this hour,


And do you know whither he went?


No, not precisely; however, I think it was something very like a rendezvous.


Diavolo! this is a bad day, or rather a bad night, to be out late; is it not, countess?


I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night, and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that of its too rapid flight.


I am not speaking, of the persons who are here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with you, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely; I meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome.


Ah, who is out in the streets of Rome at this hour, unless it be to go to a ball?


Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his unknown about seven o’clock this evening, and whom I have not seen since.


And don’t you know where he is?


Not at all.


Is he armed?


He is in masquerade.


You should not have allowed him to go, you, who know Rome better than he does.


You might as well have tried to stop number three of the barberi, who gained the prize in the race today, and then moreover, what could happen to him?


Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via Macello.


I informed them at the hotel that I had the honor of passing the night here, duke, and desired them to come and inform me of his return.


Ah, here I think, is one of my servants who is seeking you.


Your excellency, the master of the Hôtel de Londres has sent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from the Viscount of Morcerf.


A letter from the viscount!


Yes.


And who is the man?


I do not know.


Why did he not bring it to me here?


The messenger did not say.


And where is the messenger?


He went away directly he saw me enter the ball-room to find you.


Oh, go with all speed—poor young man! Perhaps some accident has happened to him.


I will hasten,


Shall we see you again to give us any information?


Yes, if it is not any serious affair, otherwise I cannot answer as to what I may do myself.


Be prudent, in any event,


Oh! pray be assured of that.


What wants your excellency of me?


Are not you the person who brought me a letter, from the Viscount of Morcerf?


Your excellency lodges at Pastrini’s hotel?


I do.


Your excellency is the travelling companion of the viscount?


I am.


Your excellency’s name——


Is the Baron Franz d’Épinay.


Then it is to your excellency that this letter is addressed.


Is there any answer?


Yes—your friend at least hopes so.


Come upstairs with me, and I will give it to you.


I prefer waiting here,


And why?


Your excellency will know when you have read the letter.


Shall I find you here, then?


Certainly.


Well?


Well—what?


You have seen the man who desired to speak with you from your friend?


Yes, I have seen him, and he has handed this letter to me. Light the candles in my apartment, if you please.


My dear Fellow. The moment you have received this, have the kindness to take the letter of credit from my pocket-book, which you will find in the square drawer of the secrétaire; add your own to it, if it be not sufficient. Run to Torlonia, draw from him instantly four thousand piastres, and give them to the bearer. It is urgent that I should have this money without delay. I do not say more, relying on you as you may rely on me. Your friend. Albert de Morcerf. P.S.—I now believe in Italian banditti.


Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie mani, alla sette il Conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere. If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my hands, by seven o’clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live.


My dear sir, do you know if the count is within? Yes, your excellency; he has this moment returned.


Is he in bed?


I should say no.


Then ring at his door, if you please, and request him to be so kind as to give me an audience.


The count awaits your excellency.


Well, what good wind blows you hither at this hour? have you come to sup with me? It would be very kind of you.


No; I have come to speak to you of a very serious matter.


A serious matter, and what may it be?


Are we alone?


Yes,


Read that,


Well, well!


Did you see the postscript?


I did, indeed. ‘Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere. Luigi Vampa.


What think you of that?


Have you the money he demands?


Yes, all but eight hundred piastres.


I hope you will not offend me by applying to anyone but myself.


You see, on the contrary, I come to you first and instantly,


And I thank you; have what you will;


Is it absolutely necessary, then, to send the money to Luigi Vampa?


Judge for yourself. The postscript is explicit.


I think that if you would take the trouble of reflecting, you could find a way of simplifying the negotiation,


How so?


If we were to go together to Luigi Vampa, I am sure he would not refuse you Albert’s freedom.


What influence can I possibly have over a bandit?


Have you not just rendered him a service that can never be forgotten?


What is that?


Have you not saved Peppino’s life?


Well, well, who told you that?


No matter; I know it.


And if I went to seek Vampa, would you accompany me?


If my society would not be disagreeable.


Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a walk without Rome will do us both good.


Shall I take any arms?


For what purpose?


Any money?


It is useless. Where is the man who brought the letter?


In the street.


He awaits the answer?


Yes.


I must learn where we are going. I will summon him hither.


It is useless; he would not come up.


To your apartments, perhaps; but he will not make any difficulty at entering mine.


Salite!


Ah, it is you, Peppino,


Ah,


you have, then, not forgotten that I saved your life; that is strange, for it is a week ago.


No, excellency; and never shall I forget it,


Never? That is a long time; but it is something that you believe so. Rise and answer.


Oh, you may speak before his excellency,


he is one of my friends. You allow me to give you this title?


it is necessary to excite this man’s confidence.


You can speak before me. I am a friend of the count’s.


Good! I am ready to answer any questions your excellency may address to me.


How did the Viscount Albert fall into Luigi’s hands?


Excellency, the Frenchman’s carriage passed several times the one in which was Teresa.


The chief’s mistress?


Yes. The Frenchman threw her a bouquet; Teresa returned it—all this with the consent of the chief, who was in the carriage.


What? was Luigi Vampa in the carriage with the Roman peasants?


It was he who drove, disguised as the coachman,


Well?


Well, then, the Frenchman took off his mask; Teresa, with the chief’s consent, did the same. The Frenchman asked for a rendezvous; Teresa gave him one—only, instead of Teresa, it was Beppo who was on the steps of the church of San Giacomo.


What! the peasant girl who snatched his mocoletto from him——


Was a lad of fifteen. But it was no disgrace to your friend to have been deceived; Beppo has taken in plenty of others.


And Beppo led him outside the walls?


Exactly so; a carriage was waiting at the end of the Via Macello. Beppo got in, inviting the Frenchman to follow him, and he did not wait to be asked twice. He gallantly offered the right-hand seat to Beppo, and sat by him. Beppo told him he was going to take him to a villa a league from Rome; the Frenchman assured him he would follow him to the end of the world. The coachman went up the Via di Ripetta and the Porta San Paolo; and when they were two hundred yards outside, as the Frenchman became somewhat too forward, Beppo put a brace of pistols to his head, the coachman pulled up and did the same. At the same time, four of the band, who were concealed on the banks of the Almo, surrounded the carriage. The Frenchman made some resistance, and nearly strangled Beppo; but he could not resist five armed men, and was forced to yield. They made him get out, walk along the banks of the river, and then brought him to Teresa and Luigi, who were waiting for him in the catacombs of St. Sebastian.


Well,


it seems to me that this is a very likely story. What do you say to it?


Why, that I should think it very amusing, if it had happened to anyone but poor Albert.


And, in truth, if you had not found me here,


it might have proved a gallant adventure which would have cost your friend dear; but now, be assured, his alarm will be the only serious consequence.


And shall we go and find him?


Oh, decidedly, sir. He is in a very picturesque place—do you know the catacombs of St. Sebastian?


I was never in them; but I have often resolved to visit them.


Well, here is an opportunity made to your hand, and it would be difficult to contrive a better. Have you a carriage?


No.


That is of no consequence; I always have one ready, day and night.


Always ready?


Yes. I am a very capricious being, and I should tell you that sometimes when I rise, or after my dinner, or in the middle of the night, I resolve on starting for some particular point, and away I go.


Order out the carriage,


and remove the pistols which are in the holsters. You need not awaken the coachman; Ali will drive.


Half-past twelve,


We might start at five o’clock and be in time, but the delay may cause your friend to pass an uneasy night, and therefore we had better go with all speed to extricate him from the hands of the infidels. Are you still resolved to accompany me?


More determined than ever.


Well, then, come along.


In ten minutes,


we shall be there.


Ought we to go on?


or should we pause?


Let us go on; Peppino will have warned the sentry of our coming.


Your excellency, if you will follow me, the opening of the catacombs is close at hand.


Go on, then,


Who comes there?


A friend!


Would you like to see a camp of bandits in repose?


Exceedingly,


Come with me, then. Peppino, put out the torch.


Well, my dear Vampa, it appears to me that you receive a friend with a great deal of ceremony.


Ground arms,


Your pardon, your excellency, but I was so far from expecting the honor of a visit, that I did not really recognize you.


It seems that your memory is equally short in everything, Vampa,


and that not only do you forget people’s faces, but also the conditions you make with them.


What conditions have I forgotten, your excellency?


Was it not agreed,


that not only my person, but also that of my friends, should be respected by you?


And how have I broken that treaty, your excellency?


You have this evening carried off and conveyed hither the Viscount Albert de Morcerf. Well,


this young gentleman is one of my friends—this young gentleman lodges in the same hotel as myself—this young gentleman has been up and down the Corso for eight hours in my private carriage, and yet, I repeat to you, you have carried him off, and conveyed him hither, and,


you have set a ransom on him, as if he were an utter stranger.


Why did you not tell me all this—you?


Why have you caused me thus to fail in my word towards a gentleman like the count, who has all our lives in his hands? By heavens! if I thought one of you knew that the young gentleman was the friend of his excellency, I would blow his brains out with my own hand!


Well,


I told you there was some mistake in this.


Are you not alone?


I am with the person to whom this letter was addressed, and to whom I desired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a man of his word. Come, your excellency,


here is Luigi Vampa, who will himself express to you his deep regret at the mistake he has committed.


Welcome among us, your excellency,


you heard what the count just said, and also my reply; let me add that I would not for the four thousand piastres at which I had fixed your friend’s ransom, that this had happened.


But, where is the viscount?—I do not see him.


Nothing has happened to him, I hope,


The prisoner is there,


and I will go myself and tell him he is free.


What is the prisoner doing?


Ma foi, captain,


I do not know; for the last hour I have not heard him stir.


Come in, your excellency,


not so bad for a man who is to be shot at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.


You are right, your excellency,


this must be one of your friends.


Will your excellency please to awaken?


Oh, is it you, captain? You should have allowed me to sleep. I had such a delightful dream. I was dancing the galop at Torlonia’s with the Countess G——. Half-past one only? Why the devil do you rouse me at this hour?


To tell you that you are free, your excellency.


My dear fellow, remember, for the future, Napoleon’s maxim, ‘Never awaken me but for bad news;’ if you had let me sleep on, I should have finished my galop, and have been grateful to you all my life. So, then, they have paid my ransom?


No, your excellency.


Well, then, how am I free?


A person to whom I can refuse nothing has come to demand you.


Come hither?


Yes, hither.


Really? Then that person is a most amiable person. What, is it you, my dear Franz, whose devotion and friendship are thus displayed?


No, not I, but our neighbor, the Count of Monte Cristo.


Oh, my dear count, you are really most kind, and I hope you will consider me as under eternal obligations to you, in the first place for the carriage, and in the next for this visit,


My dear Albert, if you will make haste, we shall yet have time to finish the night at Torlonia’s. You may conclude your interrupted galop, so that you will owe no ill-will to Signor Luigi, who has, indeed, throughout this whole affair acted like a gentleman.


You are decidedly right, and we may reach the Palazzo by two o’clock. Signor Luigi. Signor Luigi, is there any formality to fulfil before I take leave of your excellency?


None, sir, you are as free as air.


Well, then, a happy and merry life to you. Come, gentlemen, come.


Peppino, give me the torch.


What are you going to do?


I will show you the way back myself, that is the least honor that I can render to your excellency.


And now, your excellency, allow me to repeat my apologies, and I hope you will not entertain any resentment at what has occurred.


No, my dear Vampa, besides, you compensate for your mistakes in so gentlemanly a way, that one almost feels obliged to you for having committed them.


Gentlemen, perhaps the offer may not appear very tempting to you; but if you should ever feel inclined to pay me a second visit, wherever I may be, you shall be welcome.


Has your excellency anything to ask me?


Yes, I have. I am curious to know what work you were perusing with so much attention as we entered.


Cæsar’s Commentaries, it is my favorite work.


Well, are you coming?


Yes, here I am,


Ah, your pardon, will you allow me, captain? Now, my dear count, let us on with all the speed we may. I am enormously anxious to finish my night at the Duke of Bracciano’s. Madame, yesterday you were so condescending as to promise me a galop; I am rather late in claiming this gracious promise, but here is my friend, whose character for veracity you well know, and he will assure you the delay arose from no fault of mine.


My dear count, permit me to repeat the poor thanks I offered last night, and to assure you that the remembrance of all I owe to you will never be effaced from my memory; believe me, as long as I live, I shall never cease to dwell with grateful recollection on the prompt and important service you rendered me; and also to remember that to you I am indebted even for my life.


My very good friend and excellent neighbor, you really exaggerate my trifling exertions. You owe me nothing but some trifle of 20,000 francs, which you have been saved out of your travelling expenses, so that there is not much of a score between us;—but you must really permit me to congratulate you on the ease and unconcern with which you resigned yourself to your fate, and the perfect indifference you manifested as to the turn events might take.


Upon my word. I deserve no credit for what I could not help, namely, a determination to take everything as I found it, and to let those bandits see, that although men get into troublesome scrapes all over the world, there is no nation but the French that can smile even in the face of grim Death himself. All that, however, has nothing to do with my obligations to you, and I now come to ask you whether, in my own person, my family, or connections, I can in any way serve you? My father, the Comte de Morcerf, although of Spanish origin, possesses considerable influence, both at the court of France and Madrid, and I unhesitatingly place the best services of myself, and all to whom my life is dear, at your disposal.


Monsieur de Morcerf, your offer, far from surprising me, is precisely what I expected from you, and I accept it in the same spirit of hearty sincerity with which it is made;—nay, I will go still further, and say that I had previously made up my mind to ask a great favor at your hands.


Oh, pray name it.


I am wholly a stranger to Paris—it is a city I have never yet seen.


Is it possible, that you have reached your present age without visiting the finest capital in the world? I can scarcely credit it.


Nevertheless, it is quite true; still, I agree with you in thinking that my present ignorance of the first city in Europe is a reproach to me in every way, and calls for immediate correction; but, in all probability, I should have performed so important, so necessary a duty, as that of making myself acquainted with the wonders and beauties of your justly celebrated capital, had I known any person who would have introduced me into the fashionable world, but unfortunately I possessed no acquaintance there, and, of necessity, was compelled to abandon the idea.


So distinguished an individual as yourself, could scarcely have required an introduction.


You are most kind; but as regards myself, I can find no merit I possess, save that, as a millionaire, I might have become a partner in the speculations of M. Aguado and M. Rothschild; but as my motive in travelling to your capital would not have been for the pleasure of dabbling in stocks, I stayed away till some favorable chance should present itself of carrying my wish into execution. Your offer, however, smooths all difficulties, and I have only to ask you, my dear M. de Morcerf whether you undertake, upon my arrival in France, to open to me the doors of that fashionable world of which I know no more than a Huron or a native of Cochin-China?


Oh, that I do, and with infinite pleasure, and so much the more readily as a letter received this morning from my father summons me to Paris, in consequence of a treaty of marriage (my dear Franz, do not smile, I beg of you) with a family of high standing, and connected with the very cream of Parisian society.


Connected by marriage, you mean,


Well, never mind how it is, it comes to the same thing in the end. Perhaps by the time you return to Paris, I shall be quite a sober, staid father of a family! A most edifying representative I shall make of all the domestic virtues—don’t you think so? But as regards your wish to visit our fine city, my dear count, I can only say that you may command me and mine to any extent you please.


Then it is settled, and I give you my solemn assurance that I only waited an opportunity like the present to realize plans that I have long meditated.


But tell me now, count, tell me truly whether you are in earnest, or if this project of visiting Paris is merely one of the chimerical and uncertain air castles of which we make so many in the course of our lives, but which, like a house built on the sand, is liable to be blown over by the first puff of wind?


I pledge you my honor, that I mean to do as I have said; both inclination and positive necessity compel me to visit Paris.


When do you propose going thither?


Have you made up your mind when you shall be there yourself?


Certainly I have; in a fortnight or three weeks’ time, that is to say, as fast as I can get there!


Nay. I will give you three months ere I join you; you see I make an ample allowance for all delays and difficulties.


And in three months’ time, you will be at my house?


Shall we make a positive appointment for a particular day and hour? only let me warn you that I am proverbial for my punctilious exactitude in keeping my engagements.


Day for day, hour for hour, that will suit me to a dot.


So be it, then, today is the 21st of February; it is exactly half-past ten o’clock. Now promise me to remember this, and expect me the 21st of May at the same hour in the forenoon.


Capital! your breakfast shall be waiting.


Where do you live?


No. 27, Rue du Helder.


Have you bachelor’s apartments there? I hope my coming will not put you to any inconvenience.


I reside in my father’s house, but occupy a pavilion at the farther side of the courtyard, entirely separated from the main building.


Quite sufficient. Now then, make yourself perfectly easy; the hand of your time-piece will not be more accurate in marking the time than myself.


Shall I see you again ere my departure?


That depends; when do you leave?


Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock.


In that case I must say adieu to you, as I am compelled to go to Naples, and shall not return hither before Saturday evening or Sunday morning. And you, baron, do you also depart tomorrow?


Yes.


For France?


No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy for another year or two.


Then we shall not meet in Paris?


I fear I shall not have that honor.


Well, since we must part, allow me to wish you both a safe and pleasant journey.


Let us understand each other, it is agreed—is it not?—that you are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du Helder, on the 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, and your word of honor passed for your punctuality?


The 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, Rue du Helder, No. 27,


What is the matter? you seem more than commonly thoughtful.


I will confess to you, Albert, the count is a very singular person, and the appointment you have made to meet him in Paris fills me with a thousand apprehensions.


My dear fellow, what can there possibly be in that to excite uneasiness? Why, you must have lost your senses.


Whether I am in my senses or not, that is the way I feel.


Listen to me, Franz. I am glad that the occasion has presented itself for saying this to you, for I have noticed how cold you are in your bearing towards the count, while he, on the other hand, has always been courtesy itself to us. Have you anything particular against him?


Possibly.


Did you ever meet him previously to coming hither?


I have.


And where?


Will you promise me not to repeat a single word of what I am about to tell you?


I promise.


Upon your honor? Upon your honor?


Upon my honor.


Then listen to me.


Well, what do you find to object to in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being rich, possesses a vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth or Southampton, and you will find the harbors crowded with the yachts belonging to such of the English as can afford the expense, and have the same liking for this amusement. Now, by way of having a resting-place during his excursions, avoiding the wretched cookery—which has been trying its best to poison me during the last four months, while you have manfully resisted its effects for as many years,—and obtaining a bed on which it is possible to slumber, Monte Cristo has furnished for himself a temporary abode where you first found him; but, to prevent the possibility of the Tuscan government taking a fancy to his enchanted palace, and thereby depriving him of the advantages naturally expected from so large an outlay of capital, he has wisely enough purchased the island, and taken its name. Just ask yourself, my good fellow, whether there are not many persons of our acquaintance who assume the names of lands and properties they never in their lives were masters of?


But, the Corsican bandits that were among the crew of his vessel?


Why, really the thing seems to me simple enough. Nobody knows better than yourself that the bandits of Corsica are not rogues or thieves, but purely and simply fugitives, driven by some sinister motive from their native town or village, and that their fellowship involves no disgrace or stigma; for my own part, I protest that, should I ever go to Corsica, my first visit, ere even I presented myself to the mayor or prefect, should be to the bandits of Colomba, if I could only manage to find them; for, on my conscience, they are a race of men I admire greatly.


Still. I suppose you will allow that such men as Vampa and his band are regular villains, who have no other motive than plunder when they seize your person. How do you explain the influence the count evidently possessed over those ruffians?


My good friend, as in all probability I own my present safety to that influence, it would ill become me to search too closely into its source; therefore, instead of condemning him for his intimacy with outlaws, you must give me leave to excuse any little irregularity there may be in such a connection; not altogether for preserving my life, for my own idea was that it never was in much danger, but certainly for saving me 4,000 piastres, which, being translated, means neither more nor less than 24,000 livres of our money—a sum at which, most assuredly, I should never have been estimated in France, proving most indisputably, that no prophet is honored in his own country.


Talking of countries, of what country is the count, what is his native tongue, whence does he derive his immense fortune, and what were those events of his early life—a life as marvellous as unknown—that have tinctured his succeeding years with so dark and gloomy a misanthropy? Certainly these are questions that, in your place, I should like to have answered.


My dear Franz, when, upon receipt of my letter, you found the necessity of asking the count’s assistance, you promptly went to him, saying, ‘My friend Albert de Morcerf is in danger; help me to deliver him.’ Was not that nearly what you said?


It was.


Well, then, did he ask you, ‘Who is M. Albert de Morcerf? how does he come by his name—his fortune? what are his means of existence? what is his birthplace? of what country is he a native?’ Tell me, did he put all these questions to you?


I confess he asked me none.


No; he merely came and freed me from the hands of Signor Vampa, where, I can assure you, in spite of all my outward appearance of ease and unconcern, I did not very particularly care to remain. Now, then, Franz, when, for services so promptly and unhesitatingly rendered, he but asks me in return to do for him what is done daily for any Russian prince or Italian nobleman who may pass through Paris—merely to introduce him into society—would you have me refuse? My good fellow, you must have lost your senses to think it possible I could act with such cold-blooded policy.


Well, do as you please my dear viscount, for your arguments are beyond my powers of refutation. Still, in spite of all, you must admit that this Count of Monte Cristo is a most singular personage.


He is a philanthropist, and no doubt his motive in visiting Paris is to compete for the Monthyon prize, given, as you are aware, to whoever shall be proved to have most materially advanced the interests of virtue and humanity. If my vote and interest can obtain it for him, I will readily give him the one and promise the other. And now, my dear Franz, let us talk of something else. Come, shall we take our luncheon, and then pay a last visit to St. Peter’s?


How did these letters come? Let Madame Danglars know that I accept the place she offers me in her box. Wait; then, during the day, tell Rosa that when I leave the Opera I will sup with her as she wishes. Take her six bottles of different wine—Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of Ostend oysters; get them at Borel’s, and be sure you say they are for me. What time is it now? Very well, at half past ten. Debray will, perhaps, be obliged to go to the minister—and besides it is the hour I told the count, 21st May, at half past ten; and though I do not much rely upon his promise, I wish to be punctual. Is the countess up yet? Yes, ask her for one of her liqueur cellarets, mine is incomplete; and tell her I shall have the honor of seeing her about three o’clock, and that I request permission to introduce someone to her. These papers become more and more stupid every day. Good-morning, Lucien, good-morning, your punctuality really alarms me. What do I say? punctuality! You, whom I expected last, you arrive at five minutes to ten, when the time fixed was half-past! Has the ministry resigned?


No, my dear fellow, reassure yourself; we are tottering always, but we never fall, and I begin to believe that we shall pass into a state of immobility, and then the affairs of the Peninsula will completely consolidate us.


Ah, true; you drive Don Carlos out of Spain.


No, no, my dear fellow, do not confound our plans. We take him to the other side of the French frontier, and offer him hospitality at Bourges.


At Bourges?


Yes, he has not much to complain of; Bourges is the capital of Charles VII. Do you not know that all Paris knew it yesterday, and the day before it had already transpired on the Bourse, and M. Danglars (I do not know by what means that man contrives to obtain intelligence as soon as we do) made a million!


And you another order, for I see you have a blue ribbon at your button-hole.


Yes; they sent me the order of Charles III.


Come, do not affect indifference, but confess you were pleased to have it.


Oh, it is very well as a finish to the toilet. It looks very neat on a black coat buttoned up.


And makes you resemble the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt. Because you have the order of Charles III., and you wish to announce the good news to me?


No, because I passed the night writing letters,—five-and-twenty despatches. I returned home at daybreak, and strove to sleep; but my head ached and I got up to have a ride for an hour. At the Bois de Boulogne, ennui and hunger attacked me at once,—two enemies who rarely accompany each other, and who are yet leagued against me, a sort of Carlo-republican alliance. I then recollected you gave a breakfast this morning, and here I am. I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, amuse me.


It is my duty as your host. Germain, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. In the meantime, my dear Lucien, here are cigars—contraband, of course—try them, and persuade the minister to sell us such instead of poisoning us with cabbage leaves.


Peste! I will do nothing of the kind; the moment they come from government you would find them execrable. Besides, that does not concern the home but the financial department. Address yourself to M. Humann, section of the indirect contributions, corridor A., No. 26.


On my word, you astonish me by the extent of your knowledge. Take a cigar.


Really, my dear Albert, how happy you are to have nothing to do. You do not know your own good fortune!


And what would you do, my dear diplomatist, if you did nothing? What? private secretary to a minister, plunged at once into European cabals and Parisian intrigues; having kings, and, better still, queens, to protect, parties to unite, elections to direct; making more use of your cabinet with your pen and your telegraph than Napoleon did of his battle-fields with his sword and his victories; possessing five-and-twenty thousand francs a year, besides your place; a horse, for which Château-Renaud offered you four hundred louis, and which you would not part with; a tailor who never disappoints you; with the opera, the jockey-club, and other diversions, can you not amuse yourself? Well, I will amuse you.


How?


By introducing to you a new acquaintance.


A man or a woman?


A man.


I know so many men already.


But you do not know this man.


Where does he come from—the end of the world?


Farther still, perhaps.


The deuce! I hope he does not bring our breakfast with him.


Oh, no; our breakfast comes from my father’s kitchen. Are you hungry?


Humiliating as such a confession is, I am. But I dined at M. de Villefort’s, and lawyers always give you very bad dinners. You would think they felt some remorse; did you ever remark that?


Ah, depreciate other persons’ dinners; you ministers give such splendid ones.


Yes; but we do not invite people of fashion. If we were not forced to entertain a parcel of country boobies because they think and vote with us, we should never dream of dining at home, I assure you.


Well, take another glass of sherry and another biscuit.


Willingly. Your Spanish wine is excellent. You see we were quite right to pacify that country.


Yes; but Don Carlos?


Well, Don Carlos will drink Bordeaux, and in ten years we will marry his son to the little queen.


You will then obtain the Golden Fleece, if you are still in the ministry. I think, Albert, you have adopted the system of feeding me on smoke this morning. Well, you must allow it is the best thing for the stomach; but I hear Beauchamp in the next room; you can dispute together, and that will pass away the time.


About what?


About the papers.


My dear friend, do I ever read the papers?


Then you will dispute the more. Come in, come in. Here is Debray, who detests you without reading you, so he says.


He is quite right, for I criticise him without knowing what he does. Good-day, commander!


Ah, you know that already,


Pardieu!


And what do they say of it in the world?


In which world? we have so many worlds in the year of grace 1838.


In the entire political world, of which you are one of the leaders.


They say that it is quite fair, and that sowing so much red, you ought to reap a little blue.


Come, come, that is not bad! Why do you not join our party, my dear Beauchamp? With your talents you would make your fortune in three or four years.


I only await one thing before following your advice; that is, a minister who will hold office for six months. My dear Albert, one word, for I must give poor Lucien a respite. Do we breakfast or dine? I must go to the Chamber, for our life is not an idle one.


You only breakfast; I await two persons, and the instant they arrive we shall sit down to table.


And what sort of persons do you expect to breakfast?


A gentleman, and a diplomatist.


Then we shall have to wait two hours for the gentleman, and three for the diplomatist. I shall come back to dessert; keep me some strawberries, coffee, and cigars. I shall take a cutlet on my way to the Chamber.


Do not do anything of the sort; for were the gentleman a Montmorency, and the diplomatist a Metternich, we will breakfast at eleven; in the meantime, follow Debray’s example, and take a glass of sherry and a biscuit.


Be it so; I will stay; I must do something to distract my thoughts.


You are like Debray, and yet it seems to me that when the minister is out of spirits, the opposition ought to be joyous.


Ah, you do not know with what I am threatened. I shall hear this morning that M. Danglars make a speech at the Chamber of Deputies, and at his wife’s this evening I shall hear the tragedy of a peer of France. The devil take the constitutional government, and since we had our choice, as they say, at least, how could we choose that?


I understand; you must lay in a stock of hilarity.


Do not run down M. Danglars’ speeches, he votes for you, for he belongs to the opposition.


Pardieu, that is exactly the worst of all. I am waiting until you send him to speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my ease.


My dear friend, it is plain that the affairs of Spain are settled, for you are most desperately out of humor this morning. Recollect that Parisian gossip has spoken of a marriage between myself and Mlle. Eugénie Danglars; I cannot in conscience, therefore, let you run down the speeches of a man who will one day say to me, ‘Vicomte, you know I give my daughter two millions.’


Ah, this marriage will never take place. The king has made him a baron, and can make him a peer, but he cannot make him a gentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is too aristocratic to consent, for the paltry sum of two million francs, to a mésalliance. The Viscount of Morcerf can only wed a marchioness.


But two million francs make a nice little sum,


It is the social capital of a theatre on the boulevard, or a railroad from the Jardin des Plantes to La Râpée.


Never mind what he says, Morcerf, do you marry her. You marry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter? It is better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it. You have seven martlets on your arms; give three to your wife, and you will still have four; that is one more than M. de Guise had, who so nearly became King of France, and whose cousin was Emperor of Germany.


On my word, I think you are right, Lucien,


To be sure; besides, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard—that is, he can be.


Do not say that, Debray, for here is Château-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will pass the sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body.


He will sully it then, for I am low—very low.


Oh, heavens, the minister quotes Béranger, what shall we come to next?


M. de Château-Renaud—M. Maximilian Morrel, announcing two fresh guests.


Now, then, to breakfast, for, if I remember, you told me you only expected two persons, Albert.


Morrel, who is he?


My dear Albert, let me introduce to you M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more—however the man speaks for himself—my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount.


the count of Château-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me; you are his friend, be ours also.


and pray that, if you should ever be in a similar predicament, he may do as much for you as he did for me.


What has he done?


Oh, nothing worth speaking of. M. de Château-Renaud exaggerates.


Not worth speaking of? life is not worth speaking of!—that is rather too philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It is very well for you, who risk your life every day, but for me, who only did so once——


We gather from all this, baron, that Captain Morrel saved your life.


Exactly so.


On what occasion?


Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I am starving, do not set him off on some long story.


Well, I do not prevent your sitting down to table. Château-Renaud can tell us while we eat our breakfast.


Gentlemen, it is only a quarter past ten, and I expect someone else.


Ah, true, a diplomatist!


Diplomat or not, I don’t know; I only know that he charged himself on my account with a mission, which he terminated so entirely to my satisfaction, that had I been king, I should have instantly created him knight of all my orders, even had I been able to offer him the Golden Fleece and the Garter.


Well, since we are not to sit down to table, take a glass of sherry, and tell us all about it.


You all know that I had the fancy of going to Africa. It is a road your ancestors have traced for you, gallantly.


Yes? but I doubt that your object was like theirs—to rescue the Holy Sepulchre.


You are quite right, Beauchamp. It was only to fight as an amateur. I cannot bear duelling ever since two seconds, whom I had chosen to arrange an affair, forced me to break the arm of one of my best friends, one whom you all know—poor Franz d’Épinay.


Ah, true, you did fight some time ago; about what?


The devil take me, if I remember. But I recollect perfectly one thing, that, being unwilling to let such talents as mine sleep, I wished to try upon the Arabs the new pistols that had been given to me. In consequence I embarked for Oran, and went from thence to Constantine, where I arrived just in time to witness the raising of the siege. I retreated with the rest, for eight-and-forty hours. I endured the rain during the day, and the cold during the night tolerably well, but the third morning my horse died of cold. Poor brute—accustomed to be covered up and to have a stove in the stable, the Arabian finds himself unable to bear ten degrees of cold in Arabia.


That’s why you want to purchase my English horse, you think he will bear the cold better.


You are mistaken, for I have made a vow never to return to Africa.


You were very much frightened, then?


Well, yes, and I had good reason to be so. I was retreating on foot, for my horse was dead. Six Arabs came up, full gallop, to cut off my head. I shot two with my double-barrelled gun, and two more with my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and two were still left; one seized me by the hair (that is why I now wear it so short, for no one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan, and I already felt the cold steel on my neck, when this gentleman whom you see here charged them, shot the one who held me by the hair, and cleft the skull of the other with his sabre. He had assigned himself the task of saving a man’s life that day; chance caused that man to be myself. When I am rich I will order a statue of Chance from Klagmann or Marochetti.


Yes, it was the 5th of September, the anniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously preserved; therefore, as far as it lies in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it by some——


Heroic action. I was chosen. But that is not all—after rescuing me from the sword, he rescued me from the cold, not by sharing his cloak with me, like St. Martin, but by giving me the whole; then from hunger by sharing with me—guess what?


A Strasbourg pie?


No, his horse; of which we each of us ate a slice with a hearty appetite. It was very hard.


The horse?


No, the sacrifice, ask Debray if he would sacrifice his English steed for a stranger?


Not for a stranger, but for a friend I might, perhaps.


I divined that you would become mine, count, besides, as I had the honor to tell you, heroism or not, sacrifice or not, that day I owed an offering to bad fortune in recompense for the favors good fortune had on other days granted to us.


The history to which M. Morrel alludes, is an admirable one, which he will tell you some day when you are better acquainted with him; today let us fill our stomachs, and not our memories. What time do you breakfast, Albert?


At half-past ten.


Precisely?


Oh, you will give me five minutes’ grace, replied Morcerf, “for I also expect a preserver.”


Of whom? Of myself, parbleu! do you think I cannot be saved as well as anyone else, and that there are only Arabs who cut off heads? Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at table—at least, I hope so—two benefactors of humanity.


What shall we do? we have only one Monthyon prize.


Well, it will be given to someone who has done nothing to deserve it, that is the way the Academy mostly escapes from the dilemma.


And where does he come from? You have already answered the question once, but so vaguely that I venture to put it a second time.


Really. I do not know; when I invited him three months ago, he was then at Rome, but since that time who knows where he may have gone?


And you think him capable of being exact?


I think him capable of everything. I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest.


I beg pardon, are there any materials for an article in what you are going to tell us?


Yes, and for a most curious one.


Go on, then, for I see I shall not get to the Chamber this morning, and I must make up for it.


I was at Rome during the last Carnival.


We know that,


Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits.


There are no bandits,


Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I found them ugly enough to frighten me.


Come, my dear Albert, confess that your cook is behindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes, and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish by a story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse you, and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be.


And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one from beginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted me to a gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian.


I know it. I narrowly escaped catching a fever there.


And I did more than that, for I caught one. I was informed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Roman crowns—about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I was at the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz—and were he here he would confirm every word—I wrote then to Franz that if he did not come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past I should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs in whose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such was the name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously kept his word.


But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns. A man whose name is Franz d’Épinay or Albert de Morcerf has not much difficulty in procuring them.


No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present to you.


Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing Andromeda.


No, he is a man about my own size.


Armed to the teeth?


He had not even a knitting-needle.


But he paid your ransom?


He said two words to the chief and I was free.


And they apologized to him for having carried you off?


Just so.


Why, he is a second Ariosto.


No, his name is the Count of Monte Cristo.


There is no Count of Monte Cristo


I do not think so, added Château-Renaud, with the air of a man who knows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.


Does anyone know anything of a Count of Monte Cristo?


He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestors possessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea.


I think I can assist your researches. Monte Cristo is a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors my father employed—a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, an atom in the infinite.


Precisely! Well, he of whom I speak is the lord and master of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the title of count somewhere in Tuscany.


He is rich, then?


I believe so.


But that ought to be visible.


That is what deceives you, Debray.


I do not understand you.


Have you read the Arabian Nights?


What a question!


Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if their sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poor fishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with the wealth of the Indies.


Which means?


Which means that my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those fishermen. He has even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad the Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold.


And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?