No, but Franz has; for heaven’s sake, not a word of this before him. Franz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes and by women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quite sure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had taken hashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row of statues.


have heard something like this from an old sailor named Penelon.


Ah, it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me; you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the labyrinth?


My dear Albert, what you tell us is so extraordinary.


Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you of them—they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering in the affairs of their countrymen who travel.


Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have them protect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that now they have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send you to Constantinople.


No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali, the Sultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me.


You say very true, responded Debray.


Yes, but this has nothing to do with the existence of the Count of Monte Cristo.


Pardieu! everyone exists.


Doubtless, but not in the same way; everyone has not black slaves, a princely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to an Arabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and Greek mistresses.


Have you seen the Greek mistress?


I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard her one morning when I breakfasted with the count.


He eats, then?


Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating.


He must be a vampire.


Laugh, if you will; the Countess G——, who knew Lord Ruthven, declared that the count was a vampire.


Ah, capital. For a man not connected with newspapers, here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the Constitutionnel.


Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure, facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead, livid complexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politeness unexceptionable.


Just so, Lucien, you have described him feature for feature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made me shudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought I should faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which he spoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the executioner and the culprit.


Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck your blood? Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment, surrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right?


Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen. When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gand or the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we are not of the same race.


I am highly flattered,


At the same time, your Count of Monte Cristo is a very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with the Italian banditti.


There are no Italian banditti,


No vampire,


No Count of Monte Cristo There is half-past ten striking, Albert.


Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,


His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.


Punctuality, is the politeness of kings, according to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same with travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three seconds I am behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be accomplished without some trouble, and especially in France, where, it seems, it is forbidden to beat the postilions.


My dear count. I was announcing your visit to some of my friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did me the honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count of Château-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and whose ancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray, private secretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an editor of a paper, and the terror of the French government, but of whom, in spite of his national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in Italy, since his paper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis.


You wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur, it is a handsome uniform.


You have never seen our Africans, count?


Never,


Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts in the whole army.


Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard, of a new deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen him today for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him as my friend.


Ah, you have a noble heart, so much the better.


Why should he doubt it?


In reality. Albert has not deceived us, for the count is a most singular being. What say you, Morrel!


Ma foi, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of the singular remark he has made about me.


Gentlemen. Germain informs me that breakfast is ready. My dear count, allow me to show you the way.


Gentlemen, permit me to make a confession which must form my excuse for any improprieties I may commit. I am a stranger, and a stranger to such a degree, that this is the first time I have ever been at Paris. The French way of living is utterly unknown to me, and up to the present time I have followed the Eastern customs, which are entirely in contrast to the Parisian. I beg you, therefore, to excuse if you find anything in me too Turkish, too Italian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let us breakfast.


With what an air he says all this, decidedly he is a great man.


A great man in his own country,


A great man in every country, M. Debray,


My dear count. I fear one thing, and that is, that the fare of the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazza di Spagna. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had some dishes prepared expressly.


Did you know me better, you would not give one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who has successively lived on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla podrida at Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, curry in India, and swallows’ nests in China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I eat but little; and today, that you reproach me with my want of appetite, is my day of appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday morning.


What, you have not eaten for four-and-twenty hours?


No. I was forced to go out of my road to obtain some information near Nîmes, so that I was somewhat late, and therefore I did not choose to stop.


And you ate in your carriage?


No, I slept, as I generally do when I am weary without having the courage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry without feeling inclined to eat.


But you can sleep when you please, monsieur?


Yes.


You have a recipe for it?


An infallible one.


That would be invaluable to us in Africa, who have not always any food to eat, and rarely anything to drink.


Yes, but, unfortunately, a recipe excellent for a man like myself would be very dangerous applied to an army, which might not awake when it was needed.


May we inquire what is this recipe?


Oh, yes. I make no secret of it. It is a mixture of excellent opium, which I fetched myself from Canton in order to have it pure, and the best hashish which grows in the East—that is, between the Tigris and the Euphrates. These two ingredients are mixed in equal proportions, and formed into pills. Ten minutes after one is taken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron Franz d’Épinay; I think he tasted them one day.


Yes, he said something about it to me.


But, you always carry this drug about you?


Always.


Would it be an indiscretion to ask to see those precious pills?


No, monsieur, and he drew from his pocket a marvellous casket, formed out of a single emerald and closed by a golden lid which unscrewed and gave passage to a small greenish colored pellet about the size of a pea. This ball had an acrid and penetrating odor. There were four or five more in the emerald, which would contain about a dozen. The casket passed around the table, but it was more to examine the admirable emerald than to see the pills that it passed from hand to hand.


And is it your cook who prepares these pills?


Oh, no, monsieur. I do not thus betray my enjoyments to the vulgar. I am a tolerable chemist, and prepare my pills myself.


This is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen, although my mother has some remarkable family jewels.


I had three similar ones. I gave one to the Sultan, who mounted it in his sabre; another to our holy father the Pope, who had it set in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as large, though not so fine, given by the Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor, Pius VII. I kept the third for myself, and I had it hollowed out, which reduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose I intended.


And what did these two sovereigns give you in exchange for these magnificent presents?


The Sultan, the liberty of a woman, the Pope, the life of a man; so that once in my life I have been as powerful as if heaven had brought me into the world on the steps of a throne.


And it was Peppino you saved, was it not? it was for him that you obtained pardon?


Perhaps,


My dear count, you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to hear you speak thus. I had announced you beforehand to my friends as an enchanter of the Arabian Nights, a wizard of the Middle Ages; but the Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they mistake for caprices of the imagination the most incontestable truths, when these truths do not form a part of their daily existence. For example, here is Debray who reads, and Beauchamp who prints, every day, ‘A member of the Jockey Club has been stopped and robbed on the Boulevard;’ ‘four persons have been assassinated in the Rue St. Denis’ or ‘the Faubourg St. Germain;’ ‘ten, fifteen, or twenty thieves, have been arrested in a café on the Boulevard du Temple, or in the Thermes de Julien,’—and yet these same men deny the existence of the bandits in the Maremma, the Campagna di Romana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell them yourself that I was taken by bandits, and that without your generous intercession I should now have been sleeping in the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, instead of receiving them in my humble abode in the Rue du Helder.


Ah, you promised me never to mention that circumstance.


It was not I who made that promise, it must have been someone else whom you have rescued in the same manner, and whom you have forgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall not only, I trust, relate the little I do know, but also a great deal I do not know.


It seems to me, that you played a sufficiently important part to know as well as myself what happened.


Well, you promise me, if I tell all I know, to relate, in your turn, all that I do not know?


That is but fair,


Well, for three days I believed myself the object of the attentions of a masque, whom I took for a descendant of Tullia or Poppæa, while I was simply the object of the attentions of a contadina, and I say contadina to avoid saying peasant girl. What I know is, that, like a fool, a greater fool than he of whom I spoke just now, I mistook for this peasant girl a young bandit of fifteen or sixteen, with a beardless chin and slim waist, and who, just as I was about to imprint a chaste salute on his lips, placed a pistol to my head, and, aided by seven or eight others, led, or rather dragged me, to the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, where I found a highly educated brigand chief perusing Cæsar’s Commentaries, and who deigned to leave off reading to inform me, that unless the next morning, before six o’clock, four thousand piastres were paid into his account at his banker’s, at a quarter past six I should have ceased to exist. The letter is still to be seen, for it is in Franz d’Épinay’s possession, signed by me, and with a postscript of M. Luigi Vampa. This is all I know, but I know not, count, how you contrived to inspire so much respect in the bandits of Rome who ordinarily have so little respect for anything. I assure you, Franz and I were lost in admiration.


Nothing more simple. I had known the famous Vampa for more than ten years. When he was quite a child, and only a shepherd, I gave him a few gold pieces for showing me my way, and he, in order to repay me, gave me a poniard, the hilt of which he had carved with his own hand, and which you may have seen in my collection of arms. In after years, whether he had forgotten this interchange of presents, which ought to have cemented our friendship, or whether he did not recollect me, he sought to take me, but, on the contrary, it was I who captured him and a dozen of his band. I might have handed him over to Roman justice, which is somewhat expeditious, and which would have been particularly so with him; but I did nothing of the sort—I suffered him and his band to depart.


With the condition that they should sin no more. I see they kept their promise.


No, monsieur, upon the simple condition that they should respect myself and my friends. Perhaps what I am about to say may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity and your duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society which does not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies itself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low place in my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is society and my neighbor who are indebted to me.


Bravo, you are the first man I ever met sufficiently courageous to preach egotism. Bravo, count, bravo!


It is frank, at least. But I am sure that the count does not regret having once deviated from the principles he has so boldly avowed.


How have I deviated from those principles, monsieur?


Why, it seems to me, that in delivering M. de Morcerf, whom you did not know, you did good to your neighbor and to society.


Of which he is the brightest ornament, drinking off a glass of champagne.


My dear count, you are at fault—you, one of the most formidable logicians I know—and you must see it clearly proved that instead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you call yourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family name is Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation, and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display the greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric Parisians,—that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the virtues you possess.


My dear vicomte. I do not see, in all I have done, anything that merits, either from you or these gentlemen, the pretended eulogies I have received. You were no stranger to me, for I knew you from the time I gave up two rooms to you, invited you to breakfast with me, lent you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival in your company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del Popolo the execution that affected you so much that you nearly fainted. I will appeal to any of these gentlemen, could I leave my guest in the hands of a hideous bandit, as you term him? Besides, you know, I had the idea that you could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when I came to France. You might some time ago have looked upon this resolution as a vague project, but today you see it was a reality, and you must submit to it under penalty of breaking your word.


I will keep it, but I fear that you will be much disappointed, accustomed as you are to picturesque events and fantastic horizons. Amongst us you will not meet with any of those episodes with which your adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our Chimborazo is Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Valérien, our Great Desert is the plain of Grenelle, where they are now boring an artesian well to water the caravans. We have plenty of thieves, though not so many as is said; but these thieves stand in far more dread of a policeman than a lord. France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a city, that you will not find in its eighty-five departments—I say eighty-five, because I do not include Corsica—you will not find, then, in these eighty-five departments a single hill on which there is not a telegraph, or a grotto in which the commissary of police has not put up a gaslamp. There is but one service I can render you, and for that I place myself entirely at your orders, that is, to present, or make my friends present, you everywhere; besides, you have no need of anyone to introduce you—with your name, and your fortune, and your talent


bowed with a somewhat ironical smile


you can present yourself everywhere, and be well received. I can be useful in one way only—if knowledge of Parisian habits, of the means of rendering yourself comfortable, or of the bazaars, can assist, you may depend upon me to find you a fitting dwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my apartments with you, as I shared yours at Rome—I, who do not profess egotism, but am yet egotist par excellence; for, except myself, these rooms would not hold a shadow more, unless that shadow were feminine.


Ah, that is a most conjugal reservation; I recollect that at Rome you said something of a projected marriage. May I congratulate you?


The affair is still in projection.


And he who says in ‘projection,’ means already decided,


my father is most anxious about it; and I hope, ere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife, at least to my betrothed—Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars.


Eugénie Danglars, tell me, is not her father Baron Danglars?


Yes, a baron of a new creation.


What matter, if he has rendered the State services which merit this distinction?


Enormous ones. Although in reality a Liberal, he negotiated a loan of six millions for Charles X., in 1829, who made him a baron and chevalier of the Legion of Honor; so that he wears the ribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his button-hole.


Ah. Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that for the Corsaire or the Charivari, but spare my future father-in-law before me. You just now spoke his name as if you knew the baron?


I do not know him, but I shall probably soon make his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house of Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and Thomson & French at Rome.


Thomson & French, do you know this house, monsieur?


They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world. Can my influence with them be of any service to you?


Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been, up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a great service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied having rendered us this service.


I shall be at your orders,


à propos of Danglars,—we have strangely wandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation for the Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some place. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?


Faubourg Saint-Germain. The count will find there a charming hotel, with a court and garden.


Bah! Château-Renaud, you only know your dull and gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him, count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.


Boulevard de l’Opéra, the second floor—a house with a balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought there, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him.


You have no idea, then, Morrel? you do not propose anything.


Oh, yes, on the contrary, I have one, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant proposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will venture to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the Pompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue Meslay.


You have a sister? Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister. Married?


Nearly nine years.


Happy?


As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be. She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to us in our fallen fortunes—Emmanuel Herbaut.


smiled imperceptibly


I live there during my leave of absence, and I shall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the disposition of the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us.


One minute. Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the Sailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch of him.


my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-law is thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be in his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so.


Thanks, monsieur. I shall content myself with being presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the honor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of these gentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared.


What, you are, then, going to a hotel—that will be very dull for you.


Was I so badly lodged at Rome?


Parbleu! at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing your apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a similar sum every day.


It is not that which deterred me, but as I determined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre, and he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it.


But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?


It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and cannot speak,


It is Ali! Certainly. I recollect him perfectly. But how could you charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?—he will do everything wrong.


Undeceive yourself, monsieur. I am quite sure, that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for me. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o’clock; he was waiting for me at nine at the Barrière de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper; it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,


Ah, that is really original,


And very princely,


What, do you not know your house?


No. I told you I did not wish to be behind my time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount’s door.


We must content ourselves, then, with rendering the count all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of journalist, open all the theatres to him.


Thanks, monsieur, my steward has orders to take a box at each theatre.


Is your steward also a Nubian?


No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of anyone’s. But you know him, M. de Morcerf.


Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so well?


Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been a soldier, a smuggler—in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle—a stab with a knife, for instance.


And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward. Of how much does he rob you every year?


On my word, not more than another. I am sure he answers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him.


Then, since you have an establishment, a steward, and a hotel in the Champs-Élysées, you only want a mistress.


I have something better than that. I have a slave. You procure your mistresses from the opera, the Vaudeville, or the Variétés; I purchased mine at Constantinople; it cost me more, but I have nothing to fear.


But you forget, that we are Franks by name and franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she puts her foot in France your slave becomes free. Who will tell her? The first person who sees her. She only speaks Romaic. That is different.


But at least we shall see her, or do you keep eunuchs as well as mutes?


Oh, no. I do not carry brutalism so far. Everyone who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me will no longer have any need of me or anyone else; it is for that reason, perhaps, that they do not quit me.


My dear Albert, it is half-past two. Your guest is charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst sometimes. I must return to the minister’s. I will tell him of the count, and we shall soon know who he is.


Take care, no one has been able to accomplish that.


Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty thousand francs to spend for this purpose.


And when you know, will you tell me?


I promise you. Au revoir, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning.


Bravo I shall not go to the Chamber, but I have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M. Danglars.


For heaven’s sake, Beauchamp, do not deprive me of the merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar?


He is more than that, he is one of the most extraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel?


Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us a visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14.


Be sure I shall not fail to do so,


My dear count, allow me to commence my services as cicerone by showing you a specimen of a bachelor’s apartment. You, who are accustomed to the palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As we pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you breathe.


You have there a most charming mistress, viscount, and this costume—a ball costume, doubtless—becomes her admirably.


Ah, monsieur. I would never forgive you this mistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not know my mother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait painted thus six or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and the resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same as she was in 1830. The countess had this portrait painted during the count’s absence. She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable surprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my father, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the best works of Léopold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it. It is true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most assiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a most mediocre amateur of art. It is different with my mother, who paints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a picture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you. Excuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of introducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any allusions to this picture. The picture seems to have a malign influence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and still more rarely does she look at it without weeping. This disagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the count and countess, who are still as much united, although married more than twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding. Now, that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to offer them to you, unworthy as they are. Consider yourself as in your own house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany me to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an account of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your promised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess anxiously desire to thank you in person. You are somewhat blasé I know, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who has seen so many others. However, accept what I propose to you as an initiation into Parisian life—a life of politeness, visiting, and introductions.


Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender. These are, doubtless, your family arms? Except the knowledge of blazons, that enables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry—I, a count of a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery of St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been told that when you travel much it is necessary. Besides, you must have something on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by the custom-house officers. Excuse my putting such a question to you.


It is not indiscreet. You have guessed rightly. These are our arms, that is, those of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield, which has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother’s. By her side I am Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one of the oldest of the south of France.


Yes, these blazons prove that. Almost all the armed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a cross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the long voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to accomplish on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors had joined the Crusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you mount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient.


It is possible, my father has in his study a genealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made commentaries that would have greatly edified d’Hozier and Jaucourt. At present I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are beginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our popular government.


Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past something better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments, and which have no heraldic meaning whatever. As for you, viscount, continued Monte Cristo to Morcerf, “you are more fortunate than the government, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the imagination. Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that explains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much admired on the visage of the noble Catalan.”


I have the honor of presenting to you the Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend whom I had the good fortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you.


You are most welcome, monsieur, and monsieur has rendered our house, in preserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal gratitude. The countess, was at her toilet when she was informed of the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in the salon in ten minutes.


It is a great honor to me, to be thus, on the first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Mitidja, or in the mountains of Atlas, a marshal’s staff to offer you?


Oh. I have left the service, monsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore, expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the elder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the battle-field, you do not know how to manœuvre on the slippery grounds of the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics. I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the time.


These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other. A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure soldier, step by step—this is uncommon; then become general, peer of France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire than that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this, indeed, is praiseworthy,—nay, more, it is sublime. Alas, we do not act thus in Italy; we grow according to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines, and often the same uselessness, all our lives.


But, monsieur, for a man of your merit, Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you; respond to her call. France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful. She treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers.


Ah, father, it is evident you do not know the Count of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors, and contents himself with those written on his passport.


That is the most just remark. I ever heard made concerning myself.


You have been free to choose your career, and you have chosen the path strewed with flowers.


Precisely, monsieur, replied Monte Cristo with one of those smiles that a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze.


If I did not fear to fatigue you. I would have taken you to the Chamber; there is a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern senators.


I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time, renew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being introduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait.


Ah, here is my mother,


No, but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first time, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears and desolation. Monsieur, I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I bless you. Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus affording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you, from the bottom of my heart.


Madame, the count and yourself recompense too generously a simple action. To save a man, to spare a father’s feelings, or a mother’s sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of humanity.


It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a friend, and I thank God that things are thus. Madame. I have already made my excuses to the count for quitting him, and I pray you to do so also. The sitting commences at two; it is now three, and I am to speak. Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your absence. Monsieur, will you do us the honor of passing the rest of the day with us?


Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got out of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am ignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is but a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated.


We shall have the pleasure another time, you promise that? I would not have our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate.


My dear Count. I will endeavor to return your politeness at Rome, and place my coupé at your disposal until your own be ready.


A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount, but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the four hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a carriage of some sort ready at the door.


Monsieur. I do not ask you to accompany me to my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry, and I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being taken by surprise. Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite you; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality.


If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not be a house I shall see, but a palace. You have decidedly some genius at your control.


Ma foi, spread that idea, and that will be worth something to me among the ladies.


My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?


No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such violent perfumes.


Then, my dear mother, they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just now were so pale as you came into the room——


Was I pale, Albert?


Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the less alarm my father and myself.


Did your father speak of it? Yes, I do remember. Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room, they make the countess ill. is it a family name, or the name of the estate, or a simple title?


I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a commandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of Florence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order of Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that the count is a man of very high distinction.


His manners are admirable, at least, as far as I could judge in the few minutes he remained here.


They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I have known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities of Europe—the English, the Spanish, and the German.


You have seen, my dear Albert—I ask the question as a mother—you have seen M. de Monte Cristo in his house, you are quicksighted, have much knowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you think the count is really what he appears to be?


What does he appear to be?


Why, you have just said,—a man of high distinction.


I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such.


But what is your own opinion, Albert?


I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting him, but I think him a Maltese.


I do not ask you of his origin but what he is.


Ah! what he is; that is quite another thing. I have seen so many remarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I think, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron’s heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient family, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the force of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws of society.


You say——


I say that Monte Cristo is an island in the midst of the Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers of all nations, and pirates of every flag. Who knows whether or not these industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues for his protection?


That is possible,


Never mind, smuggler or not, you must agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the salons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his entrée amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not even excepting Château-Renaud.


And what do you suppose is the count’s age?


Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.


So young,—it is impossible,


It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I, induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five. Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair, and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles,—he is not only vigorous, but also young.


And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?


I am inclined to think so.


And—do—you—like—him?


Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who tries to convince me that he is a being returned from the other world.


Albert. I have always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be prudent.


Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust. The count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little sherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at me, try to borrow money. What, then, have I to fear from him?


You are right, and my fears are weakness, especially when directed against a man who has saved your life. How did your father receive him, Albert? It is necessary that we should be more than complaisant to the count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his business makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it——


Nothing could be in better taste than my father’s demeanor, madame, nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three compliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with as much ease as if he had known him these thirty years. Each of these little tickling arrows must have pleased my father. And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de Morcerf even wished to take him to the Chamber to hear the speakers. This devil of a fellow,


I said at the time he would create a sensation here, and I measure his effect by an infallible thermometer. My mother has noticed him, and he must therefore, perforce, be remarkable.


Most decidedly, men are not equal, and I must beg my father to develop this theorem in the Chamber of Peers.


Thanks, M. Bertuccio, and the notary?


He is in the small salon, excellency,


And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of the house?


Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, No. 7; the others are on the mantle-piece of your excellency’s bedroom.


Good; what o’clock is it?


Four o’clock.


These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber. I trust all this will soon be taken away. You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?


Yes, count,


Is the deed of sale ready?


Yes, count.


Have you brought it?


Here it is.


Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?


What! does not the count know where the house he purchases is situated?


No,


The count does not know?


How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even set my foot in France.


Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.


And where is Auteuil?


Close by here, monsieur, a little beyond Passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.


So near as that? but that is not in the country. What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?


I. His excellency did not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will recollect—if he will think——


Ah, true. I recollect now. I read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, ‘a country house.’


It is not yet too late, and if your excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.


Oh, no, since I have this, I will keep it.


And you are quite right. It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time, without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has the tastes of the day?


To be sure, it is very convenient, then?


It is more—it is magnificent.


Peste! let us not lose such an opportunity. The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary. Bertuccio, give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur. And now, are all the forms complied with?


All, sir.


Have you the keys?


They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house, but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new possessions.


Very well;


But, the count is, I think, mistaken; it is only fifty thousand francs, everything included.


And your fee?


Is included in this sum.


But have you not come from Auteuil here?


Yes, certainly.


Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of time and trouble. See this gentleman out, ‘Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;’ it is indeed the same, and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or physical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio!


Bertuccio!


Monsieur Bertuccio, did you never tell me that you had travelled in France?


In some parts of France—yes, excellency.


You know the environs of Paris, then?


No, excellency, no,


It is unfortunate, that you have never visited the environs, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you gone with me, you could have given me some useful information.


To Auteuil! I go to Auteuil?


Well, what is there surprising in that? When I live at Auteuil, you must come there, as you belong to my service. Why, what has happened to you?—are you going to make me ring a second time for the carriage?


His excellency’s horses! Your excellency’s carriage is at the door,


Well, take your hat and gloves,


Am I to accompany you, your excellency?


Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the house.


Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28,


Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.


Well, you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening? Knock, and announce me.


What is it?


It is your new master, my good fellow,


The house is sold, then? and this gentleman is coming to live here?


Yes, my friend, and I will endeavor to give you no cause to regret your old master.


Oh, monsieur. I shall not have much cause to regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him in anything at all.


What was the name of your old master?


The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it.


The Marquis of Saint-Méran! The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!


An old gentleman, a staunch follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had been the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.


And is not this daughter dead? I fancy I have heard so.


Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not seen the poor marquis three times.


Thanks, thanks. Give me a light.


Shall I accompany you, monsieur?


No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light.


Ah, monsieur. I have not got any candles.


Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio, and show me the apartments. Ah, here is a private staircase, that is convenient. Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to.


Monsieur, it leads to the garden.


And, pray, how do you know that?


It ought to do so, at least.


Well, let us be sure of that. Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio. Well!


No, no. No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther.


What does this mean?


Why, you must see, your excellency, that this is not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure you would not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have been some other one than this; as if there was not another house at Auteuil than that of the assassination!


What, what! what words do you utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are—always mysteries or superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope? No, no, monsieur. What is the use of following the alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards.


Move, monsieur—move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot! Where he fell.


My dear Monsieur Bertuccio, control yourself; we are not at Sartène or at Corte. This is not a Corsican maquis but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must not calumniate it for that.


Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!


I think you are going mad, Bertuccio. If that is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum.


Alas! excellency. Alas! excellency, the evil has arrived!


M. Bertuccio. I am very glad to tell you, that while you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I knew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding over some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy, because in Italy those things are thought nothing of. But in France they are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy themselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which avenge. The Abbé Busoni, then told me an untruth, when, after his journey in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities. Well, I shall write to the abbé; I shall hold him responsible for his protégé’s misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the compass of the French laws for your sake.


Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully. I have always been an honest man, and, as far as lay in my power, I have done good.


I do not deny it, but why are you thus agitated. It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man.


But, your excellency, did not the Abbé Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nîmes, tell you that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?


Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded you had stolen—that was all.


Oh, your excellency!


Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the desire of making a ‘stiff,’ as you call it.


Yes, my good master, it was simply vengeance—nothing else.


I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes you in this manner.


But, monsieur, it is very natural, since it was in this house that my vengeance was accomplished.


What! my house?


Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then.


Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran, I think, the concierge said. What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Méran?


Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another.


This is strange, that you should find yourself without any preparation in a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse.


Monsieur, it is fatality, I am sure. First, you purchase a house at Auteuil—this house is the one where I have committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just buried his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too much like Providence.


Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is Providence. I always suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede something to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all.


I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbé Busoni. Such things, are only related under the seal of confession.


Then. I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like anyone who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent—in France she is paid only when she speaks. Peste! I thought you somewhat Corsican, a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have other strings to your bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio.


Oh, your excellency, your excellency! if that is the only reason I cannot remain in your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go to the scaffold.


That is different, but if you intend to tell an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all.


No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell you all, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de Villefort.


What! it was M. de Villefort?


Your excellency knows him?


The former royal attorney at Nîmes?


Yes.


Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’s daughter?


Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright, the most rigid magistrate on the bench?


Well, monsieur, this man with this spotless reputation——


Well?


Was a villain.


Bah, impossible!


It is as I tell you.


Ah, really. Have you proof of this?


I had it.


And you have lost it; how stupid!


Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered.


Really, relate it to me, for it begins to interest me.


At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?


Where you please, since I know nothing at all of it. I thought the Abbé Busoni had told your excellency. Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and I have forgotten them.


Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency.


Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers.


The story begins in 1815.


Ah, 1815 is not yesterday.


No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had happened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the service of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed entirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we became orphans—I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been his son, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the Island of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly wounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire.


But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio, unless I am mistaken, it has been already written.


Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you promised to be patient.


Go on; I will keep my word.


One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in the little village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cap Corse. This letter was from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that he should return by Châteauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nîmes; and, if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nîmes, with an innkeeper with whom I had dealings.


In the smuggling line?


Eh, your excellency? Everyone must live.


Certainly; go on.


I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved not to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed a thousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law, and with the other five hundred I set off for Nîmes. It was easy to do so, and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything favored my project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind became contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able to enter the Rhône. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to Arles. I left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the road to Nîmes.


We are getting to the story now?


Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you what is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacres took place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon, Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they suspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres, your excellency?


Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on.


As I entered Nîmes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered, and burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became terrified, not for myself—for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had nothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us smugglers—but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from the army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was everything to apprehend. I hastened to the innkeeper. My misgivings had been but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at Nîmes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand hospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to discover the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much were they dreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had heard so much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king’s attorney.


And this king’s attorney was named Villefort?


Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been deputy procureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was said to be one of the first who had informed the government of the departure from the Island of Elba.


Then, you went to him?


Monsieur,’ I said, ‘my brother was assassinated yesterday in the streets of Nîmes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out. You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to avenge those she has been unable to protect. ‘Who was your brother?’ asked he. A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion. A soldier of the usurper, then? A soldier of the French army. Well,’ replied he, ‘he has smitten with the sword, and he has perished by the sword. You are mistaken, monsieur,’ I replied; ‘he has perished by the poniard. ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the magistrate. I have already told you—avenge him. On whom? On his murderers. How should I know who they are? Order them to be sought for. Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a duel. All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in the time of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people here do not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct. Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘it is not for myself that I entreat your interference—I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brother had a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature would perish from want, for my brother’s pay alone kept her. Pray, try and obtain a small government pension for her. Every revolution has its catastrophes,’ returned M. de Villefort; ‘your brother has been the victim of this. It is a misfortune, and government owes nothing to his family. If we are to judge by all the vengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisans of the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother would be today, in all probability, condemned to death. What has happened is quite natural, and in conformity with the law of reprisals. What,’ cried I, ‘do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me? All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,’ replied M. de Villefort; ‘they fancy that their countryman is still emperor. You have mistaken the time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too late now. Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out. I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope from further entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and said in a low voice, ‘Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know that they always keep their word. You think that it was a good deed to kill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist. Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is, that I will kill you. From this moment I declare the vendetta against you, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meet your last hour has come.’ And before he had recovered from his surprise, I opened the door and left the room.


Well, well, such an innocent looking person as you are to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king’s attorney at that! But did he know what was meant by the terrible word ‘vendetta’?


He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house, and never went out unattended, seeking me high and low. Fortunately, I was so well concealed that he could not find me. Then he became alarmed, and dared not stay any longer at Nîmes, so he solicited a change of residence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was nominated to Versailles. But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to avenge himself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it went, was never above half a day’s journey before me, who followed him on foot. The most important thing was, not to kill him only—for I had an opportunity of doing so a hundred times—but to kill him without being discovered—at least, without being arrested. I no longer belonged to myself, for I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for. For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he took not a step out-of-doors without my following him. At length I discovered that he went mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him thither, and I saw him enter the house where we now are, only, instead of entering by the great door that looks into the street, he came on horseback, or in his carriage, left the one or the other at the little inn, and entered by the gate you see there.


As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, and gained all the information I could. If I wished to surprise him, it was evident this was the spot to lie in wait for him. The house belonged, as the concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-Méran, Villefort’s father-in-law. M. de Saint-Méran lived at Marseilles, so that this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to be let to a young widow, known only by the name of ‘the Baroness.’


And, did you ever know the name of this woman?


No, excellency, you will see that I had no time to learn it.


Go on.


That evening. I could have killed the procureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the neighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if his cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the next occasion, and in order that nothing should escape me, I took a chamber looking into the street bordered by the wall of the garden. Three days after, about seven o’clock in the evening, I saw a servant on horseback leave the house at full gallop, and take the road to Sèvres. I concluded that he was going to Versailles, and I was not deceived. Three hours later, the man returned covered with dust, his errand was performed, and two minutes after, another man on foot, muffled in a mantle, opened the little door of the garden, which he closed after him. I descended rapidly; although I had not seen Villefort’s face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart. I crossed the street, and stopped at a post placed at the angle of the wall, and by means of which I had once before looked into the garden. This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knife out of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over the wall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it, taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing, then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order to go from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees. It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of discovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your excellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies that he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours passed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight struck. As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through the windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended. The door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared. The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it that my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocket again, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantle advanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in his hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he was only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon was only a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de Villefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the thicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the earth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle, which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I confess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort was going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath. Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or eight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had made, then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast, exclaiming: I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother’s; thy treasure for his widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had hoped.


Ah, it seems to me this was nothing but murder and robbery.


No, your excellency, it was a vendetta followed by restitution.


And was the sum a large one?


It was not money.


Ah, I recollect, did you not say something of an infant?


Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and with my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth was wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-colored hands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet. After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart, and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a doctor would have done—I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them, and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and cried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy. God has not cursed me then, since he permits me to save the life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken away.


And what did you do with the child? It was an embarrassing load for a man seeking to escape.


I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at Paris there was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I passed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the road, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my statement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy parents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from the child as well as from anyone else. No objection was raised, but they pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the Rue d’Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen in two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on the piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my possession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed. A fortnight after I was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta: Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged. Giovanni, you should have brought this child with you; we would have replaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then, in consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.


What letters were marked on the linen?


An H and an N, surmounted by a baron’s coronet.


By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you study heraldry?


In your service, excellency, where everything is learned.


Go on, I am curious to know two things.


What are they, your excellency?


What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy, M. Bertuccio.


No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that.


I thought you did; I must have been mistaken.


No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But your excellency wished to know two things; what was the second?


The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for a confessor, and the Abbé Busoni came to visit you at your request in the prison at Nîmes.


The story will be very long, excellency.


What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose you are very much inclined for it either.


Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly to supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade of smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the laws which always follows a revolution. The southern districts were ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were perpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nîmes, or Uzès. We profited by this respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere. Since my brother’s assassination in the streets of Nîmes, I had never entered the town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were connected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to come to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from Bellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus, at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our goods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the gendarmes and custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade, when a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for myself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing the gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the judges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into the past. And in my past life they might find something far more grave than the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a permit. So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most astonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of those projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and determined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or, rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled.


Philosophy, M. Bertuccio, you have done a little of everything in your life.


Oh, excellency!


No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet I have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which is more than can be said for all philosophy.


My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive. Assunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as I was setting off on an expedition, ‘Go,’ said she; ‘at your return I will give you a surprise.’ I questioned her, but in vain; she would tell me nothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six weeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English cottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home full of joy. When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the middle of Assunta’s chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous compared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or eight months old. I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I had known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the recollection that I had abandoned this child. For the assassination itself I had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She had profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen, and having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the child at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No objection was raised, and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I confess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping peacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah, Assunta,’ cried I, ‘you are an excellent woman, and Heaven will bless you.’


This, is less correct than your philosophy,—it is only faith.


Alas, your excellency is right, and God made this infant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse nature declare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault in his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes, of that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion; only his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular expression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of his smile. Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that ‘red is either altogether good or altogether bad.’ The proverb was but too correct as regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst disposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother encouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the town, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the most tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese preserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor’s orchard, or the dried apples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and apples that grew in my garden. One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Wasilio, who, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purse or his valuables—for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves in Corsica—complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we thought he must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he persisted in the accuracy of his statement. One day, Benedetto, who had been gone from the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not return until late in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he said he had found chained to the foot of a tree. For more than a month past, the mischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken it into his head to have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed by Rogliano, and who had several of these animals, whose tricks had greatly diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him. ‘Monkeys are not found in our woods chained to trees,’ said I; ‘confess how you obtained this animal.’ Benedetto maintained the truth of what he had said, and accompanied it with details that did more honor to his imagination than to his veracity. I became angry; he began to laugh, I threatened to strike him, and he made two steps backwards. ‘You cannot beat me,’ said he; ‘you have no right, for you are not my father.’ We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had so carefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which the child’s whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, and my arm fell without touching him. The boy triumphed, and this victory rendered him so audacious, that all the money of Assunta, whose affection for him seemed to increase as he became more unworthy of it, was spent in caprices she knew not how to contend against, and follies she had not the courage to prevent. When I was at Rogliano everything went on properly, but no sooner was my back turned than Benedetto became master, and everything went ill. When he was only eleven, he chose his companions from among the young men of eighteen or twenty, the worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed, in Corsica, and they had already, for some mischievous pranks, been several times threatened with a prosecution. I became alarmed, as any prosecution might be attended with serious consequences. I was compelled, at this period, to leave Corsica on an important expedition; I reflected for a long time, and with the hope of averting some impending misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto should accompany me. I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with the severe discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on his character, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt. I spoke to Benedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring to tempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of a child of twelve. He heard me patiently, and when I had finished, burst out laughing. Are you mad, uncle? do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your mode of existence—my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious toil you impose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and the scorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you are perceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum? Why, I have as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me when I ask for it! You see that I should be a fool to accept your offer. The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me. Benedetto rejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out to them as a fool.


Sweet child,


Oh, had he been my own son, or even my nephew, I would have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge that you are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I was striking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me to punish him. I gave my sister, who constantly defended the unfortunate boy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several times missed money to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place in which to conceal our little treasure for the future. My mind was already made up. Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for when the fit seized him, he learned more in a day than others in a week. My intention was to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and without letting him know anything of my plan, to convey him some morning on board; by this means his future treatment would depend upon his own conduct. I set off for France, after having fixed upon the plan. Our cargo was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons, and this was a difficult thing to do because it was then the year 1829. The most perfect tranquillity was restored, and the vigilance of the custom-house officers was redoubled, and their strictness was increased at this time, in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire. Our expedition made a favorable beginning. We anchored our vessel—which had a double hold, where our goods were concealed—amidst a number of other vessels that bordered the banks of the Rhône from Beaucaire to Arles. On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in the night, and to convey it into the town, by the help of the innkeeper with whom we were connected. Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, I know not; but one evening, about five o’clock, our little cabin-boy came breathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of custom-house officers advancing in our direction. It was not their proximity that alarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling along the banks of the Rhône, but the care, according to the boy’s account, that they took to avoid being seen. In an instant we were on the alert, but it was too late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst the custom-house officers I observed several gendarmes, and, as terrified at the sight of their uniforms as I was brave at the sight of any other, I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the river, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a ditch that had recently been made from the Rhône to the canal that runs from Beaucaire to Aigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I could swim along the ditch without being seen, and I reached the canal in safety. I had designedly taken this direction. I have already told your excellency of an innkeeper from Nîmes who had set up a little tavern on the road from Bellegarde to Beaucaire.


Yes. I perfectly recollect him; I think he was your colleague.


Precisely, but he had, seven or eight years before this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles, who, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make his fortune in another. Of course, we made the same arrangements with the new landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that I intended to ask shelter.


What was his name?


Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of Carconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her village. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by inches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or five-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample proof of his presence of mind and courage.


that this took place towards the year——


1829, your excellency.


In what month?


June.


The beginning or the end?


The evening of the 3rd.


Ah, the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on.


It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as we never entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not to break through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I crept amongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse might have some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passed the night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, in which holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunity of announcing our presence. My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with my presence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted, and profit by the threatened storm to return to the Rhône, and ascertain the state of our vessel and its crew. I stepped into the shed, and it was fortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse entered with a stranger.


Hello, Carconte, the worthy priest has not deceived us; the diamond is real. What do you say? I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the first jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000 francs for it. Only, in order to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to relate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which the diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sit down, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment. Relate your story, madame. Oh, it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a great friend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantès. This poor fellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at his death he bequeathed this diamond to him. But how did he obtain it? had he it before he was imprisoned? No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance of a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantès took the same care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman, when he was set free, gave this stone to Dantès, who, less fortunate, died, and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbé, who was here this morning, to deliver it. The same story, and improbable as it seemed at first, it may be true. There’s only the price we are not agreed about. How not agreed about? I thought we agreed for the price I asked. That is. I offered 40,000 francs. Forty thousand, we will not part with it for that sum. The abbé told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting. The Abbé Busoni. He was a foreigner? An Italian from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe. Let me see this diamond again, the first time you are often mistaken as to the value of a stone.


And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper? did you credit it?


Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft.


That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M. Bertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dantès, of whom they spoke?


No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but once afterwards, and that was from the Abbé Busoni himself, when I saw him in the prison at Nîmes.


Go on.


The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of steel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of its setting, and weighed it carefully. I will give you 45,000, but not a sou more; besides, as that is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me. Oh, that’s no matter. I will go back with you to fetch the other 5,000 francs. No, no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much, for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen. However, I will not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000. At least, replace the diamond in the ring. Ah, true. No matter, someone else will purchase it. Yes, but someone else will not be so easy as I am, or content himself with the same story. It is not natural that a man like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against you. You will have to find the Abbé Busoni; and abbés who give diamonds worth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs, will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000 francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in purchasing. No, we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs. As you please, my dear sir. I had, however, as you see, brought you the money in bright coin. What do you think of this? Let him have it—let him have it. If he returns to Beaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he says, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbé Busoni?—in all probability we shall never see him. Well, then, so I will! so you may have the diamond for 45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of silver buckles. Here. I am very straightforward in my dealings—take your choice. I hope you will not complain now? The abbé told me it was worth 50,000 francs. Come, come—give it to me! What a strange fellow you are. I give you 45,000 francs—that is, 2,500 livres of income,—a fortune such as I wish I had myself, and you are not satisfied! And the five-and-forty thousand francs, where are they? Come—let us see them. Here they are. Wait whilst I light the lamp, it is growing dark, and there may be some mistake.


Well, is the cash all right? Yes. Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and find a bag somewhere. There, and now, although you have wronged us of perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us? I invite you with good-will. Thank you, it must be getting late, and I must return to Beaucaire—my wife will be getting uneasy. Morbleu! nearly nine o’clock—why, I shall not get back to Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night, my friends. If the Abbé Busoni should by any accident return, think of me. In another week you will have left Beaucaire, for the fair ends in a few days. True, but that makes no difference. Write to me at Paris, to M. Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while. See here. You cannot think of going out in such weather as this. Oh, I am not afraid of thunder. And then there are robbers. The road is never very safe during fair time. Oh, as to the robbers, here is something for them, are dogs who bark and bite at the same time, they are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond, Friend Caderousse. Well, then, a good journey to you. Thanks, this is very nice weather, and two leagues to go in such a storm. Remain. Yes; do stay, we will take every care of you. No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night. I can see neither heaven nor earth. Do I turn to the right, or to the left hand? To the right. You cannot go wrong—the road is bordered by trees on both sides. Good—all right. Close the door. I do not like open doors when it thunders. Particularly when there is money in the house, eh? He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and pocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold and bank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the flickering lamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman, especially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was intensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled burning coals. Why, did you invite him to sleep here tonight? Why? why, that he might not have the trouble of returning to Beaucaire. Ah. I thought it was for something else. Woman, woman—why do you have such ideas? or, if you have them, why don’t you keep them to yourself? Well, you are not a man. What do you mean? If you had been a man, you would not have let him go from here. Woman! Or else he should not have reached Beaucaire. Woman!


The road takes a turn—he is obliged to follow it—while alongside of the canal there is a shorter road.


Woman!—you offend the good God. There—listen! Mercy! Who’s there?


It is I,


And who are you?


Eh, pardieu! Joannes, the jeweller.


Well, and you said I offended the good God. Why, the good God sends him back again. Come in, dear M. Joannes.


Ma foi. I am not destined to return to Beaucaire tonight. The shortest follies are best, my dear Caderousse. You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and have returned to sleep beneath your friendly roof.


Well, well, you seem, my good friends, to have had some fears respecting the accuracy of your money, by counting it over so carefully directly I was gone.


Oh, no, that was not my reason, I can assure you; but the circumstances by which we have become possessed of this wealth are so unexpected, as to make us scarcely credit our good fortune, and it is only by placing the actual proof of our riches before our eyes that we can persuade ourselves that the whole affair is not a dream.


Have you any other guests in your house?


Nobody but ourselves, the fact is, we do not lodge travellers—indeed, our tavern is so near the town, that nobody would think of stopping here.


Then I am afraid I shall very much inconvenience you.


Inconvenience us? Not at all, my dear sir. Not at all, I assure you.


But where will you manage to stow me?


In the chamber overhead.


Surely that is where you yourselves sleep?


Never mind that; we have a second bed in the adjoining room.


There, supper is ready whenever you are.


And you?


I don’t want any supper,


We dined so very late,


Then it seems I am to eat alone,


Oh, we shall have the pleasure of waiting upon you. There, there, do you hear that? upon my word, you did well to come back.


Nevertheless, if by the time I have finished my supper the tempest has at all abated, I shall make another start.


It’s the mistral, and it will be sure to last till tomorrow morning.


Well, all I can say is, so much the worse for those who are abroad.


Yes, they will have a wretched night of it.


I believe the storm is over,


You must be tired. I have spread a pair of white sheets on your bed; go up when you are ready, and sleep well.


What does he mean?


He means, that he got in that way;


I did not do it! Indeed, indeed I did not!


Stir but a step, and you are a dead man.


Why should you threaten me with death, when I have already declared my innocence?


Tush, tush, keep your innocent stories to tell to the judge at Nîmes. Meanwhile, come along with us; and the best advice we can give you is to do so unresistingly.


In the interim it pleased Providence to cause the apprehension of Caderousse, who was discovered in some distant country, and brought back to France, where he made a full confession, refusing to make the fact of his wife’s having suggested and arranged the murder any excuse for his own guilt. The wretched man was sentenced to the galleys for life, and I was immediately set at liberty.


And then it was, I presume, that you came to me as the bearer of a letter from the Abbé Busoni?


It was, your excellency; the benevolent abbé took an evident interest in all that concerned me.


Your mode of life as a smuggler, will be the ruin of you; if you get out, don’t take it up again.


But how, am I to maintain myself and my poor sister?


A person, whose confessor I am,


and who entertains a high regard for me, applied to me a short time since to procure him a confidential servant. Would you like such a post? If so, I will give you a letter of introduction to him.


Oh, father,


I exclaimed, you are very good.


But you must swear solemnly that I shall never have reason to repent my recommendation.


It is unnecessary for you to bind yourself by any vow,


I know and admire the Corsican nature too well to fear you. Here, take this,


No,


I take pleasure in saying that you have served me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might have shown more confidence in me.


I, your excellency? Yes; you. How comes it, that having both a sister and an adopted son, you have never spoken to me of either?


Alas, I have still to recount the most distressing period of my life. Anxious as you may suppose I was to behold and comfort my dear sister, I lost no time in hastening to Corsica, but when I arrived at Rogliano I found a house of mourning, the consequences of a scene so horrible that the neighbors remember and speak of it to this day. Acting by my advice, my poor sister had refused to comply with the unreasonable demands of Benedetto, who was continually tormenting her for money, as long as he believed there was a sou left in her possession. One morning he threatened her with the severest consequences if she did not supply him with what he desired, and disappeared and remained away all day, leaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him as if he were her own child, to weep over his conduct and bewail his absence. Evening came, and still, with all the patient solicitude of a mother, she watched for his return.


As the eleventh hour struck, he entered with a swaggering air, attended by two of the most dissolute and reckless of his boon companions. She stretched out her arms to him, but they seized hold of her, and one of the three—none other than the accursed Benedetto exclaimed:


Put her to torture and she’ll soon tell us where her money is.


It was subsequently to these dreadful events that I waited on your excellency, to whom it would have been folly to have mentioned Benedetto, since all trace of him seemed entirely lost; or of my sister, since she was dead.


And in what light did you view the occurrence?


As a punishment for the crime I had committed. Oh, those Villeforts are an accursed race!


Truly they are,


your excellency may, perhaps, be able to comprehend that this place, which I revisit for the first time—this garden, the actual scene of my crime—must have given rise to reflections of no very agreeable nature, and produced that gloom and depression of spirits which excited the notice of your excellency, who was pleased to express a desire to know the cause. At this instant a shudder passes over me as I reflect that possibly I am now standing on the very grave in which lies M. de Villefort, by whose hand the ground was dug to receive the corpse of his child.


Everything is possible, even, even that the procureur be not dead. The Abbé Busoni did right to send you to me, and you have done well in relating to me the whole of your history, as it will prevent my forming any erroneous opinions concerning you in future. As for that Benedetto, who so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace out whither he has gone, or what has become of him?


No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should shun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God, I have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and believe he is dead.


Do not think so, Bertuccio, for the wicked are not so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special watch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance.


So be it, all I ask of heaven is that I may never see him again. And now, your excellency, you know everything—you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty is in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation?


My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the Abbé Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you, and, perhaps, to others. Benedetto, if still living, will become the instrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly punished in his turn. As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but one point in which you are really guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore, after rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it to its mother? There was the crime, Bertuccio—that was where you became really culpable.


True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that I acted like a coward. My first duty, directly I had succeeded in recalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in order to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which would, in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung to life, partly on my sister’s account, and partly from that feeling of pride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and victorious in the execution of our vengeance. Perhaps, too, the natural and instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my own. And then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor brother.