till three. All these preparations had collected a number of idlers
round the door of Signor Pastrini's; the descendants of Marius and
the Gracchi were also not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly
through the crowd, who for the sake of gain styled him "your
excellency." As Danglars had hitherto contented himself with being
called a baron, he felt rather flattered at the title of
excellency, and distributed a dozen silver coins among the beggars,
who were ready, for twelve more, to call him "your highness."
"Which road?" asked the postilion in Italian. "The Ancona road,"
replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the question and
answer, and the horses galloped off. Danglars intended travelling
to Venice, where he would receive one part of his fortune, and then
proceeding to Vienna, where he would find the rest, he meant to
take up his residence in the latter town, which he had been told
was a city of pleasure.
He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight
began to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or
he would have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion
how long it would be before they reached the next town. "Non
capisco" (do not understand), was the reply. Danglars bent his
head, which he meant to imply, "Very well." The carriage again
moved on. "I will stop at the first posting-house," said Danglars
to himself.
He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had
experienced the previous evening, and which had procured him so
good a night's rest. He was luxuriously stretched in a good English
calash, with double springs; he was drawn by four good horses, at
full gallop; he knew the relay to be at a distance of seven
leagues. What subject of meditation could present itself to the
banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?
Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris;
another ten minutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle
d'Armilly; the same period was given to his creditors, and thed'Armilly; the same period was given to his creditors, and the
manner in which he intended spending their money; and then, having
no subject left for contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell
asleep. Now and then a jolt more violent than the rest caused him
to open his eyes; then he felt that he was still being carried with
great rapidity over the same country, thickly strewn with broken
aqueducts, which looked like granite giants petrified while running
a race. But the night was cold, dull, and rainy, and it was much
more pleasant for a traveller to remain in the warm carriage than
to put his head out of the window to make inquiries of a postilion
whose only answer was "Non capisco."
Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he
would be sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped.
Danglars fancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he
opened his eyes and looked through the window, expecting to find
himself in the midst of some town, or at least village; but he saw
nothing except what seemed like a ruin, where three or four men
went and came like shadows. Danglars waited a moment, expecting the
postilion to come and demand payment with the termination of his
stage. He intended taking advantage of the opportunity to make
fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but the horses were
unharnessed, and others put in their places, without any one
claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened the
door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled
on. The baron was completely roused. "Eh?" he said to the
postilion, "eh, mio caro?"
This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned
from hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But
mio caro did not reply. Danglars then opened the window.
"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting his hand through the
opening, "where are we going?"
"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn and imperious voice,
accompanied by a menacing gesture. Danglars thought dentro la testaaccompanied by a menacing gesture. Danglars thought dentro la testa
meant, "Put in your head!" He was making rapid progress in Italian.
He obeyed, not without some uneasiness, which, momentarily
increasing, caused his mind, instead of being as unoccupied as it
was when he began his journey, to fill with ideas which were very
likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially one in such a
situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality which in the
first moment of strong emotion enables them to see distinctly, and
which afterwards fails from being too much taxed. Before we are
alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see double; and
when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble. Danglars
observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the
carriage.
"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I have been intercepted by
French telegrams to the pontifical authorities?" He resolved to end
his anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he asked. "Dentro la
testa," replied the same voice, with the same menacing accent.
Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was
galloping on that side. "Decidedly," said Danglars, with the
perspiration on his forehead, "I must be under arrest." And he
threw himself back in the calash, not this time to sleep, but to
think. Directly afterwards the moon rose. He then saw the great
aqueducts, those stone phantoms which he had before remarked, only
then they were on the right hand, now they were on the left. He
understood that they had described a circle, and were bringing him
back to Rome. "Oh, unfortunate!" he cried, "they must have obtained
my arrest." The carriage continued to roll on with frightful speed.
An hour of terror elapsed, for every spot they passed showed that
they were on the road back. At length he saw a dark mass, against
which it seemed as if the carriage was about to dash; but the
vehicle turned to one side, leaving the barrier behind and Danglars
saw that it was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.


saw that it was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.
"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not returning to Rome; then
it is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another
idea presents itself — what if they should be" —
His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories,
so little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he
remembered the adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when
it was intended that he should marry Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They
are robbers, perhaps," he muttered. Just then the carriage rolled
on something harder than gravel road. Danglars hazarded a look on
both sides of the road, and perceived monuments of a singular form,
and his mind now recalled all the details Morcerf had related, and
comparing them with his own situation, he felt sure that he must be
on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of valley, he perceived a
circular excavation. It was Caracalla's circus. On a word from the
man who rode at the side of the carriage, it stopped. At the same
time the door was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a commanding voice.
Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak
Italian, he understood it very well. More dead than alive, he
looked around him. Four men surrounded him, besides the
postilion.
"Di qua," said one of the men, descending a little path leading
out of the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without
opposition, and had no occasion to turn around to see whether the
three others were following him. Still it appeared as though they
were stationed at equal distances from one another, like sentinels.
After walking for about ten minutes, during which Danglars did not
exchange a single word with his guide, he found himself between a
hillock and a clump of high weeds; three men, standing silent,
formed a triangle, of which he was the centre. He wished to speak,
but his tongue refused to move. "Avanti!" said the same sharp and
imperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if theimperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the
word and gesture had not explained the speaker's meaning, it was
clearly expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so
rudely that he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend
Peppino, who dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path
which none but lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an
open road. Peppino stopped before a pit overhung by thick hedges;
the pit, half open, afforded a passage to the young man, who
disappeared like the evil spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and
gesture of the man who followed Danglars ordered him to do the
same. There was no longer any doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands
of Roman banditti. Danglars acquitted himself like a man placed
between two dangerous positions, and who is rendered brave by fear.
Notwithstanding his large stomach, certainly not intended to
penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he slid down like Peppino,
and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he touched the ground,
he opened his eyes. The path was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared
little for being recognized now that he was in his own territories,
struck a light and lit a torch. Two other men descended after
Danglars forming the rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he
happened to stop, they came by a gentle declivity to the
intersection of two corridors. The walls were hollowed out in
sepulchres, one above the other, and which seemed in contrast with
the white stones to open their large dark eyes, like those which we
see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the rings of his
carbine against his left hand. "Who comes there?" he cried.
"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but where is the
captain?"
"There," said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a
spacious crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which
shone into the passage through the large arched openings. "Fine
spoil, captain, fine spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and takingspoil, captain, fine spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and taking
Danglars by the collar of his coat he dragged him to an opening
resembling a door, through which they entered the apartment which
the captain appeared to have made his dwelling-place.
"Is this the man?" asked the captain, who was attentively
reading Plutarch's "Life of Alexander."
"Himself, captain — himself."
"Very well, show him to me." At this rather impertinent order,
Peppino raised his torch to the face of Danglars, who hastily
withdrew that he might not have his eyelashes burnt. His agitated
features presented the appearance of pale and hideous terror. "The
man is tired," said the captain, "conduct him to his bed."
"Oh," murmured Danglars," that bed is probably one of the
coffins hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be
death from one of the poniards I see glistening in the
darkness."
From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the
chamber now arose the companions of the man who had been found by
Albert de Morcerf reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by Danglars
studying the "Life of Alexander." The banker uttered a groan and
followed his guide; he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no
longer possessed strength, will, power, or feeling; he followed
where they led him. At length he found himself at the foot of a
staircase, and he mechanically lifted his foot five or six times.
Then a low door was opened before him, and bending his head to
avoid striking his forehead he entered a small room cut out of the
rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, though situated at
an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed of dried grass
covered with goat-skins was placed in one corner. Danglars
brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave some promise
of safety. "Oh, God be praised," he said; "it is a real bed!"
"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he
closed the door upon him. A bolt grated and Danglars was a
prisoner. If there had been no bolt, it would have been impossible


prisoner. If there had been no bolt, it would have been impossible
for him to pass through the midst of the garrison who held the
catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped round a master whom our
readers must have recognized as the famous Luigi Vampa. Danglars,
too, had recognized the bandit, whose existence he would not
believe when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in Paris; and not only
did he recognize him, but the cell in which Albert had been
confined, and which was probably kept for the accommodation of
strangers. These recollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure
by Danglars, and restored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since
the bandits had not despatched him at once, he felt that they would
not kill him at all. They had arrested him for the purpose of
robbery, and as he had only a few louis about him, he doubted not
he would be ransomed. He remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at
4,000 crowns, and as he considered himself of much greater
importance than Morcerf he fixed his own price at 8,000 crowns.
Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000 livres; he would then have
about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum he could manage to keep
out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably secure in being able to
extricate himself from his position, provided he were not rated at
the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he stretched himself on
his bed, and after turning over two or three times, fell asleep
with the tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi Vampa was
studying.We awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by Danglars. He
awoke. To a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with
velvet drapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white
smoke of which diffuses itself in graceful curves around the room,
the appearance of the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on
awakening seemed like the continuation of some disagreeable dream.
But in such a situation a single moment suffices to change the
strongest doubt into certainty. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "I am in
the hands of the brigands of whom Albert de Morcerf spoke." His
first idea was to breathe, that he might know whether he was
wounded. He borrowed this from "Don Quixote," the only book he had
ever read, but which he still slightly remembered.
"No," he cried, "they have not wounded, but perhaps they have
robbed me!" and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were
untouched; the hundred louis he had reserved for his journey from
Rome to Venice were in his trousers pocket, and in that of his
great-coat he found the little note-case containing his letter of
credit for 5,050,000 francs. "Singular bandits!" he exclaimed;
"they have left me my purse and pocket-book. As I was saying last
night, they intend me to be ransomed. Hallo, here is my watch! Let
me see what time it is." Danglars' watch, one of Breguet's
repeaters, which he had carefully wound up on the previous night,
struck half past five. Without this, Danglars would have been quite
ignorant of the time, for daylight did not reach his cell. Should
he demand an explanation from the bandits, or should he wait
patiently for them to propose it? The last alternative seemed the
most prudent, so he waited until twelve o'clock. During all this
time a sentinel, who had been relieved at eight o'clock, had been
watching his door. Danglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to
see the person who kept watch over him. He had noticed that a few
rays, not of daylight, but from a lamp, penetrated through therays, not of daylight, but from a lamp, penetrated through the
ill-joined planks of the door; he approached just as the brigand
was refreshing himself with a mouthful of brandy, which, owing to
the leathern bottle containing it, sent forth an odor which was
extremely unpleasant to Danglars. "Faugh!" he exclaimed, retreating
to the farther corner of his cell.
At twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and
Danglars, wishing to catch sight of his new guardian, approached
the door again. He was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large
eyes, thick lips, and a flat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled
masses like snakes around his shoulders. "Ah, ha," cried Danglars,
"this fellow is more like an ogre than anything else; however, I am
rather too old and tough to be very good eating!" We see that
Danglars was collected enough to jest; at the same time, as though
to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black
bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began devouring
voraciously. "May I be hanged," said Danglars, glancing at the
bandit's dinner through the crevices of the door, — "may I be
hanged if I can understand how people can eat such filth!" and he
withdrew to seat himself upon his goat-skin, which reminded him of
the smell of the brandy.
But the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there are
certain invitations contained in even the coarsest food which
appeal very irresistibly to a fasting stomach. Danglars felt his
own not to be very well supplied just then, and gradually the man
appeared less ugly, the bread less black, and the cheese more
fresh, while those dreadful vulgar onions recalled to his mind
certain sauces and side-dishes, which his cook prepared in a very
superior manner whenever he said, "Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a
nice little fricassee to-day." He got up and knocked on the door;
the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew that he was heard, so he
redoubled his blows. "Che cosa?" asked the bandit. "Come, come,"


redoubled his blows. "Che cosa?" asked the bandit. "Come, come,"
said Danglars, tapping his fingers against the door, "I think it is
quite time to think of giving me something to eat!" But whether he
did not understand him, or whether he had received no orders
respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without
answering, went on with his dinner. Danglars' feelings were hurt,
and not wishing to put himself under obligations to the brute, the
banker threw himself down again on his goat-skin and did not
breathe another word.
Four hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another
bandit. Danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at
the stomach, arose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of
the door, and recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide.
It was, indeed, Peppino who was preparing to mount guard as
comfortably as possible by seating himself opposite to the door,
and placing between his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-pease
stewed with bacon. Near the pan he also placed a pretty little
basket of Villetri grapes and a flask of Orvieto. Peppino was
decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched these preparations and his
mouth watered. "Come," he said to himself, "let me try if he will
be more tractable than the other;" and he tapped gently at the
door. "On y va," (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting
the house of Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its
idioms.
Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called
out in such a furious manner, "Put in your head!" But this was not
the time for recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner
and said with a gracious smile, — "Excuse me, sir, but are they not
going to give me any dinner?"
"Does your excellency happen to be hungry?"
"Happen to be hungry, — that's pretty good, when I haven't eaten
for twenty-four hours!" muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud,
"Yes, sir, I am hungry — very hungry."
"What would your excellency like?" and Peppino placed his pan on"What would your excellency like?" and Peppino placed his pan on
the ground, so that the steam rose directly under the nostrils of
Danglars. "Give your orders."
"Have you kitchens here?"
"Kitchens? — of course — complete ones."
"And cooks?"
"Excellent!"
"Well, a fowl, fish, game, — it signifies little, so that I
eat."
"As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?"
"Yes, a fowl." Peppino, turning around, shouted, "A fowl for his
excellency!" His voice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome,
graceful, and half-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a
silver dish on his head, without the assistance of his hands. "I
could almost believe myself at the Cafe de Paris," murmured
Danglars.
"Here, your excellency," said Peppino, taking the fowl from the
young bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the
stool and the goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the
cell. Danglars asked for a knife and fork. "Here, excellency," said
Peppino, offering him a little blunt knife and a boxwood fork.
Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the other, and
was about to cut up the fowl. "Pardon me, excellency," said
Peppino, placing his hand on the banker's shoulder; "people pay
here before they eat. They might not be satisfied, and" —
"Ah, ha," thought Danglars, "this is not so much like Paris,
except that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I'll fix that
all right. I have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I
should think a fowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome. — There,"
he said, throwing a louis down. Peppino picked up the louis, and
Danglars again prepared to carve the fowl. "Stay a moment, your
excellency," said Peppino, rising; "you still owe me
something."
"I said they would skin me," thought Danglars; but resolving to
resist the extortion, he said, "Come, how much do I owe you for
this fowl?"
"Your excellency has given me a louis on account."
"A louis on account for a fowl?"
"Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis.""A louis on account for a fowl?"
"Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis."
Danglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke.
"Come, come, this is very droll — very amusing — I allow; but, as I
am very hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis
for you."
"Then that will make only 4,998 louis more," said Peppino with
the same indifference. "I shall get them all in time."
"Oh, as for that," said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of
the jest, — "as for that you won't get them at all. Go to the
devil! You do not know with whom you have to deal!" Peppino made a
sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl. Danglars threw
himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the door, again
began eating his pease and bacon. Though Danglars could not see
Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed no doubt as to his
occupation. He was certainly eating, and noisily too, like an
ill-bred man. "Brute!" said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear
him, and without even turning his head continued to eat slowly.
Danglars' stomach felt so empty, that it seemed as if it would be
impossible ever to fill it again; still he had patience for another
half-hour, which appeared to him like a century. He again arose and
went to the door. "Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any
longer, but tell me what they want."
"Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you
want. Give your orders, and we will execute them."
"Then open the door directly." Peppino obeyed. "Now look here, I
want something to eat! To eat — do you hear?"
"Are you hungry?"
"Come, you understand me."
"What would your excellency like to eat?"
"A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in
this accursed place."
"Bread? Very well. Hallo, there, some bread!" he called. The
youth brought a small loaf. "How much?" asked Danglars.
"Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis," said
Peppino; "You have paid two louis in advance."
"What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?"


Peppino; "You have paid two louis in advance."
"What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?"
"One hundred thousand francs," repeated Peppino.
"But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!"
"We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies
nothing whether you eat much or little — whether you have ten
dishes or one — it is always the same price."
"What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is
perfectly ridiculous — stupid! You had better tell me at once that
you intend starving me to death."
"Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit
suicide. Pay and eat."
"And what am I to pay with, brute?" said Danglars, enraged. "Do
you suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?"
"Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will
be fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the
50,000."
Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he
understood the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he
had done just before. "Come," he said, "if I pay you the 100,000
francs, will you be satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?"
"Certainly," said Peppino.
"But how can I pay them?"
"Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs.
Thomson & French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for
4,998 louis on these gentlemen, and our banker shall take it."
Danglars thought it as well to comply with a good grace, so he took
the pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered him, wrote the draft, and
signed it. "Here," he said, "here is a draft at sight."
"And here is your fowl." Danglars sighed while he carved the
fowl; it appeared very thin for the price it had cost. As for
Peppino, he examined the paper attentively, put it into his pocket,
and continued eating his pease.It was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored light,
through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on
the blue ocean. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a
light breeze arose, seeming like the respiration of nature on
awakening from the burning siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr
played along the coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore
to shore the sweet perfume of plants, mingled with the fresh smell
of the sea.
A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding
amidst the first dews of night over the immense lake, extending
from Gibraltar to the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The
vessel resembled a swan with its wings opened towards the wind,
gliding on the water. It advanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving
behind it a glittering stretch of foam. By degrees the sun
disappeared behind the western horizon; but as though to prove the
truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology, its indiscreet
rays reappeared on the summit of every wave, as if the god of fire
had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain endeavored
to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The yacht moved rapidly
on, though there did not appear to be sufficient wind to ruffle the
curls on the head of a young girl. Standing on the prow was a tall
man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they
were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, which
rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan. "Is
that Monte Cristo?" asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht
was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.
"Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached
it."
"We have reached it!" repeated the traveller in an accent of
indescribable sadness. Then he added, in a low tone, "Yes; that is
the haven." And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the
character of which was better revealed by a sad smile, than it
would have been by tears. A few minutes afterwards a flash ofwould have been by tears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of
light, which was extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and
the sound of firearms reached the yacht.
"Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land signal,
will you answer yourself?"
"What signal?" The captain pointed towards the island, up the
side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as it rose.
"Ah, yes," he said, as if awaking from a dream. "Give it to
me."
The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly
raised it, and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails
were furled, and they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the
little harbor. The gig was already lowered, and in it were four
oarsmen and a coxswain. The traveller descended, and instead of
sitting down at the stern of the boat, which had been decorated
with a blue carpet for his accommodation, stood up with his arms
crossed. The rowers waited, their oars half lifted out of the
water, like birds drying their wings.
"Give way," said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the sea
simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat,
yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found
themselves in a little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat
grounded on the fine sand.
"Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of
two of our men, they will carry you ashore?" The young man answered
this invitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of
the boat; the sea immediately rose to his waist. "Ah, your
excellency," murmured the pilot, "you should not have done so; our
master will scold us for it." The young man continued to advance,
following the sailors, who chose a firm footing. Thirty strides
brought them to dry land; the young man stamped on the ground to
shake off the wet, and looked around for some one to show him his
road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on
his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed, —


his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed, —
"Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!"
"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young man, in an almost joyful
accent, pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both his own.
"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my
dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to
Telemachus. Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you
will soon forget fatigue and cold." Monte Cristo perceived that the
young man had turned around; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that
the men who had brought him had left without being paid, or
uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as
they returned to the yacht.
"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the
sailors."
"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."
"Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte Cristo, smiling. "I
have made an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island
shall be free of all charge. I have made a bargain." Morrel looked
at the count with surprise. "Count," he said, "you are not the same
here as in Paris."
"How so?"
"Here you laugh." The count's brow became clouded. "You are
right to recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was
delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all
happiness is fleeting."
"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's
hands, "pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your
indifference, that life is endurable to sufferers. Oh, how
charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety to
inspire me with courage."
"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."
"Then you forget me, so much the better."
"How so?"
"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered
the arena, `He who is about to die salutes you.'"
"Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach,
"do you think it possible that I could be?"
"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my
words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle,
emitting a vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are
consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the human heart has no
secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both examine the depths of your
heart. Do you still feel the same feverish impatience of grief
which made you start like a wounded lion? Have you still that
devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the grave? Are you
still actuated by the regret which drags the living to the pursuit
of death; or are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue
and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory rendered
it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if this be the
case, — if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if
you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled —
do not complain."
"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice,
"listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven,
though he remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend.
Certainly, there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie, —
I love her husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile
on my last moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and
fainting; I could not bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear
the weapon from my hand, and alarm the house with his cries. You,
count, who are more than mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death
by a pleasant path, will you not?"
"My friend," said the count, "I have still one doubt, — are you
weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"
"No, indeed, — I am calm," said Morrel, giving his hand to the
count; "my pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I
feel that I have reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You
told me to wait and hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate
adviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I didadviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I did
hope (man is a poor wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot
tell, — something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle, — of what
nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason that folly
we call hope. Yes, I did wait — yes, I did hope, count, and during
this quarter of an hour we have been talking together, you have
unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every word you have
uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall
sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death." Morrel uttered
these words with an energy which made the count shudder. "My
friend," continued Morrel, "you named the fifth of October as the
end of the period of waiting, — to-day is the fifth of October," he
took out his watch, "it is now nine o'clock, — I have yet three
hours to live."
"Be it so," said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically followed
the count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it.
He felt a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded
him, and a brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to
advance; he dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte
Cristo drew him in gently. "Why should we not spend the last three
hours remaining to us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when
condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at a table
covered with flowers, and gently glided into death, amid the
perfume of heliotropes and roses?" Morrel smiled. "As you please,"
he said; "death is always death, — that is forgetfulness, repose,
exclusion from life, and therefore from grief." He sat down, and
Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were in the
marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had
baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers.
Morrel had looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed
nothing.
"Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.
"Go on!"
"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human


"Go on!"
"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human
knowledge, and you seem like a being descended from a wiser and
more advanced world than ours."
"There is something true in what you say," said the count, with
that smile which made him so handsome; "I have descended from a
planet called grief."
"I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for
instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope,
and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you
had experienced death, `is it painful to die?'"
Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness.
"Yes," he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently
break the outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you
plunge a dagger into your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into
your brain, which the least shock disorders, — then certainly, you
will suffer pain, and you will repent quitting a life for a repose
you have bought at so dear a price."
"Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death,
as well as in life; the only thing is to understand it."
"You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we
bestow upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a
nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some
day, when the world is much older, and when mankind will be masters
of all the destructive powers in nature, to serve for the general
good of humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have
discovered the secrets of death, then that death will become as
sweet and voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved."
"And if you wished to die, you would choose this death,
count?"
"Yes."
Morrel extended his hand. "Now I understand," he said, "why you
had me brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the
ocean, to this subterranean palace; it was because you loved me,
was it not, count? It was because you loved me well enough to give
me one of those sweet means of death of which we were speaking; ame one of those sweet means of death of which we were speaking; a
death without agony, a death which allows me to fade away while
pronouncing Valentine's name and pressing your hand."
"Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel," said the count, "that
is what I intended."
"Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is
sweet to my heart."
"Do you then regret nothing?"
"No," replied Morrel.
"Not even me?" asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel's clear
eye was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre,
and a large tear rolled down his cheek.
"What," said the count, "do you still regret anything in the
world, and yet die?"
"Oh, I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, "do not
speak another word, count; do not prolong my punishment." The count
fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible
doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Chateau d'If. "I am
endeavoring," he thought, "to make this man happy; I look upon this
restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I
have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has
not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become
of me who can only atone for evil by doing good?" Then he said
aloud: "Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but still you do
not like to risk your soul." Morrel smiled sadly. "Count," he said,
"I swear to you my soul is no longer my own."
"Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have
accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my
son, I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not
understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large
fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions and I give
them to you; with such a fortune you can attain every wish. Are you
ambitious? Every career is open to you. Overturn the world, change
its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal — but
live."its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal — but
live."
"Count, I have your word," said Morrel coldly; then taking out
his watch, he added, "It is half-past eleven."
"Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?"
"Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or I shall think you did not
love me for my own sake, but for yours;" and he arose.
"It is well," said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at
these words; "you wish — you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you
are indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down,
Morrel, and wait."
Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a
key suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver
casket, beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which
represented four bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the
forms of women, symbols of the angels aspiring to heaven. He placed
the casket on the table; then opening it took out a little golden
box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring.
This box contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it
was impossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of
the polished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which ornamented
the box. It was a mixed mass of blue, red, and gold. The count took
out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and offered it to
Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It was then
observable that the substance was greenish.
"This is what you asked for," he said, "and what I promised to
give you."
"I thank you from the depths of my heart," said the young man,
taking the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took
another spoon, and again dipped it into the golden box. "What are
you going to do, my friend?" asked Morrel, arresting his hand.
"Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary
of life, and since an opportunity presents itself" —
"Stay!" said the young man. "You who love, and are beloved; you,
who have faith and hope, — oh, do not follow my example. In your


who have faith and hope, — oh, do not follow my example. In your
case it would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend,
adieu; I will go and tell Valentine what you have done for me." And
slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the
count's hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance
offered by Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and
attentive, brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By
degrees, the light of the lamps gradually faded in the hands of the
marble statues which held them, and the perfumes appeared less
powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him, Monte Cristo watched
him in the shadow, and Morrel saw nothing but the bright eyes of
the count. An overpowering sadness took possession of the young
man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objects in the room
gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbed vision
seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the walls.
"Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am dying; thanks!" He made a
last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside him.
Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the
strange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him
the secrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a
father for a child. At the same time the count appeared to increase
in stature, his form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in
relief against the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back,
and he stood in the attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel,
overpowered, turned around in the arm-chair; a delicious torpor
permeated every vein. A change of ideas presented themselves to his
brain, like a new design on the kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate,
and breathless, he became unconscious of outward objects; he seemed
to be entering that vague delirium preceding death. He wished once
again to press the count's hand, but his own was immovable. He
wished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay motionlesswished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay motionless
and heavy in his throat, like a stone at the mouth of a sepulchre.
Involuntarily his languid eyes closed, and still through his
eyelashes a well-known form seemed to move amid the obscurity with
which he thought himself enveloped.
The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light
from the next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon
the room in which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then
he saw a woman of marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the
door separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she
looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of vengeance. "Is
it heaven that opens before me?" thought the dying man; "that angel
resembles the one I have lost." Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to
the young woman, who advanced towards him with clasped hands and a
smile upon her lips.
"Valentine, Valentine!" he mentally ejaculated; but his lips
uttered no sound, and as though all his strength were centred in
that internal emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine
rushed towards him; his lips again moved.
"He is calling you," said the count; "he to whom you have
confided your destiny — he from whom death would have separated
you, calls you to him. Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth,
Valentine, you will never again be separated on earth, since he has
rushed into death to find you. Without me, you would both have
died. May God accept my atonement in the preservation of these two
existences!"
Valentine seized the count's hand, and in her irresistible
impulse of joy carried it to her lips.
"Oh, thank me again!" said the count; "tell me till you are
weary, that I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how
much I require this assurance."
"Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart," said Valentine;
"and if you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask
Haidee! ask my beloved sister Haidee, who ever since our departureHaidee! ask my beloved sister Haidee, who ever since our departure
from France, has caused me to wait patiently for this happy day,
while talking to me of you."
"You then love Haidee?" asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in
vain endeavored to dissimulate.
"Oh, yes, with all my soul."
"Well, then, listen, Valentine," said the count; "I have a favor
to ask of you."
"Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?"
"Yes; you have called Haidee your sister, — let her become so
indeed, Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you
owe to me; protect her, for" (the count's voice was thick with
emotion) "henceforth she will be alone in the world."
"Alone in the world!" repeated a voice behind the count, "and
why?"
Monte Cristo turned around; Haidee was standing pale,
motionless, looking at the count with an expression of fearful
amazement.
"Because to-morrow, Haidee, you will be free; you will then
assume your proper position in society, for I will not allow my
destiny to overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you
the riches and name of your father."
Haidee became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,
exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, "Then you leave me, my
lord?"
"Haidee, Haidee, you are young and beautiful; forget even my
name, and be happy."
"It is well," said Haidee; "your order shall be executed, my
lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy." And she stepped
back to retire.
"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head
of Morrel on her shoulder, "do you not see how pale she is? Do you
not see how she suffers?"
Haidee answered with a heartrending expression, "Why should he
understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he
has the right to notice nothing."
The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the
inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl
and he could not bear their brilliancy. "Oh, heavens," exclaimed
Monte Cristo, "can my suspicions be correct? Haidee, would it


Monte Cristo, "can my suspicions be correct? Haidee, would it
please you not to leave me?"
"I am young," gently replied Haidee; "I love the life you have
made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die."
"You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haidee" —
"I should die; yes, my lord."
"Do you then love me?"
"Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if
you love Maximilian." The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he
opened his arms, and Haidee, uttering a cry, sprang into them. "Oh,
yes," she cried, "I do love you! I love you as one loves a father,
brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the
noblest of created beings!"
"Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me
in my struggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he
will not let me end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish
myself, but he has pardoned me. Love me then, Haidee! Who knows?
perhaps your love will make me forget all that I do not wish to
remember."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than
twenty years of slow experience; I have but you in the world,
Haidee; through you I again take hold on life, through you I shall
suffer, through you rejoice."
"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed Haidee; "he says that
through me he will suffer — through me, who would yield my life for
his." The count withdrew for a moment. "Have I discovered the
truth?" he said; "but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I
accept my fate. Come, Haidee, come!" and throwing his arm around
the young girl's waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and
disappeared.
An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless
and motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt
his heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight
shudder, announcing the return of life, passed through the young
man's frame. At length his eyes opened, but they were at first
fixed and expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feelingfixed and expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling
and grief. "Oh," he cried, in an accent of despair, "the count has
deceived me; I am yet living;" and extending his hand towards the
table, he seized a knife.
"Dearest," exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, "awake,
and look at me!" Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic,
doubtful, dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon
his knees.
The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking
arm-in-arm on the sea-shore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo
had appeared in her room, explained everything, revealed the crime,
and, finally, how he had saved her life by enabling her to simulate
death. They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone
forth; on the azure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining
stars. Morrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks,
apparently awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him
out to Valentine. "Ah, it is Jacopo," she said, "the captain of the
yacht;" and she beckoned him towards them.
"Do you wish to speak to us?" asked Morrel.
"I have a letter to give you from the count."
"From the count!" murmured the two young people.
"Yes; read it." Morrel opened the letter, and read: —
"My Dear Maximilian, —
"There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to
Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he
wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in
this grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs Elysees, and my
chateau at Treport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond
Dantes upon the son of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de
Villefort will share them with you; for I entreat her to give to
the poor the immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now
a madman, and her brother who died last September with his mother.
Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny, Morrel, to
pray sometimes for a man, who like Satan thought himself for anpray sometimes for a man, who like Satan thought himself for an
instant equal to God, but who now acknowledges with Christian
humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite
wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in
his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct
towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world;
there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing
more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience
supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel,
that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living.
"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and
never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the
future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, —
`Wait and hope.' Your friend,
"Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."
During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for
the first time of the madness of her father and the death of her
brother, she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and
tears, not the less painful because they were silent, ran down her
cheeks; her happiness cost her very dear. Morrel looked around
uneasily. "But," he said, "the count's generosity is too
overwhelming; Valentine will be satisfied with my humble fortune.
Where is the count, friend? Lead me to him." Jacopo pointed towards
the horizon. "What do you mean?" asked Valentine. "Where is the
count? — where is Haidee?"
"Look!" said Jacopo.
The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the
sailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from the
Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a large white sail. "Gone," said
Morrel; "gone! — adieu, my friend — adieu, my father!"
"Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my sweet Haidee — adieu, my
sister!"
"Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" said Morrel
with tearful eyes.
"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us
that all human wisdom is summed up in two words? — `Wait and
hope.'"