to smile; "I fetched 2,000 francs."
(* The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in
Africa.)
"Then these 1,000 francs" — said Mercedes, shuddering —
"Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in a
year."
Mercedes raised her eyes to heaven with an expression it would
be impossible to describe, and tears, which had hitherto been
restrained, now yielded to her emotion, and ran down her
cheeks.
"The price of his blood!" she murmured.
"Yes, if I am killed," said Albert, laughing. "But I assure you,
mother, I have a strong intention of defending my person, and I
never felt half so strong an inclination to live as I do now."
"Merciful heavens!"
"Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am to
be killed? Has Lamoriciere, that Ney of the South, been killed? Has
Changarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom
we know, been killed? Think of your joy, mother, when you see me
return with an embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect to look
magnificent in it, and chose that regiment only from vanity."
Mercedes sighed while endeavoring to smile; the devoted mother felt
that she ought not to allow the whole weight of the sacrifice to
fall upon her son. "Well, now you understand, mother!" continued
Albert; "here are more than 4,000 francs settled on you; upon these
you can live at least two years."
"Do you think so?" said Mercedes. These words were uttered in so
mournful a tone that their real meaning did not escape Albert; he
felt his heart beat, and taking his mother's hand within his own he
said, tenderly, —
"Yes, you will live!"
"I shall live! — then you will not leave me, Albert?"
"Mother, I must go," said Albert in a firm, calm voice; "you
love me too well to wish me to remain useless and idle with you;
besides, I have signed."
"You will obey your own wish and the will of heaven!"
"Not my own wish, mother, but reason — necessity. Are we not two
despairing creatures? What is life to you? — Nothing. What is lifedespairing creatures? What is life to you? — Nothing. What is life
to me? — Very little without you, mother; for believe me, but for
you I should have ceased to live on the day I doubted my father and
renounced his name. Well, I will live, if you promise me still to
hope; and if you grant me the care of your future prospects, you
will redouble my strength. Then I will go to the governor of
Algeria; he has a royal heart, and is essentially a soldier; I will
tell him my gloomy story. I will beg him to turn his eyes now and
then towards me, and if he keep his word and interest himself for
me, in six months I shall be an officer, or dead. If I am an
officer, your fortune is certain, for I shall have money enough for
both, and, moreover, a name we shall both be proud of, since it
will be our own. If I am killed — well then mother, you can also
die, and there will be an end of our misfortunes."
"It is well," replied Mercedes, with her eloquent glance; "you
are right, my love; let us prove to those who are watching our
actions that we are worthy of compassion."
"But let us not yield to gloomy apprehensions," said the young
man; "I assure you we are, or rather we shall be, very happy. You
are a woman at once full of spirit and resignation; I have become
simple in my tastes, and am without passion, I hope. Once in
service, I shall be rich — once in M. Dantes' house, you will be at
rest. Let us strive, I beseech you, — let us strive to be
cheerful."
"Yes, let us strive, for you ought to live, and to be happy,
Albert."
"And so our division is made, mother," said the young man,
affecting ease of mind. "We can now part; come, I shall engage your
passage."
"And you, my dear boy?"
"I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom
ourselves to parting. I want recommendations and some information
relative to Africa. I will join you again at Marseilles."
"Well, be it so — let us part," said Mercedes, folding around
her shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and whichher shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and which
accidentally happened to be a valuable black cashmere. Albert
gathered up his papers hastily, rang the bell to pay the thirty
francs he owed to the landlord, and offering his arm to his mother,
they descended the stairs. Some one was walking down before them,
and this person, hearing the rustling of a silk dress, turned
around. "Debray!" muttered Albert.
"You, Morcerf?" replied the secretary, resting on the stairs.
Curiosity had vanquished the desire of preserving his incognito,
and he was recognized. It was, indeed, strange in this unknown spot
to find the young man whose misfortunes had made so much noise in
Paris.
"Morcerf!" repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light the
still youthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf: — "Pardon
me," he added with a smile, "I leave you, Albert." Albert
understood his thoughts. "Mother," he said, turning towards
Mercedes, "this is M. Debray, secretary of the minister for the
interior, once a friend of mine."
"How once?" stammered Debray; "what do you mean?"
"I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I ought
not to have any. I thank you for having recognized me, sir." Debray
stepped forward, and cordially pressed the hand of his
interlocutor. "Believe me, dear Albert," he said, with all the
emotion he was capable of feeling, — "believe me, I feel deeply for
your misfortunes, and if in any way I can serve you, I am
yours."
"Thank you, sir," said Albert, smiling. "In the midst of our
misfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require assistance
from any one. We are leaving Paris, and when our journey is paid,
we shall have 5,000 francs left." The blood mounted to the temples
of Debray, who held a million in his pocket-book, and unimaginative
as he was he could not help reflecting that the same house had
contained two women, one of whom, justly dishonored, had left it
poor with 1,500,000 francs under her cloak, while the other,
unjustly stricken, but sublime in her misfortune, was yet rich withunjustly stricken, but sublime in her misfortune, was yet rich with
a few deniers. This parallel disturbed his usual politeness, the
philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he muttered a few words of
general civility and ran down-stairs.
That day the minister's clerks and the subordinates had a great
deal to put up with from his ill-humor. But that same night, he
found himself the possessor of a fine house, situated on the
Boulevard de la Madeleine, and an income of 50,000 livres. The next
day, just as Debray was signing the deed, that is about five
o'clock in the afternoon, Madame de Morcerf, after having
affectionately embraced her son, entered the coupe of the
diligence, which closed upon her. A man was hidden in Lafitte's
banking-house, behind one of the little arched windows which are
placed above each desk; he saw Mercedes enter the diligence, and he
also saw Albert withdraw. Then he passed his hand across his
forehead, which was clouded with doubt. "Alas," he exclaimed, "how
can I restore the happiness I have taken away from these poor
innocent creatures? God help me!"


We remember that the Abbe Busoni remained alone with Noirtier in
the chamber of death, and that the old man and the priest were the
sole guardians of the young girl's body. Perhaps it was the
Christian exhortations of the abbe, perhaps his kind charity,
perhaps his persuasive words, which had restored the courage of
Noirtier, for ever since he had conversed with the priest his
violent despair had yielded to a calm resignation which surprised
all who knew his excessive affection for Valentine. M. de Villefort
had not seen his father since the morning of the death. The whole
establishment had been changed; another valet was engaged for
himself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women had entered Madame
de Villefort's service, — in fact, everywhere, to the concierge and
coachmen, new faces were presented to the different masters of the
house, thus widening the division which had always existed between
the members of the same family.
The assizes, also, were about to begin, and Villefort, shut up
in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety in drawing up
the case against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair, like all
those in which the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered, caused a
great sensation in Paris. The proofs were certainly not convincing,
since they rested upon a few words written by an escaped
galley-slave on his death-bed, and who might have been actuated by
hatred or revenge in accusing his companion. But the mind of the
procureur was made up; he felt assured that Benedetto was guilty,
and he hoped by his skill in conducting this aggravated case to
flatter his self-love, which was about the only vulnerable point
left in his frozen heart.
The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor of
Villefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the coming
assizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to
evade the enormous number of applications presented to him for the
purpose of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the daypurpose of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day
of trial. And then so short a time had elapsed since the death of
poor Valentine, and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so
recent, that no one wondered to see the father so absorbed in his
professional duties, which were the only means he had of
dissipating his grief.
Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after
that upon which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto,
when the latter was to learn his father's name. The magistrate,
harassed and fatigued, had descended to the garden of his house,
and in a gloomy mood, similar to that in which Tarquin lopped off
the tallest poppies, he began knocking off with his cane the long
and dying branches of the rose-trees, which, placed along the
avenue, seemed like the spectres of the brilliant flowers which had
bloomed in the past season. More than once he had reached that part
of the garden where the famous boarded gate stood overlooking the
deserted enclosure, always returning by the same path, to begin his
walk again, at the same pace and with the same gesture, when he
accidentally turned his eyes towards the house, whence he heard the
noisy play of his son, who had returned from school to spend the
Sunday and Monday with his mother. While doing so, he observed M.
Noirtier at one of the open windows, where the old man had been
placed that he might enjoy the last rays of the sun which yet
yielded some heat, and was now shining upon the dying flowers and
red leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony.
The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort
could scarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of
ferocity, and savage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the
path he had been pursuing, to see upon what person this dark look
was directed. Then he saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees,
which were nearly divested of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting
with a book in her hand, the perusal of which she frequentlywith a book in her hand, the perusal of which she frequently
interrupted to smile upon her son, or to throw back his elastic
ball, which he obstinately threw from the drawing-room into the
garden. Villefort became pale; he understood the old man's meaning.
Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly his
glance was transferred from the wife to the husband, and Villefort
himself had to submit to the searching investigation of eyes,
which, while changing their direction and even their language, had
lost none of their menacing expression. Madame de Villefort,
unconscious of the passions that exhausted their fire over her
head, at that moment held her son's ball, and was making signs to
him to reclaim it with a kiss. Edward begged for a long while, the
maternal kiss probably not offering sufficient recompense for the
trouble he must take to obtain it; however at length he decided,
leaped out of the window into a cluster of heliotropes and daisies,
and ran to his mother, his forehead streaming with perspiration.
Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead, pressed her lips upon it,
and sent him back with the ball in one hand and some bonbons in the
other.
Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the
bird to the serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it,
Noirtier's gaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery
brightness that Villefort felt them pierce to the depths of his
heart. In that earnest look might be read a deep reproach, as well
as a terrible menace. Then Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as
though to remind his son of a forgotten oath. "It is well, sir,"
replied Villefort from below, — "it is well; have patience but one
day longer; what I have said I will do." Noirtier seemed to be
calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with indifference to the
other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned his great-coat, which
seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand across his
forehead, entered his study.


seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand across his
forehead, entered his study.
The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest
but Villefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o'clock
in the morning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night
before by the examining magistrates, compiling the depositions of
the witnesses, and putting the finishing stroke to the deed of
accusation, which was one of the most energetic and best conceived
of any he had yet delivered.
The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The
morning dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray
light shine upon the lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate
had slept for a short time while the lamp sent forth its final
struggles; its flickerings awoke him, and he found his fingers as
damp and purple as though they had been dipped in blood. He opened
the window; a bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and seemed to
divide in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief on the
horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark was
mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear morning song.
The damps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort, and refreshed
his memory. "To-day," he said with an effort, — "to-day the man who
holds the blade of justice must strike wherever there is guilt."
Involuntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier's
room, where he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was
drawn, and yet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind
that he addressed the closed window as though it had been open, and
as if through the opening he had beheld the menacing old man.
"Yes," he murmured, — "yes, be satisfied."
His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced
his study; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa,
less to sleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study.
By degrees every one awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard theBy degrees every one awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the
successive noises which accompany the life of a house, — the
opening and shutting of doors, the ringing of Madame de Villefort's
bell, to summon the waiting-maid, mingled with the first shouts of
the child, who rose full of the enjoyment of his age. Villefort
also rang; his new valet brought him the papers, and with them a
cup of chocolate.
"What are you bringing me?" said he.
"A cup of chocolate."
"I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention?"
"My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great deal
in the murder case, and that you should take something to keep up
your strength;" and the valet placed the cup on the table nearest
to the sofa, which was, like all the rest, covered with papers. The
valet then left the room. Villefort looked for an instant with a
gloomy expression, then, suddenly, taking it up with a nervous
motion, he swallowed its contents at one draught. It might have
been thought that he hoped the beverage would be mortal, and that
he sought for death to deliver him from a duty which he would
rather die than fulfil. He then rose, and paced his room with a
smile it would have been terrible to witness. The chocolate was
inoffensive, for M. de Villefort felt no effects. The
breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at table. The
valet re-entered.
"Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir," he said, "that
eleven o'clock has just struck, and that the trial commences at
twelve."
"Well," said Villefort, "what then?"
"Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and wishes
to know if she is to accompany you, sir?"
"Where to?"
"To the Palais."
"What to do?"
"My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial."
"Ah," said Villefort, with a startling accent; "does she wish
that?" — The man drew back and said, "If you wish to go alone, sir,
I will go and tell my mistress." Villefort remained silent for a
moment, and dented his pale cheeks with his nails. "Tell yourmoment, and dented his pale cheeks with his nails. "Tell your
mistress," he at length answered, "that I wish to speak to her, and
I beg she will wait for me in her own room."
"Yes, sir."
"Then come to dress and shave me."
"Directly, sir." The valet re-appeared almost instantly, and,
having shaved his master, assisted him to dress entirely in black.
When he had finished, he said, —
"My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you had
finished dressing."
"I am going to her." And Villefort, with his papers under his
arm and hat in hand, directed his steps toward the apartment of his
wife. At the door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale
brow. He then entered the room. Madame de Villefort was sitting on
an ottoman and impatiently turning over the leaves of some
newspapers and pamphlets which young Edward, by way of amusing
himself, was tearing to pieces before his mother could finish
reading them. She was dressed to go out, her bonnet was placed
beside her on a chair, and her gloves were on her hands.
"Ah, here you are, monsieur," she said in her naturally calm
voice; "but how pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why
did you not come down to breakfast? Well, will you take me, or
shall I take Edward?" Madame de Villefort had multiplied her
questions in order to gain one answer, but to all her inquiries M.
de Villefort remained mute and cold as a statue. "Edward," said
Villefort, fixing an imperious glance on the child, "go and play in
the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma." Madame
de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold countenance, that
resolute tone, and the awfully strange preliminaries. Edward raised
his head, looked at his mother, and then, finding that she did not
confirm the order, began cutting off the heads of his leaden
soldiers.
"Edward," cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child
started up from the floor, "do you hear me? — Go!" The child,
unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and trembling; it would


unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and trembling; it would
be difficult to say whether his emotion were caused by fear or
passion. His father went up to him, took him in his arms, and
kissed his forehead. "Go," he said: "go, my child." Edward ran out.
M. de Villefort went to the door, which he closed behind the child,
and bolted. "Dear me!" said the young woman, endeavoring to read
her husband's inmost thoughts, while a smile passed over her
countenance which froze the impassibility of Villefort; "what is
the matter?"
"Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?" said
the magistrate, without any introduction, placing himself between
his wife and the door.
Madame de Villefort must have experienced something of the
sensation of a bird which, looking up, sees the murderous trap
closing over its head. A hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a
cry nor a sigh, escaped from her, while she became deadly pale.
"Monsieur," she said, "I — I do not understand you." And, in her
first paroxysm of terror, she had raised herself from the sofa, in
the next, stronger very likely than the other, she fell down again
on the cushions. "I asked you," continued Villefort, in a perfectly
calm tone, "where you conceal the poison by the aid of which you
have killed my father-in-law, M. de Saint-Meran, my mother-in-law,
Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine."
"Ah, sir," exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands,
"what do you say?"
"It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer."
"Is it to the judge or to the husband?" stammered Madame de
Villefort. "To the judge — to the judge, madame!" It was terrible
to behold the frightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her
look, the trembling of her whole frame. "Ah, sir," she muttered,
"ah, sir," and this was all.
"You do not answer, madame!" exclaimed the terrible
interrogator. Then he added, with a smile yet more terrible than
his anger, "It is true, then; you do not deny it!" She movedhis anger, "It is true, then; you do not deny it!" She moved
forward. "And you cannot deny it!" added Villefort, extending his
hand toward her, as though to seize her in the name of justice.
"You have accomplished these different crimes with impudent
address, but which could only deceive those whose affections for
you blinded them. Since the death of Madame de Saint-Meran, I have
known that a poisoner lived in my house. M. d'Avrigny warned me of
it. After the death of Barrois my suspicions were directed towards
an angel, — those suspicions which, even when there is no crime,
are always alive in my heart; but after the death of Valentine,
there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in mine,
but in those of others; thus your crime, known by two persons,
suspected by many, will soon become public, and, as I told you just
now, you no longer speak to the husband, but to the judge."
The young woman hid her face in her hands. "Oh, sir," she
stammered, "I beseech you, do not believe appearances."
"Are you, then, a coward?" cried Villefort, in a contemptuous
voice. "But I have always observed that poisoners were cowards. Can
you be a coward, — you who have had the courage to witness the
death of two old men and a young girl murdered by you?"
"Sir! sir!"
"Can you be a coward?" continued Villefort, with increasing
excitement, "you, who could count, one by one, the minutes of four
death agonies? You, who have arranged your infernal plans, and
removed the beverages with a talent and precision almost
miraculous? Have you, then, who have calculated everything with
such nicety, have you forgotten to calculate one thing — I mean
where the revelation of your crimes will lead you to? Oh, it is
impossible — you must have saved some surer, more subtle and deadly
poison than any other, that you might escape the punishment that
you deserve. You have done this — I hope so, at least." Madame de
Villefort stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees.
"I understand," he said, "you confess; but a confession made to"I understand," he said, "you confess; but a confession made to
the judges, a confession made at the last moment, extorted when the
crime cannot be denied, diminishes not the punishment inflicted on
the guilty!"
"The punishment?" exclaimed Madame de Villefort, "the
punishment, monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!"
"Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four
times guilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld
because you are the wife of him who pronounces it? — No, madame,
no; the scaffold awaits the poisoner, whoever she may be, unless,
as I just said, the poisoner has taken the precaution of keeping
for herself a few drops of her deadliest potion." Madame de
Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a hideous and uncontrollable
terror spread over her distorted features. "Oh, do not fear the
scaffold, madame," said the magistrate; "I will not dishonor you,
since that would be dishonor to myself; no, if you have heard me
distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die on the
scaffold."
"No, I do not understand; what do you mean?" stammered the
unhappy woman, completely overwhelmed. "I mean that the wife of the
first magistrate in the capital shall not, by her infamy, soil an
unblemished name; that she shall not, with one blow, dishonor her
husband and her child."
"No, no — oh, no!"
"Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part, and I
will thank you for it!"
"You will thank me — for what?"
"For what you have just said."
"What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand
anything. Oh, my God, my God!" And she rose, with her hair
dishevelled, and her lips foaming.
"Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the
room? — where do you keep the poison you generally use, madame?"
Madame de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and convulsively
struck one hand against the other. "No, no," she vociferated, "no,
you cannot wish that!"
"What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the
scaffold. Do you understand?" asked Villefort.


scaffold. Do you understand?" asked Villefort.
"Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!"
"What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to
punish, madame," he added, with a flaming glance; "any other woman,
were it the queen herself, I would send to the executioner; but to
you I shall be merciful. To you I will say, `Have you not, madame,
put aside some of the surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?'"
"Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!"
"She is cowardly," said Villefort.
"Reflect that I am your wife!"
"You are a poisoner."
"In the name of heaven!"
"No!"
"In the name of the love you once bore me!"
"No, no!"
"In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me
live!"
"No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you
will perhaps kill him, as you have the others!"
"I? — I kill my boy?" cried the distracted mother, rushing
toward Villefort; "I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!" and a frightful,
demoniac laugh finished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse
rattle. Madame de Villefort fell at her husband's feet. He
approached her. "Think of it, madame," he said; "if, on my return,
justice his not been satisfied, I will denounce you with my own
mouth, and arrest you with my own hands!" She listened, panting,
overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, and glared horribly. "Do
you understand me?" he said. "I am going down there to pronounce
the sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my
return, you shall sleep to-night in the conciergerie." Madame de
Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on the carpet.
The king's attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity; he
looked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly,
"Farewell, madame, farewell!" That farewell struck Madame de
Villefort like the executioner's knife. She fainted. The procureur
went out, after having double-locked the door.The judges took their places in the midst of the most profound
silence; the jury took their seats; M. de Villefort, the object of
unusual attention, and we had almost said of general admiration,
sat in the arm-chair and cast a tranquil glance around him. Every
one looked with astonishment on that grave and severe face, whose
calm expression personal griefs had been unable to disturb, and the
aspect of a man who was a stranger to all human emotions excited
something very like terror.
"Gendarmes," said the president, "lead in the accused."
At these words the public attention became more intense, and all
eyes were turned towards the door through which Benedetto was to
enter. The door soon opened and the accused appeared. The same
impression was experienced by all present, and no one was deceived
by the expression of his countenance. His features bore no sign of
that deep emotion which stops the beating of the heart and blanches
the cheek. His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the
other in the opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all
tremulous; his eye was calm and even brilliant. Scarcely had he
entered the hall when he glanced at the whole body of magistrates
and assistants; his eye rested longer on the president, and still
more so on the king's attorney. By the side of Andrea was stationed
the lawyer who was to conduct his defence, and who had been
appointed by the court, for Andrea disdained to pay any attention
to those details, to which he appeared to attach no importance. The
lawyer was a young man with light hair whose face expressed a
hundred times more emotion than that which characterized the
prisoner.
The president called for the indictment, revised as we know, by
the clever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the reading of
this, which was long, the public attention was continually drawn
towards Andrea, who bore the inspection with Spartan unconcern.
Villefort had never been so concise and eloquent. The crime was
depicted in the most vivid colors; the former life of the prisoner,depicted in the most vivid colors; the former life of the prisoner,
his transformation, a review of his life from the earliest period,
were set forth with all the talent that a knowledge of human life
could furnish to a mind like that of the procureur. Benedetto was
thus forever condemned in public opinion before the sentence of the
law could be pronounced. Andrea paid no attention to the successive
charges which were brought against him. M. de Villefort, who
examined him attentively, and who no doubt practiced upon him all
the psychological studies he was accustomed to use, in vain
endeavored to make him lower his eyes, notwithstanding the depth
and profundity of his gaze. At length the reading of the indictment
was ended.
"Accused," said the president, "your name and surname?" Andrea
arose. "Excuse me, Mr. President," he said, in a clear voice, "but
I see you are going to adopt a course of questions through which I
cannot follow you. I have an idea, which I will explain by and by,
of making an exception to the usual form of accusation. Allow me,
then, if you please, to answer in different order, or I will not do
so at all." The astonished president looked at the jury, who in
turn looked at Villefort. The whole assembly manifested great
surprise, but Andrea appeared quite unmoved. "Your age?" said the
president; "will you answer that question?"
"I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr.
President, but in its turn."
"Your age?" repeated the president.
"I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few days,
as I was born the night of the 27th of September, 1817." M. de
Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head at
the mention of this date. "Where were you born?" continued the
president.
"At Auteuil, near Paris." M. de Villefort a second time raised
his head, looked at Benedetto as if he had been gazing at the head
of Medusa, and became livid. As for Benedetto, he gracefully wiped
his lips with a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief. "Your
profession?"


his lips with a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief. "Your
profession?"
"First I was a forger," answered Andrea, as calmly as possible;
"then I became a thief, and lately have become an assassin." A
murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the
assembly. The judges themselves appeared to be stupefied, and the
jury manifested tokens of disgust for cynicism so unexpected in a
man of fashion. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow,
which, at first pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly
arose and looked around as though he had lost his senses — he
wanted air.
"Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?" asked Benedetto,
with his most ingratiating smile. M. de Villefort answered nothing,
but sat, or rather threw himself down again upon his chair. "And
now, prisoner, will you consent to tell your name?" said the
president. "The brutal affectation with which you have enumerated
and classified your crimes calls for a severe reprimand on the part
of the court, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due
to humanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor, and it
may be for this reason, that you have delayed acknowledging your
name. You wished it to be preceded by all these titles."
"It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have
read my thoughts," said Benedetto, in his softest voice and most
polite manner. "This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to
alter the order of the questions." The public astonishment had
reached its height. There was no longer any deceit or bravado in
the manner of the accused. The audience felt that a startling
revelation was to follow this ominous prelude.
"Well," said the president; "your name?"
"I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I know
my father's, and can tell it to you."
A painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of acrid
sweat fell from his face upon the papers which he held in his
convulsed hand.
"Repeat your father's name," said the president. Not a whisper,convulsed hand.
"Repeat your father's name," said the president. Not a whisper,
not a breath, was heard in that vast assembly; every one waited
anxiously.
"My father is king's attorney," replied Andrea calmly.
"King's attorney?" said the president, stupefied, and without
noticing the agitation which spread over the face of M. de
Villefort; "king's attorney?"
"Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it, — he is
named Villefort." The explosion, which had been so long restrained
from a feeling of respect to the court of justice, now burst forth
like thunder from the breasts of all present; the court itself did
not seek to restrain the feelings of the audience. The
exclamations, the insults addressed to Benedetto, who remained
perfectly unconcerned, the energetic gestures, the movement of the
gendarmes, the sneers of the scum of the crowd always sure to rise
to the surface in case of any disturbance — all this lasted five
minutes, before the door-keepers and magistrates were able to
restore silence. In the midst of this tumult the voice of the
president was heard to exclaim, — "Are you playing with justice,
accused, and do you dare set your fellow-citizens an example of
disorder which even in these times has never been equalled?"
Several persons hurried up to M. de Villefort, who sat half
bowed over in his chair, offering him consolation, encouragement,
and protestations of zeal and sympathy. Order was re-established in
the hall, except that a few people still moved about and whispered
to one another. A lady, it was said, had just fainted; they had
supplied her with a smelling-bottle, and she had recovered. During
the scene of tumult, Andrea had turned his smiling face towards the
assembly; then, leaning with one hand on the oaken rail of the
dock, in the most graceful attitude possible, he said: "Gentlemen,
I assure you I had no idea of insulting the court, or of making a
useless disturbance in the presence of this honorable assembly.
They ask my age; I tell it. They ask where I was born; I answer.They ask my age; I tell it. They ask where I was born; I answer.
They ask my name, I cannot give it, since my parents abandoned me.
But though I cannot give my own name, not possessing one, I can
tell them my father's. Now I repeat, my father is named M. de
Villefort, and I am ready to prove it."
There was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the manner
of the young man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes were turned
for a moment towards the procureur, who sat as motionless as though
a thunderbolt had changed him into a corpse. "Gentlemen," said
Andrea, commanding silence by his voice and manner; "I owe you the
proofs and explanations of what I have said."
"But," said the irritated president, "you called yourself
Benedetto, declared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica as your
country."
"I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn declaration
I have just made should not be withheld, which otherwise would
certainly have been the case. I now repeat that I was born at
Auteuil on the night of the 27th of September, 1817, and that I am
the son of the procureur, M. de Villefort. Do you wish for any
further details? I will give them. I was born in No. 28, Rue de la
Fontaine, in a room hung with red damask; my father took me in his
arms, telling my mother I was dead, wrapped me in a napkin marked
with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden, where he buried
me alive."
A shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the
confidence of the prisoner increased in proportion to the terror of
M. de Villefort. "But how have you become acquainted with all these
details?" asked the president.
"I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn vengeance
against my father, and had long watched his opportunity to kill
him, had introduced himself that night into the garden in which my
father buried me. He was concealed in a thicket; he saw my father
bury something in the ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the
deposit might contain some treasure he turned up the ground, and


deposit might contain some treasure he turned up the ground, and
found me still living. The man carried me to the foundling asylum,
where I was registered under the number 37. Three months
afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano to Paris to fetch me,
and having claimed me as her son, carried me away. Thus, you see,
though born in Paris, I was brought up in Corsica."
There was a moment's silence, during which one could have
fancied the hall empty, so profound was the stillness. "Proceed,"
said the president.
"Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good
people, who adored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over
the virtues which my adopted mother endeavored to instil into my
heart. I increased in wickedness till I committed crime. One day
when I cursed providence for making me so wicked, and ordaining me
to such a fate, my adopted father said to me, `Do not blaspheme,
unhappy child, the crime is that of your father, not yours, — of
your father, who consigned you to hell if you died, and to misery
if a miracle preserved you alive.' After that I ceased to
blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have uttered the
words for which you blame me; that is why I have filled this whole
assembly with horror. If I have committed an additional crime,
punish me, but if you will allow that ever since the day of my
birth my fate has been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then pity
me."
"But your mother?" asked the president.
"My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even
wish to know her name, nor do I know it." Just then a piercing cry,
ending in a sob, burst from the centre of the crowd, who encircled
the lady who had before fainted, and who now fell into a violent
fit of hysterics. She was carried out of the hall, the thick veil
which concealed her face dropped off, and Madame Danglars was
recognized. Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing
sensation in his ears, and the madness which turned his brain,
Villefort rose as he perceived her. "The proofs, the proofs!" saidVillefort rose as he perceived her. "The proofs, the proofs!" said
the president; "remember this tissue of horrors must be supported
by the clearest proofs "
"The proofs?" said Benedetto, laughing; "do you want
proofs?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for
proofs."
Every one turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the
universal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into
the midst of the tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face
indented with the mark of his nails. The whole assembly uttered a
long murmur of astonishment. "Father," said Benedetto, "I am asked
for proofs, do you wish me to give them?"
"No, no, it is useless," stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse
voice; "no, it is useless!"
"How useless?" cried the president, "what do you mean?"
"I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this
deadly weight which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands
of an avenging God! We need no proofs; everything relating to this
young man is true." A dull, gloomy silence, like that which
precedes some awful phenomenon of nature, pervaded the assembly,
who shuddered in dismay. "What, M. de Villefort," cried the
president, "do you yield to an hallucination? What, are you no
longer in possession of your senses? This strange, unexpected,
terrible accusation has disordered your reason. Come, recover."
The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those
of a man under a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly
pale.
"I am in possession of all my senses, sir," he said; "my body
alone suffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of
all the young man has brought against me, and from this hour hold
myself under the authority of the procureur who will succeed
me."
And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he
staggered towards the door, which was mechanically opened by a
door-keeper. The whole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the
revelation and confession which had produced a catastrophe sorevelation and confession which had produced a catastrophe so
different from that which had been expected during the last
fortnight by the Parisian world.
"Well," said Beauchamp, "let them now say that drama is
unnatural!"
"Ma foi!" said Chateau-Renaud, "I would rather end my career
like M. de Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared
with this catastrophe."
"And moreover, it kills," said Beauchamp.
"And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter," said
Debray. "She did well to die, poor girl!"
"The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen," said the president;
"fresh inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next
session by another magistrate." As for Andrea, who was calm and
more interesting than ever, he left the hall, escorted by
gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some attention. "Well, what
do you think of this, my fine fellow?" asked Debray of the
sergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his hand. "There will be
extenuating circumstances," he replied.Notwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort saw it
open before him. There is something so awe-inspiring in great
afflictions that even in the worst times the first emotion of a
crowd has generally been to sympathize with the sufferer in a great
catastrophe. Many people have been assassinated in a tumult, but
even criminals have rarely been insulted during trial. Thus
Villefort passed through the mass of spectators and officers of the
Palais, and withdrew. Though he had acknowledged his guilt, he was
protected by his grief. There are some situations which men
understand by instinct, but which reason is powerless to explain;
in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives utterance to the
most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those who hear the
bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to an entire
poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in regarding
his outburst as sublime.
It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which
Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish
excitement, every nerve was strained, every vein swollen, and every
part of his body seemed to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus
multiplying his agony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the
corridors through force of habit; he threw aside his magisterial
robe, not out of deference to etiquette, but because it was an
unbearable burden, a veritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in
torture. Having staggered as far as the Rue Dauphine, he perceived
his carriage, awoke his sleeping coachman by opening the door
himself, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed towards the
Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage drove on. The weight of his
fallen fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him; he could not foresee
the consequences; he could not contemplate the future with the
indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a
contingency already familiar. God was still in his heart. "God," he
murmured, not knowing what he said, — "God — God!" Behind the event


murmured, not knowing what he said, — "God — God!" Behind the event
that had overwhelmed him he saw the hand of God. The carriage
rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while turning restlessly on the
cushions, felt something press against him. He put out his hand to
remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de Villefort had left
in the carriage; this fan awakened a recollection which darted
through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot iron were piercing his
heart. During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented
to his mind; now another object, not less terrible, suddenly
presented itself. His wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge
with her, he had condemned her to death, and she, crushed by
remorse, struck with terror, covered with the shame inspired by the
eloquence of his irreproachable virtue, — she, a poor, weak woman,
without help or the power of defending herself against his absolute
and supreme will, — she might at that very moment, perhaps, be
preparing to die! An hour had elapsed since her condemnation; at
that moment, doubtless, she was recalling all her crimes to her
memory; she was asking pardon for her sins; perhaps she was even
writing a letter imploring forgiveness from her virtuous husband —
a forgiveness she was purchasing with her death! Villefort again
groaned with anguish and despair. "Ah," he exclaimed, "that woman
became criminal only from associating with me! I carried the
infection of crime with me, and she has caught it as she would the
typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I have punished her
— I have dared to tell her — I have — `Repent and die!' But no, she
must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee from Paris
and go as far as the earth reaches. I told her of the scaffold; oh,
heavens, I forgot that it awaits me also! How could I pronounce
that word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her, — I will
tell her daily that I also have committed a crime! — Oh, what antell her daily that I also have committed a crime! — Oh, what an
alliance — the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of such as I am!
She must live that my infamy may diminish hers." And Villefort
dashed open the window in front of the carriage.
"Faster, faster!" he cried, in a tone which electrified the
coachman. The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house.
"Yes, yes," repeated Villefort, as he approached his home —
"yes, that woman must live; she must repent, and educate my son,
the sole survivor, with the exception of the indestructible old
man, of the wreck of my house. She loves him; it was for his sake
she has committed these crimes. We ought never to despair of
softening the heart of a mother who loves her child. She will
repent, and no one will know that she has been guilty. The events
which have taken place in my house, though they now occupy the
public mind, will be forgotten in time, or if, indeed, a few
enemies should persist in remembering them, why then I will add
them to my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two, or
three more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this
gulf, carrying treasures with them; she will live and may yet be
happy, since her child, in whom all her love is centred, will be
with her. I shall have performed a good action, and my heart will
be lighter." And the procureur breathed more freely than he had
done for some time.
The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped
out of the carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at
his early return; he could read no other expression on their
features. Neither of them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to
let him pass by, as usual, nothing more. As he passed by M.
Noirtier's room, he perceived two figures through the half-open
door; but he experienced no curiosity to know who was visiting his
father: anxiety carried him on further.
"Come," he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife's
room, "nothing is changed here." He then closed the door of theroom, "nothing is changed here." He then closed the door of the
landing. "No one must disturb us," he said; "I must speak freely to
her, accuse myself, and say" — he approached the door, touched the
crystal handle, which yielded to his hand. "Not locked," he cried;
"that is well." And he entered the little room in which Edward
slept; for though the child went to school during the day, his
mother could not allow him to be separated from her at night. With
a single glance Villefort's eye ran through the room. "Not here,"
he said; "doubtless she is in her bedroom." He rushed towards the
door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering. "Heloise!" he
cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of furniture being
removed. "Heloise!" he repeated.
"Who is there?" answered the voice of her he sought. He thought
that voice more feeble than usual.
"Open the door!" cried Villefort. "Open; it is I." But
notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish
in which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst
it open with a violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led
to her boudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her
features contracted, and her eyes glaring horribly. "Heloise,
Heloise!" he said, "what is the matter? Speak!" The young woman
extended her stiff white hands towards him. "It is done, monsieur,"
she said with a rattling noise which seemed to tear her throat.
"What more do you want?" and she fell full length on the floor.
Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively
clasped a crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort
was dead. Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the
threshhold of the door, fixing his eyes on the corpse: "My son!" he
exclaimed suddenly, "where is my son? — Edward, Edward!" and he
rushed out of the room, still crying, "Edward, Edward!" The name
was pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran
up.
"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; "let him be removed from the
house, that he may not see" —


up.
"Where is my son?" asked Villefort; "let him be removed from the
house, that he may not see" —
"Master Edward is not down-stairs, sir," replied the valet.
"Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see."
"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he
went into her room, and has not been down-stairs since." A cold
perspiration burst out on Villefort's brow; his legs trembled, and
his thoughts flew about madly in his brain like the wheels of a
disordered watch. "In Madame de Villefort's room?" he murmured and
slowly returned, with one hand wiping his forehead, and with the
other supporting himself against the wall. To enter the room he
must again see the body of his unfortunate wife. To call Edward he
must reawaken the echo of that room which now appeared like a
sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the silence of the tomb.
His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.
"Edward!" he stammered — "Edward!" The child did not answer.
Where, then, could he be, if he had entered his mother's room and
not since returned? He stepped forward. The corpse of Madame de
Villefort was stretched across the doorway leading to the room in
which Edward must be; those glaring eyes seemed to watch over the
threshold, and the lips bore the stamp of a terrible and mysterious
irony. Through the open door was visible a portion of the boudoir,
containing an upright piano and a blue satin couch. Villefort
stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld his child lying — no
doubt asleep — on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered an exclamation
of joy; a ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of despair and
darkness. He had only to step over the corpse, enter the boudoir,
take the child in his arms, and flee far, far away.
Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt
unto death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared
realities, but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had
been a burning brazier. He took the child in his arms, embracedbeen a burning brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced
him, shook him, called him, but the child made no response. He
pressed his burning lips to the cheeks, but they were icy cold and
pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; he pressed his hand upon the
heart, but it no longer beat, — the child was dead. A folded paper
fell from Edward's breast. Villefort, thunderstruck, fell upon his
knees; the child dropped from his arms, and rolled on the floor by
the side of its mother. He picked up the paper, and, recognizing
his wife's writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its contents; it ran
as follows: —
"You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son's
sake I became criminal. A good mother cannot depart without her
son."
Villefort could not believe his eyes, — he could not believe his
reason; he dragged himself towards the child's body, and examined
it as a lioness contemplates its dead cub. Then a piercing cry
escaped from his breast, and he cried, "Still the hand of God." The
presence of the two victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude
shared only by two corpses. Until then he had been sustained by
rage, by his strength of mind, by despair, by the supreme agony
which led the Titans to scale the heavens, and Ajax to defy the
gods. He now arose, his head bowed beneath the weight of grief,
and, shaking his damp, dishevelled hair, he who had never felt
compassion for any one determined to seek his father, that he might
have some one to whom he could relate his misfortunes, — some one
by whose side he might weep. He descended the little staircase with
which we are acquainted, and entered Noirtier's room. The old man
appeared to be listening attentively and as affectionately as his
infirmities would allow to the Abbe Busoni, who looked cold and
calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving the abbe, passed his hand
across his brow. He recollected the call he had made upon him after
the dinner at Auteuil, and then the visit the abbe had himself paidthe dinner at Auteuil, and then the visit the abbe had himself paid
to his house on the day of Valentine's death. "You here, sir!" he
exclaimed; "do you, then, never appear but to act as an escort to
death?"
Busoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement depicted on
the magistrate's face, the savage lustre of his eyes, he understood
that the revelation had been made at the assizes; but beyond this
he was ignorant. "I came to pray over the body of your
daughter."
"And now why are you here?"
"I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt,
and that from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you, as I
do."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully,
"surely that is not the voice of the Abbe Busoni!"
"No!" The abbe threw off his wig, shook his head, and his hair,
no longer confined, fell in black masses around his manly face.
"It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!" exclaimed the
procureur, with a haggard expression.
"You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go farther
back."
"That voice, that voice! — where did I first hear it?"
"You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three
years ago, the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran. Refer to your papers."
"You are not Busoni? — you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens —
you are, then, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must
have wronged you in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!"
"Yes; you are now on the right path," said the count, crossing
his arms over his broad chest; "search — search!"
"But what have I done to you?" exclaimed Villefort, whose mind
was balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is
neither a dream nor reality; "what have I done to you? Tell me,
then! Speak!"
"You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my
father; you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness."
"Who are you, then? Who are you?"
"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the


"Who are you, then? Who are you?"
"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the
Chateau d'If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte
Cristo when he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with
gold and diamonds, and led him to you!"
"Ah, I recognize you — I recognize you!" exclaimed the king's
attorney; "you are" —
"I am Edmond Dantes!"
"You are Edmond Dantes," cried Villefort, seizing the count by
the wrist; "then come here!" And up the stairs he dragged Monte
Cristo; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed him in
astonishment, foreseeing some new catastrophe. "There, Edmond
Dantes!" he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and child,
"see, are you well avenged?" Monte Cristo became pale at this
horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond the bounds of
vengeance, and that he could no longer say, "God is for and with
me." With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw himself
upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its pulse, and
then rushed with him into Valentine's room, of which he
double-locked the door. "My child," cried Villefort, "he carries
away the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to you!" and he
tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was
transfixed to the spot, — his eyes glared as though they were
starting through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest
until his nails were stained with blood; the veins of his temples
swelled and boiled as though they would burst their narrow
boundary, and deluge his brain with living fire. This lasted
several minutes, until the frightful overturn of reason was
accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed by a burst of
laughter, he rushed down the stairs.
A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine's room
opened, and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and
heavy heart, all the noble features of that face, usually so calm
and serene, were overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child,and serene, were overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child,
whom no skill had been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee,
he placed it reverently by the side of its mother, with its head
upon her breast. Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant
on the stairs, he asked, "Where is M. de Villefort?"
The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte
Cristo ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot
designated beheld Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a
spade in his hand, and digging the earth with fury. "It is not
here!" he cried. "It is not here!" And then he moved farther on,
and began again to dig.
Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an
expression almost humble, "Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but"
—
Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.
"Oh, I will find it," he cried; "you may pretend he is not here,
but I will find him, though I dig forever!" Monte Cristo drew back
in horror. "Oh," he said, "he is mad!" And as though he feared that
the walls of the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed
into the street, for the first time doubting whether he had the
right to do as he had done. "Oh, enough of this, — enough of this,"
he cried; "let me save the last." On entering his house, he met
Morrel, who wandered about like a ghost awaiting the heavenly
mandate for return to the tomb. "Prepare yourself, Maximilian," he
said with a smile; "we leave Paris to-morrow."
"Have you nothing more to do there?" asked Morrel.
"No," replied Monte Cristo; "God grant I may not have done too
much already."
The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin.
Haidee had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with
Noirtier.The recent event formed the theme of conversation throughout all
Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in
their little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive,
sudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and
Villefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to
their conversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his
accustomed state of apathy. "Indeed," said Julie, "might we not
almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, so happy but
yesterday, had forgotten in their prosperity that an evil genius —
like the wicked fairies in Perrault's stories who present
themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism — hovered over them,
and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal
neglect?"
"What a dire misfortune!" said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and
Danglars.
"What dreadful sufferings!" said Julie, remembering Valentine,
but whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before
her brother.
"If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow," said
Emmanuel, "it must be that he in his great goodness has perceived
nothing in the past lives of these people to merit mitigation of
their awful punishment."
"Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?" said Julie.
"When my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point
of committing suicide, had any one then said, `This man deserves
his misery,' would not that person have been deceived?"
"Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was
commissioned to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on
him."
Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the
bell was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a
visitor had arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened
and the Count of Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young
people uttered a cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but
let it fall again immediately. "Maximilian," said the count,


let it fall again immediately. "Maximilian," said the count,
without appearing to notice the different impressions which his
presence produced on the little circle, "I come to seek you."
"To seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.
"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "has it not been agreed that I should
take you with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for
departure?"
"I am ready," said Maximilian; "I came expressly to wish them
farewell."
"Whither are you going, count?" asked Julie.
"In the first instance to Marseilles, madame."
"To Marseilles!" exclaimed the young couple.
"Yes, and I take your brother with me."
"Oh, count." said Julie, "will you restore him to us cured of
his melancholy?" — Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of
his countenance.
"You perceive, then, that he is not happy?" said the count.
"Yes," replied the young woman; "and fear much that he finds our
home but a dull one."
"I will undertake to divert him," replied the count.
"I am ready to accompany you, sir," said Maximilian. "Adieu, my
kind friends! Emmanuel — Julie — farewell!"
"How farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do you leave us thus, so
suddenly, without any preparations for your journey, without even a
passport?"
"Needless delays but increase the grief of parting," said Monte
Cristo, "and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with
everything requisite; at least, I advised him to do so."
"I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed," said
Morrel in his tranquil but mournful manner.
"Good," said Monte Cristo, smiling; "in these prompt
arrangements we recognize the order of a well-disciplined
soldier."
"And you leave us," said Julie, "at a moment's warning? you do
not give us a day — no, not even an hour before your
departure?"
"My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in
five days."
"But does Maximilian go to Rome?" exclaimed Emmanuel.
"I am going wherever it may please the count to take me," said
Morrel, with a smile full of grief; "I am under his orders for the
next month."Morrel, with a smile full of grief; "I am under his orders for the
next month."
"Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!" said
Julie.
"Maximilian goes with me," said the count, in his kindest and
most persuasive manner; "therefore do not make yourself uneasy on
your brother's account."
"Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!" Morrel
repeated.
"His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart," said
Julie. "Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing
something from us."
"Pshaw!" said Monte Cristo, "you will see him return to you gay,
smiling, and joyful."
Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the
count.
"We must leave you," said Monte Cristo.
"Before you quit us, count," said Julie, "will you permit us to
express to you all that the other day" —
"Madame," interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his,
"all that you could say in words would never express what I read in
your eyes; the thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine.
Like benefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing
you again, but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength,
because I am a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and
thankful glances of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I
carry my egotism so far as to say, `Do not forget me, my kind
friends, for probably you will never see me again.'"
"Never see you again?" exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears
rolled down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you again? It is not a
man, then, but some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the
point of returning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do
good."
"Say not so," quickly returned Monte Cristo — "say not so, my
friends; angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish
to be. Fate is not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the
contrary, overcome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your
admiration is as unmerited as your words are sacrilegious." Andadmiration is as unmerited as your words are sacrilegious." And
pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms,
he extended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from
this abode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian,
who followed him passively, with the indifference which had been
perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so stunned
him. "Restore my brother to peace and happiness," whispered Julie
to Monte Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had
done eleven years before on the staircase leading to Morrel's
study.
"You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?" asked he,
smiling.
"Oh, yes," was the ready answer.
"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in heaven." As
we have before said, the postchaise was waiting; four powerful
horses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali,
apparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot
of the steps, his face bathed in perspiration. "Well," asked the
count in Arabic, "have you been to see the old man?" Ali made a
sign in the affirmative.
"And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to
do?"
The slave respectfully signalized that he had. "And what did he
say, or rather do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so that his
master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in his
intelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his
eyes, as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying "Yes."
"Good; he accepts," said Monte Cristo. "Now let us go."
These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on
its way, and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from
the pavement. Maximilian settled himself in his corner without
uttering a word. Half an hour had passed when the carriage stopped
suddenly; the count had just pulled the silken check-string, which
was fastened to Ali's finger. The Nubian immediately descended and
opened the carriage door. It was a lovely starlight night — they


opened the carriage door. It was a lovely starlight night — they
had just reached the top of the hill Villejuif, from whence Paris
appears like a sombre sea tossing its millions of phosphoric waves
into light — waves indeed more noisy, more passionate, more
changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of the
tempestuous ocean, — waves which never rest as those of the sea
sometimes do, — waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing
what falls within their grasp. The count stood alone, and at a sign
from his hand, the carriage went on for a short distance. With
folded arms, he gazed for some time upon the great city. When he
had fixed his piercing look on this modern Babylon, which equally
engages the contemplation of the religious enthusiast, the
materialist, and the scoffer, — "Great city," murmured he,
inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in prayer, "less
than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy gates. I
believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he
also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my
presence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has
had the power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from
thee without pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only
knows that the power confided to me has never been made subservient
to my personal good or to any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is
in thy palpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought;
like a patient miner, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to
root out evil thence. Now my work is accomplished, my mission is
terminated, now thou canst neither afford me pain nor pleasure.
Adieu, Paris, adieu!"
His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius
of the night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the
carriage, the door was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly
disappeared down the other side of the hill in a whirlwind of noise
and dust.
Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.and dust.
Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.
Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the
dreamer.
"Morrel," said the count to him at length, "do you repent having
followed me?"
"No, count; but to leave Paris" —
"If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I
would have left you there."
"Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris
is like losing her a second time."
"Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost do
not repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our
hearts, and it has been thus ordained that we may always be
accompanied by them. I have two friends, who in this way never
depart from me; the one who gave me being, and the other who
conferred knowledge and intelligence on me. Their spirits live in
me. I consult them when doubtful, and if I ever do any good, it is
due to their beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice of your
heart, Morrel, and ask it whether you ought to preserve this
melancholy exterior towards me."
"My friend," said Maximilian, "the voice of my heart is very
sorrowful, and promises me nothing but misfortune."
"It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a
black cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is
darkened, and consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and
unpromising."
"That may possibly be true," said Maximilian, and he again
subsided into his thoughtful mood.
The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which
the unlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from
them like shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first
winds of autumn seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them,
and retreating as rapidly when once reached. The following morning
they arrived at Chalons, where the count's steamboat waited for
them. Without the loss of an instant, the carriage was placed on
board and the two travellers embarked without delay. The boat was
built for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings withbuilt for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings with
which she skimmed the water like a bird. Morrel was not insensible
to that sensation of delight which is generally experienced in
passing rapidly through the air, and the wind which occasionally
raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the point of dispelling
momentarily the clouds collected there.
As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris,
almost superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might
have been taken for an exile about to revisit his native land. Ere
long Marseilles presented herself to view, — Marseilles, white,
fervid, full of life and energy, — Marseilles, the younger sister
of Tyre and Carthage, the successor to them in the empire of the
Mediterranean, — Marseilles, old, yet always young. Powerful
memories were stirred within them by the sight of the round tower,
Fort Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,* the port with
its brick quays, where they had both played in childhood, and it
was with one accord that they stopped on the Cannebiere. A vessel
was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustle usually
attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their relations
crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful leave of
each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the whole
forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who
witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb
the current of thought that had taken possession of the mind of
Maximilian from the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of
the quay.
(* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles
in 1622.)
"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo, —
"here is the spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered
the port; it was here that the good old man, whom you saved from
death and dishonor, threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm
tears on my face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many


tears on my face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many
who witnessed our meeting wept also." Monte Cristo gently smiled
and said, — "I was there;" at the same time pointing to the corner
of a street. As he spoke, and in the very direction he indicated, a
groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard, and a woman was seen
waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel about to sail.
Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must have been
remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel.
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do not deceive myself — that
young man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a
lieutenant, is Albert de Morcerf!"
"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized him."
"How so? — you were looking the other way." the count smiled, as
he was in the habit of doing when he did not want to make any
reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, who soon
disappeared at the corner of the street. Turning to his friend, —
"Dear Maximilian," said the count, "have you nothing to do in this
land?"
"I have to weep over the grave of my father," replied Morrel in
a broken voice.
"Well, then, go, — wait for me there, and I will soon join
you."
"You leave me, then?"
"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count
extended to him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination
of the head he quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of
the city. Monte Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian
was out of sight; he then walked slowly towards the Allees de
Meillan to seek out a small house with which our readers were made
familiar at the beginning of this story. It yet stood, under the
shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which forms one of the most
frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles, covered by an immense
vine, which spreads its aged and blackened branches over the stone
front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the south. Two stone stepsfront, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the south. Two stone steps
worn away by the friction of many feet led to the door, which was
made of three planks; the door had never been painted or varnished,
so great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to close again
when the rains came on. The house, with all its crumbling antiquity
and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was the
same that old Dantes formerly inhabited — the only difference being
that the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house
was now placed at the command of Mercedes by the count.
The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much
regret entered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after
her when Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that
he found and lost her again almost at the same instant. The worn
out steps were old acquaintances of his; he knew better than any
one else how to open that weather-beaten door with the large headed
nail which served to raise the latch within. He entered without
knocking, or giving any other intimation of his presence, as if he
had been a friend or the master of the place. At the end of a
passage paved with bricks, was a little garden, bathed in sunshine,
and rich in warmth and light. In this garden Mercedes had found, at
the place indicated by the count, the sum of money which he,
through a sense of delicacy, had described as having been placed
there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the garden were
easily seen from the steps of the street-door. Monte Cristo, on
stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost a deep sob;
he looked in the direction whence it came, and there under an arbor
of Virginia jessamine,* with its thick foliage and beautiful long
purple flowers, he saw Mercedes seated, with her head bowed, and
weeping bitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden
by her hands was giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had
been so long restrained by the presence of her son. Monte Cristobeen so long restrained by the presence of her son. Monte Cristo
advanced a few steps, which were heard on the gravel. Mercedes
raised her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a man
before her.
(* The Carolina — not Virginia — jessamine, gelsemium
sempervirens (properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has yellow
blossoms. The reference is no doubt to the Wistaria frutescens. —
Ed.)
"Madame," said the count, "it is no longer in my power to
restore you to happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you
deign to accept it as coming from a friend?"
"I am, indeed, most wretched," replied Mercedes. "Alone in the
world, I had but my son, and he has left me!"
"He possesses a noble heart, madame," replied the count, "and he
has acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his
country; some contribute their talents, others their industry;
these devote their blood, those their nightly labors, to the same
cause. Had he remained with you, his life must have become a
hateful burden, nor would he have participated in your griefs. He
will increase in strength and honor by struggling with adversity,
which he will convert into prosperity. Leave him to build up the
future for you, and I venture to say you will confide it to safe
hands."
"Oh," replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head,
"the prosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of
my heart, I pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy.
The bitter cup of adversity has been drained by me to the very
dregs, and I feel that the grave is not far distant. You have acted
kindly, count, in bringing me back to the place where I have
enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to meet death on the same spot where
happiness was once all my own."
"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "your words sear and embitter my
heart, the more so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been
the cause of all your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of
blaming me? You render me still more unhappy" —


blaming me? You render me still more unhappy" —
"Hate you, blame you — you, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that
has spared my son's life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary
intention to destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud?
Oh, look at me closely, and discover if you can even the semblance
of a reproach in me." The count looked up and fixed his eyes on
Mercedes, who arose partly from her seat and extended both her
hands towards him. "Oh, look at me," continued she, with a feeling
of profound melancholy, "my eyes no longer dazzle by their
brilliancy, for the time has long fled since I used to smile on
Edmond Dantes, who anxiously looked out for me from the window of
yonder garret, then inhabited by his old father. Years of grief
have created an abyss between those days and the present. I neither
reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no, Edmond, it is myself
that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable creature that I
am!" cried she, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven.
"I once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the three ingredients
of the happiness of angels, and now what am I?" Monte Cristo
approached her, and silently took her hand. "No," said she,
withdrawing it gently — "no, my friend, touch me not. You have
spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your vengeance I
was the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by avarice,
and by self-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted
against my judgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are
thinking, I am sure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not
utter it to me, reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness.
See" (and she exposed her face completely to view) — "see,
misfortune has silvered my hair, my eyes have shed so many tears
that they are encircled by a rim of purple, and my brow is
wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary, — you are still young,
handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith; because youhandsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith; because you
have had strength, because you have had trust in God, and God has
sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I have denied
God and he has abandoned me."
Mercedes burst into tears; her woman's heart was breaking under
its load of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a
kiss on it; but she herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater
warmth than he would have bestowed on the hand of some marble
statue of a saint. "It often happens," continued she, "that a first
fault destroys the prospects of a whole life. I believed you dead;
why did I survive you? What good has it done me to mourn for you
eternally in the secret recesses of my heart? — only to make a
woman of thirty-nine look like a woman of fifty. Why, having
recognized you, and I the only one to do so — why was I able to
save my son alone? Ought I not also to have rescued the man that I
had accepted for a husband, guilty though he were? Yet I let him
die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not accessory to
his death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for him, not
remembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my sake he
had become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by
accompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him
to depart alone to the baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been
base, cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured my affections, and like
all renegades I am of evil omen to those who surround me!"
"No, Mercedes," said Monte Cristo, "no; you judge yourself with
too much severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your
grief that disarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an
invisible and offended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal
blow that I was destined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at
whose feet I have prostrated myself daily for the last ten years,
that I would have sacrificed my life to you, and with my life thethat I would have sacrificed my life to you, and with my life the
projects that were indissolubly linked with it. But — and I say it
with some pride, Mercedes — God needed me, and I lived. Examine the
past and the present, and endeavor to dive into futurity, and then
say whether I am not a divine instrument. The most dreadful
misfortunes, the most frightful sufferings, the abandonment of all
those who loved me, the persecution of those who did not know me,
formed the trials of my youth; when suddenly, from captivity,
solitude, misery, I was restored to light and liberty, and became
the possessor of a fortune so brilliant, so unbounded, so
unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to be conscious that
God had endowed me with it to work out his own great designs. From
that time I looked upon this fortune as something confided to me
for an especial purpose. Not a thought was given to a life which
you once, Mercedes, had the power to render blissful; not one hour
of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an
exterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on
some enterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded
my weapons, I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured
my body to the most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest
trials; I taught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold excruciating
sufferings, and my mouth to smile at the most horrid spectacles.
Good-natured, confiding, and forgiving as I had been, I became
revengeful, cunning, and wicked, or rather, immovable as fate. Then
I launched out into the path that was opened to me. I overcame
every obstacle, and reached the goal; but woe to those who stood in
my pathway!"
"Enough," said Mercedes; "enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she
who alone recognized you has been the only one to comprehend you;
and had she crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass,
still, Edmond, still she must have admired you! Like the gulf
between me and the past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and


between me and the past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and
the rest of mankind; and I tell you freely that the comparison I
draw between you and other men will ever be one of my greatest
tortures. No, there is nothing in the world to resemble you in
worth and goodness! But we must say farewell, Edmond, and let us
part."
"Before I leave you, Mercedes, have you no request to make?"
said the count.
"I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond, — the happiness
of my son."
"Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon
myself to promote his happiness."
"Thank you, Edmond."
"But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercedes?"
"For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two
graves. One is that of Edmond Dantes, lost to me long, long since.
He had my love! That word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a
memory dear to my heart, and one that I would not lose for all that
the world contains. The other grave is that of the man who met his
death from the hand of Edmond Dantes. I approve of the deed, but I
must pray for the dead."
"Your son shall be happy, Mercedes," repeated the count.
"Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly
confer."
"But what are your intentions?"
"To say that I shall live here, like the Mercedes of other
times, gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you
believe me. I have no longer the strength to do anything but to
spend my days in prayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work,
for the little sum of money buried by you, and which I found in the
place you mentioned, will be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will
probably be busy respecting me, my occupations, my manner of living
— that will signify but little."
"Mercedes," said the count, "I do not say it to blame you, but
you made an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the
fortune amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right
belonged to you, in virtue of your vigilance and economy."belonged to you, in virtue of your vigilance and economy."
"I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I
cannot accept it, Edmond — my son would not permit it."
"Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de
Morcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and will
submit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you
oppose them?"
"You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning
creature; I have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I
have been so overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over
my head, that I am become passive in the hands of the Almighty,
like a sparrow in the talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not
ordained for me to die. If succor be sent to me, I will accept
it."
"Ah, madame," said Monte Cristo, "you should not talk thus! It
is not so we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven;
on the contrary, we are all free agents."
"Alas!" exclaimed Mercedes, "if it were so, if I possessed
free-will, but without the power to render that will efficacious,
it would drive me to despair." Monte Cristo dropped his head and
shrank from the vehemence of her grief. "Will you not even say you
will see me again?" he asked.
"On the contrary, we shall meet again," said Mercedes, pointing
to heaven with solemnity. "I tell you so to prove to you that I
still hope." And after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of
the count, Mercedes rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte
Cristo slowly left the house and turned towards the quay. But
Mercedes did not witness his departure, although she was seated at
the little window of the room which had been occupied by old
Dantes. Her eyes were straining to see the ship which was carrying
her son over the vast sea; but still her voice involuntarily
murmured softly, "Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!"At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape
Morgion, a man travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome
had just passed the little town of Aquapendente. He was travelling
fast enough to cover a great deal of ground without exciting
suspicion. This man was dressed in a greatcoat, or rather a
surtout, a little worse for the journey, but which exhibited the
ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and brilliant, a
decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He might be
recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with
which he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman. Another proof that
he was a native of the universal country was apparent in the fact
of his knowing no other Italian words than the terms used in music,
and which like the "goddam" of Figaro, served all possible
linguistic requirements. "Allegro!" he called out to the postilions
at every ascent. "Moderato!" he cried as they descended. And heaven
knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by the way
of Aquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom
they were addressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence
Rome is first visible, the traveller evinced none of the
enthusiastic curiosity which usually leads strangers to stand up
and endeavor to catch sight of the dome of St. Peter's, which may
be seen long before any other object is distinguishable. No, he
merely drew a pocketbook from his pocket, and took from it a paper
folded in four, and after having examined it in a manner almost
reverential, he said — "Good! I have it still!"
The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the
left, and stopped at the Hotel d'Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former
acquaintance, received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The
traveller alighted, ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address
of the house of Thomson & French, which was immediately given
to him, as it was one of the most celebrated in Rome. It was
situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St. Peter's. In Rome, as


situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St. Peter's. In Rome, as
everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event. Ten
young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at
elbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully
curved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise,
and the horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds
from the Papal States, who earned a pittance by diving into the
Tiber at high water from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these
street Arabs of Rome, more fortunate than those of Paris,
understand every language, more especially the French, they heard
the traveller order an apartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the
way to the house of Thomson & French. The result was that when
the new-comer left the hotel with the cicerone, a man detached
himself from the rest of the idlers, and without having been seen
by the traveller, and appearing to excite no attention from the
guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a Parisian
police agent would have used.
The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of
Thomson & French that he would not wait for the horses to be
harnessed, but left word for the carriage to overtake him on the
road, or to wait for him at the bankers' door. He reached it before
the carriage arrived. The Frenchman entered, leaving in the
anteroom his guide, who immediately entered into conversation with
two or three of the industrious idlers who are always to be found
in Rome at the doors of banking-houses, churches, museums, or
theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had followed him entered
too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and entered the first
room; his shadow did the same.
"Messrs. Thomson & French?" inquired the stranger.
An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the
first desk. "Whom shall I announce?" said the attendant.
"Baron Danglars."
"Follow me," said the man. A door opened, through which the
attendant and the baron disappeared. The man who had followedattendant and the baron disappeared. The man who had followed
Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerk continued to write for the
next five minutes; the man preserved profound silence, and remained
perfectly motionless. Then the pen of the clerk ceased to move over
the paper; he raised his head, and appearing to be perfectly sure
of privacy, — "Ah, ha," he said, "here you are, Peppino!"
"Yes," was the laconic reply. "You have found out that there is
something worth having about this large gentleman?"
"There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of
it."
"You know his business here, then."
"Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I don't know how much!"
"You will know presently, my friend."
"Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the
other day."
"What do you mean? — of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman
who carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?"
"No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the
Russian prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found
22,000."
"You must have searched badly."
"Luigi Vampa himself searched."
"Indeed? But you must let me make my observations, or the
Frenchman will transact his business without my knowing the sum."
Peppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter
a few prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door by
which Danglars and the attendant had gone out. At the expiration of
ten minutes the clerk returned with a beaming countenance. "Well?"
asked Peppino of his friend.
"Joy, joy — the sum is large!"
"Five or six millions, is it not?"
"Yes, you know the amount."
"On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?"
"Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?"
"I told you we were informed beforehand."
"Then why do you apply to me?"
"That I may be sure I have the right man."
"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions — a pretty sum, eh,
Peppino?"
"Hush — here is our man!" The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino
his beads; one was writing and the other praying when the doorhis beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door
opened. Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied
him to the door. Peppino followed Danglars.
According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the
door. The guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who
will turn their hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the
carriage like a young man of twenty. The cicerone reclosed the
door, and sprang up by the side of the coachman. Peppino mounted
the seat behind.
"Will your excellency visit St. Peter's?" asked the
cicerone.
"I did not come to Rome to see," said Danglars aloud; then he
added softly, with an avaricious smile, "I came to touch!" and he
rapped his pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.
"Then your excellency is going" —
"To the hotel."
"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to the coachman, and the
carriage drove rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered
his apartment, and Peppino stationed himself on the bench outside
the door of the hotel, after having whispered something in the ear
of one of the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed
at the beginning of the chapter, who immediately ran down the road
leading to the Capitol at his fullest speed. Danglars was tired and
sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placing his pocketbook under his
pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he had a game of mora
with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then to console himself
drank a bottle of Orvieto.
The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so
early; he had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had
slept at all. He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he
said, for the beauties of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at
noon. But Danglars had not reckoned upon the formalities of the
police and the idleness of the posting-master. The horses only
arrived at two o'clock, and the cicerone did not bring the passport
till three. All these preparations had collected a number of idlers