"What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the
most guilty?"
"What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken,
on the recommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as
cashier into a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was
employed in the commissariat of the French army, and made a
fortune; then with that money he speculated in the funds, and
trebled or quadrupled his capital; and, having first married his
banker's daughter, who left him a widower, he has married a second
time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne, daughter of M. de Servieux,
the king's chamberlain, who is in high favor at court. He is a
millionaire, and they have made him a baron, and now he is the
Baron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue de Mont-Blanc,
with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his ante-chamber,
and I know not how many millions in his strongbox."
"Ah!" said the abbe, in a peculiar tone, "he is happy."
"Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the
secret known but to one's self and the walls — walls have ears but
no tongue; but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is
happy."
"And Fernand?"
"Fernand? Why, much the same story."
"But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education or
resources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me."
"And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his
life some strange secret that no one knows."
"But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high
fortune or high position?"
"Both, sir — he has both fortune and position — both."
"This must be impossible!"
"It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some
days before the return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The
Bourbons left him quietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon
returned, a special levy was made, and Fernand was compelled to
join. I went too; but as I was older than Fernand, and had just
married my poor wife, I was only sent to the coast. Fernand was
enrolled in the active troop, went to the frontier with hisenrolled in the active troop, went to the frontier with his
regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny. The night after that
battle he was sentry at the door of a general who carried on a
secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the general
was to go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to accompany
him; Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed the
general. Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had
remained on the throne, but his action was rewarded by the
Bourbons. He returned to France with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant,
and as the protection of the general, who is in the highest favor,
was accorded to him, he was a captain in 1823, during the Spanish
war — that is to say, at the time when Danglars made his early
speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and being sent to Spain to
ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen, found Danglars
there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over the support of
the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received
promises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by
paths known to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were
held by the royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this
brief campaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made
colonel, and received the title of count and the cross of an
officer of the Legion of Honor."
"Destiny! destiny!" murmured the abbe.
"Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being
ended, Fernand's career was checked by the long peace which seemed
likely to endure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against
Turkey, and had begun her war of independence; all eyes were turned
towards Athens — it was the fashion to pity and support the Greeks.
The French government, without protecting them openly, as you know,
gave countenance to volunteer assistance. Fernand sought and
obtained leave to go and serve in Greece, still having his name
kept on the army roll. Some time after, it was stated that thekept on the army roll. Some time after, it was stated that the
Comte de Morcerf (this was the name he bore) had entered the
service of Ali Pasha with the rank of instructor-general. Ali Pasha
was killed, as you know, but before he died he recompensed the
services of Fernand by leaving him a considerable sum, with which
he returned to France, when he was gazetted
lieutenant-general."
"So that now?" — inquired the abbe.
"So that now," continued Caderousse, "he owns a magnificent
house — No. 27, Rue du Helder, Paris." The abbe opened his mouth,
hesitated for a moment, then, making an effort at self-control, he
said, "And Mercedes — they tell me that she has disappeared?"
"Disappeared," said Caderousse, "yes, as the sun disappears, to
rise the next day with still more splendor."
"Has she made a fortune also?" inquired the abbe, with an
ironical smile.
"Mercedes is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in
Paris," replied Caderousse.
"Go on," said the abbe; "it seems as if I were listening to the
story of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that
what you tell me seems less astonishing than it otherwise
might."
"Mercedes was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which
deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to
propitiate M. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dantes. In
the midst of her despair, a new affliction overtook her. This was
the departure of Fernand — of Fernand, whose crime she did not
know, and whom she regarded as her brother. Fernand went, and
Mercedes remained alone. Three months passed and still she wept —
no news of Edmond, no news of Fernand, no companionship save that
of an old man who was dying with despair. One evening, after a day
of accustomed vigil at the angle of two roads leading to Marseilles
from the Catalans, she returned to her home more depressed than
ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew, turned anxiously around,
the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the uniform of a
sub-lieutenant, stood before her. It was not the one she wished for


sub-lieutenant, stood before her. It was not the one she wished for
most, but it seemed as if a part of her past life had returned to
her. Mercedes seized Fernand's hands with a transport which he took
for love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the
world, and seeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary
sorrow. And then, it must be confessed, Fernand had never been
hated — he was only not precisely loved. Another possessed all
Mercedes' heart; that other was absent, had disappeared, perhaps
was dead. At this last thought Mercedes burst into a flood of
tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but the thought, which she had
always repelled before when it was suggested to her by another,
came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too, old Dantes
incessantly said to her, `Our Edmond is dead; if he were not, he
would return to us.' The old man died, as I have told you; had he
lived, Mercedes, perchance, had not become the wife of another, for
he would have been there to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw
this, and when he learned of the old man's death he returned. He
was now a lieutenant. At his first coming he had not said a word of
love to Mercedes; at the second he reminded her that he loved her.
Mercedes begged for six months more in which to await and mourn for
Edmond."
"So that," said the abbe, with a bitter smile, "that makes
eighteen months in all. What more could the most devoted lover
desire?" Then he murmured the words of the English poet, "`Frailty,
thy name is woman.'"
"Six months afterwards," continued Caderousse, "the marriage
took place in the church of Accoules."
"The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,"
murmured the priest; "there was only a change of bride-grooms."
"Well, Mercedes was married," proceeded Caderousse; "but
although in the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly
fainted as she passed La Reserve, where, eighteen months before,
the betrothal had been celebrated with him whom she might havethe betrothal had been celebrated with him whom she might have
known she still loved had she looked to the bottom of her heart.
Fernand, more happy, but not more at his ease — for I saw at this
time he was in constant dread of Edmond's return — Fernand was very
anxious to get his wife away, and to depart himself. There were too
many unpleasant possibilities associated with the Catalans, and
eight days after the wedding they left Marseilles."
"Did you ever see Mercedes again?" inquired the priest.
"Yes, during the Spanish war, at Perpignan, where Fernand had
left her; she was attending to the education of her son." The abbe
started. "Her son?" said he.
"Yes," replied Caderousse, "little Albert."
"But, then, to be able to instruct her child," continued the
abbe, "she must have received an education herself. I understood
from Edmond that she was the daughter of a simple fisherman,
beautiful but uneducated."
"Oh," replied Caderousse, "did he know so little of his lovely
betrothed? Mercedes might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were
to be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent.
Fernand's fortune was already waxing great, and she developed with
his growing fortune. She learned drawing, music — everything.
Besides, I believe, between ourselves, she did this in order to
distract her mind, that she might forget; and she only filled her
head in order to alleviate the weight on her heart. But now her
position in life is assured," continued Caderousse; "no doubt
fortune and honors have comforted her; she is rich, a countess, and
yet" — Caderousse paused.
"And yet what?" asked the abbe.
"Yet, I am sure, she is not happy," said Caderousse.
"What makes you believe this?"
"Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old
friends would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would
not even receive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred
francs by his valet-de-chambre."
"Then you did not see either of them?"
"No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me."
"How was that?""Then you did not see either of them?"
"No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me."
"How was that?"
"As I went away a purse fell at my feet — it contained five and
twenty louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercedes, who at
once shut the blind."
"And M. de Villefort?" asked the abbe.
"Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I
had nothing to ask of him."
"Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in
Edmond's misfortunes?"
"No; I only know that some time after Edmond's arrest, he
married Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, and soon after left
Marseilles; no doubt he has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he
is as rich as Danglars, as high in station as Fernand. I only, as
you see, have remained poor, wretched, and forgotten."
"You are mistaken, my friend," replied the abbe; "God may seem
sometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but
there always comes a moment when he remembers — and behold — a
proof!" As he spoke, the abbe took the diamond from his pocket, and
giving it to Caderousse, said, — "Here, my friend, take this
diamond, it is yours."
"What, for me only?" cried Caderousse, "ah, sir, do not jest
with me!"
"This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond
had one friend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the
diamond, then, and sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and
I repeat my wish that this sum may suffice to release you from your
wretchedness."
"Oh, sir," said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and
with the other wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow,
— "Oh, sir, do not make a jest of the happiness or despair of a
man."
"I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a
jest of such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange — "
Caderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand. The abbe
smiled. "In exchange," he continued, "give me the red silk purse
that M. Morrel left on old Dantes' chimney-piece, and which you
tell me is still in your hands." Caderousse, more and more


tell me is still in your hands." Caderousse, more and more
astonished, went toward a large oaken cupboard, opened it, and gave
the abbe a long purse of faded red silk, round which were two
copper runners that had once been gilt. The abbe took it, and in
return gave Caderousse the diamond.
"Oh, you are a man of God, sir," cried Caderousse; "for no one
knew that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have
kept it."
"Which," said the abbe to himself, "you would have done." The
abbe rose, took his hat and gloves. "Well," he said, "all you have
told me is perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every
particular."
"See, sir," replied Caderousse, "in this corner is a crucifix in
holy wood — here on this shelf is my wife's testament; open this
book, and I will swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will
swear to you by my soul's salvation, my faith as a Christian, I
have told everything to you as it occurred, and as the recording
angel will tell it to the ear of God at the day of the last
judgment!"
"'Tis well," said the abbe, convinced by his manner and tone
that Caderousse spoke the truth. "'Tis well, and may this money
profit you! Adieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure
each other." The abbe with difficulty got away from the
enthusiastic thanks of Caderousse, opened the door himself, got out
and mounted his horse, once more saluted the innkeeper, who kept
uttering his loud farewells, and then returned by the road he had
travelled in coming. When Caderousse turned around, he saw behind
him La Carconte, paler and trembling more than ever. "Is, then, all
that I have heard really true?" she inquired.
"What? That he has given the diamond to us only?" inquired
Caderousse, half bewildered with joy; "yes, nothing more true! See,
here it is." The woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, in a
gloomy voice, "Suppose it's false?" Caderousse started and turned
pale. "False!" he muttered. "False! Why should that man give me a
false diamond?"pale. "False!" he muttered. "False! Why should that man give me a
false diamond?"
"To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead!"
Caderousse remained for a moment aghast under the weight of such
an idea. "Oh!" he said, taking up his hat, which he placed on the
red handkerchief tied round his head, "we will soon find out."
"In what way?"
"Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers
from Paris there, and I will show it to them. Look after the house,
wife, and I shall be back in two hours," and Caderousse left the
house in haste, and ran rapidly in the direction opposite to that
which the priest had taken. "Fifty thousand francs!" muttered La
Carconte when left alone; "it is a large sum of money, but it is
not a fortune."Any one who had quitted Marseilles a few years previously, well
acquainted with the interior of Morrel's warehouse, and had
returned at this date, would have found a great change. Instead of
that air of life, of comfort, and of happiness that permeates a
flourishing and prosperous business establishment — instead of
merry faces at the windows, busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the
long corridors — instead of the court filled with bales of goods,
re-echoing with the cries and the jokes of porters, one would have
immediately perceived all aspect of sadness and gloom. Out of all
the numerous clerks that used to fill the deserted corridor and the
empty office, but two remained. One was a young man of three or
four and twenty, who was in love with M. Morrel's daughter, and had
remained with him in spite of the efforts of his friends to induce
him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed cashier, called
"Cocles," or "Cock-eye," a nickname given him by the young men who
used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive, and which
had so completely replaced his real name that he would not, in all
probability, have replied to any one who addressed him by it.
Cocles remained in M. Morrel's service, and a most singular
change had taken place in his position; he had at the same time
risen to the rank of cashier, and sunk to the rank of a servant. He
was, however, the same Cocles, good, patient, devoted, but
inflexible on the subject of arithmetic, the only point on which he
would have stood firm against the world, even against M. Morrel;
and strong in the multiplication-table, which he had at his
fingers' ends, no matter what scheme or what trap was laid to catch
him. In the midst of the disasters that befell the house, Cocles
was the only one unmoved. But this did not arise from a want of
affection; on the contrary, from a firm conviction. Like the rats
that one by one forsake the doomed ship even before the vessel
weighs anchor, so all the numerous clerks had by degrees desertedweighs anchor, so all the numerous clerks had by degrees deserted
the office and the warehouse. Cocles had seen them go without
thinking of inquiring the cause of their departure. Everything was
as we have said, a question of arithmetic to Cocles, and during
twenty years he had always seen all payments made with such
exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him that the house
should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the river that
had so long turned his mill should cease to flow.
Nothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles' belief; the last
month's payment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude;
Cocles had detected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash,
and the same evening he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a
melancholy smile, threw them into an almost empty drawer, saying:
—
"Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers."
Cocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M.
Morrel, himself the pearl of the honest men of Marseilles,
flattered him more than a present of fifty crowns. But since the
end of the month M. Morrel had passed many an anxious hour. In
order to meet the payments then due; he had collected all his
resources, and, fearing lest the report of his distress should get
bruited abroad at Marseilles when he was known to be reduced to
such an extremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair to sell his wife's
and daughter's jewels and a portion of his plate. By this means the
end of the month was passed, but his resources were now exhausted.
Credit, owing to the reports afloat, was no longer to be had; and
to meet the one hundred thousand francs due on the 10th of the
present month, and the one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th
of the next month to M. de Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no
hope but the return of the Pharaon, of whose departure he had
learnt from a vessel which had weighed anchor at the same time, and
which had already arrived in harbor. But this vessel which, like
the Pharaon, came from Calcutta, had been in for a fortnight, while


the Pharaon, came from Calcutta, had been in for a fortnight, while
no intelligence had been received of the Pharaon.
Such was the state of affairs when, the day after his interview
with M. de Boville, the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson
& French of Rome, presented himself at M. Morrel's. Emmanuel
received him; this young man was alarmed by the appearance of every
new face, for every new face might be that of a new creditor, come
in anxiety to question the head of the house. The young man,
wishing to spare his employer the pain of this interview,
questioned the new-comer; but the stranger declared that he had
nothing to say to M. Emmanuel, and that his business was with M.
Morrel in person. Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles
appeared, and the young man bade him conduct the stranger to M.
Morrel's apartment. Cocles went first, and the stranger followed
him. On the staircase they met a beautiful girl of sixteen or
seventeen, who looked with anxiety at the stranger.
"M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?" said
the cashier.
"Yes; I think so, at least," said the young girl hesitatingly.
"Go and see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this
gentleman."
"It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle," returned the
Englishman. "M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman
has only to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson
& French of Rome, with whom your father does business."
The young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the
stranger and Cocles continued to mount the staircase. She entered
the office where Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key he
possessed, opened a door in the corner of a landing-place on the
second staircase, conducted the stranger into an ante-chamber,
opened a second door, which he closed behind him, and after having
left the clerk of the house of Thomson & French alone, returned
and signed to him that he could enter. The Englishman entered, andand signed to him that he could enter. The Englishman entered, and
found Morrel seated at a table, turning over the formidable columns
of his ledger, which contained the list of his liabilities. At the
sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the ledger, arose, and
offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen him seated,
resumed his own chair. Fourteen years had changed the worthy
merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year at the opening of this
history, was now in his fiftieth; his hair had turned white, time
and sorrow had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and his look,
once so firm and penetrating, was now irresolute and wandering, as
if he feared being forced to fix his attention on some particular
thought or person. The Englishman looked at him with an air of
curiosity, evidently mingled with interest. "Monsieur," said
Morrel, whose uneasiness was increased by this examination, "you
wish to speak to me?"
"Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come?"
"The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier
tells me."
"He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had
300,000 or 400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing
your strict punctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your
signature, and charged me as they became due to present them, and
to employ the money otherwise." Morrel sighed deeply, and passed
his hand over his forehead, which was covered with
perspiration.
"So then, sir," said Morrel, "you hold bills of mine?"
"Yes, and for a considerable sum."
"What is the amount?" asked Morrel with a voice he strove to
render firm.
"Here is," said the Englishman, taking a quantity of papers from
his pocket, "an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de
Boville, the inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You
acknowledge, of course, that you owe this sum to him?"
"Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per
cent nearly five years ago."
"When are you to pay?"
"Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next.""When are you to pay?"
"Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next."
"Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they
are all signed by you, and assigned to our house by the
holders."
"I recognize them," said Morrel, whose face was suffused, as he
thought that, for the first time in his life, he would be unable to
honor his own signature. "Is this all?"
"No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been
assigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild &
Turner of Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all,
287,500 francs." It is impossible to describe what Morrel suffered
during this enumeration. "Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand
five hundred francs," repeated he.
"Yes, sir," replied the Englishman. "I will not," continued he,
after a moment's silence, "conceal from you, that while your
probity and exactitude up to this moment are universally
acknowledged, yet the report is current in Marseilles that you are
not able to meet your liabilities." At this almost brutal speech
Morrel turned deathly pale. "Sir," said he, "up to this time — and
it is now more than four-and-twenty years since I received the
direction of this house from my father, who had himself conducted
it for five and thirty years — never has anything bearing the
signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored."
"I know that," replied the Englishman. "But as a man of honor
should answer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the
same punctuality?" Morrel shuddered, and looked at the man, who
spoke with more assurance than he had hitherto shown. "To questions
frankly put," said he, "a straightforward answer should be given.
Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely; for its
arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous
accidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but
if the Pharaon should be lost, and this last resource be gone" —
the poor man's eyes filled with tears.
"Well," said the other, "if this last resource fail you?"


the poor man's eyes filled with tears.
"Well," said the other, "if this last resource fail you?"
"Well," returned Morrel, "it is a cruel thing to be forced to
say, but, already used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to
shame. I fear I shall be forced to suspend payment."
"Have you no friends who could assist you?" Morrel smiled
mournfully. "In business, sir," said he, "one has no friends, only
correspondents."
"It is true," murmured the Englishman; "then you have but one
hope."
"But one."
"The last?"
"The last."
"So that if this fail" —
"I am ruined, — completely ruined!"
"As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port."
"I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen
fortunes, passes a part of his time in a belvidere at the top of
the house, in hopes of being the first to announce good news to me;
he has informed me of the arrival of this ship."
"And it is not yours?"
"No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, La Gironde; she comes from India
also; but she is not mine."
"Perhaps she has spoken the Pharaon, and brings you some tidings
of her?"
"Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much
to receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt.
Uncertainty is still hope." Then in a low voice Morrel added, —
"This delay is not natural. The Pharaon left Calcutta the 5th
February; she ought to have been here a month ago."
"What is that?" said the Englishman. "What is the meaning of
that noise?"
"Oh, oh!" cried Morrel, turning pale, "what is it?" A loud noise
was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and half-stifled
sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his strength failed
him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained opposite one
another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger gazing at him
with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but it seemed
that Morrel expected something — something had occasioned the
noise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard
footsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were thosefootsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those
of several persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the
lock of the first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible.
"There are only two persons who have the key to that door,"
murmured Morrel, "Cocles and Julie." At this instant the second
door opened, and the young girl, her eyes bathed with tears,
appeared. Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting himself by the arm of
the chair. He would have spoken, but his voice failed him. "Oh,
father!" said she, clasping her hands, "forgive your child for
being the bearer of evil tidings."
Morrel again changed color. Julie threw herself into his
arms.
"Oh, father, father!" murmured she, "courage!"
"The Pharaon has gone down, then?" said Morrel in a hoarse
voice. The young girl did not speak; but she made an affirmative
sign with her head as she lay on her father's breast.
"And the crew?" asked Morrel.
"Saved," said the girl; "saved by the crew of the vessel that
has just entered the harbor." Morrel raised his two hands to heaven
with an expression of resignation and sublime gratitude. "Thanks,
my God," said he, "at least thou strikest but me alone." A tear
moistened the eye of the phlegmatic Englishman.
"Come in, come in," said Morrel, "for I presume you are all at
the door."
Scarcely had he uttered those words than Madame Morrel entered
weeping bitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in the antechamber
were visible the rough faces of seven or eight half-naked sailors.
At the sight of these men the Englishman started and advanced a
step; then restrained himself, and retired into the farthest and
most obscure corner of the apartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her
husband and took one of his hands in hers, Julie still lay with her
head on his shoulder, Emmanuel stood in the centre of the chamber
and seemed to form the link between Morrel's family and the sailors
at the door.
"How did this happen?" said Morrel.
"Draw nearer, Penelon," said the young man, "and tell us all
about it.""Draw nearer, Penelon," said the young man, "and tell us all
about it."
An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling
the remains of a tarpaulin between his hands. "Good-day, M.
Morrel," said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles the previous
evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon.
"Good-day, Penelon," returned Morrel, who could not refrain from
smiling through his tears, "where is the captain?"
"The captain, M. Morrel, — he has stayed behind sick at Palma;
but please God, it won't be much, and you will see him in a few
days all alive and hearty."
"Well, now tell your story, Penelon."
Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his
mouth, turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into
the antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began, —
"You see, M. Morrel," said he, "we were somewhere between Cape
Blanc and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze,
south-south-west after a week's calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up
to me — I was at the helm I should tell you — and says, `Penelon,
what do you think of those clouds coming up over there?' I was just
then looking at them myself. `What do I think, captain? Why I think
that they are rising faster than they have any business to do, and
that they would not be so black if they didn't mean mischief.' —
`That's my opinion too,' said the captain, `and I'll take
precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas. Avast,
there, all hands! Take in the studding-sl's and stow the flying
jib.' It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to
heel. `Ah,' said the captain, `we have still too much canvas set;
all hands lower the mains'l!' Five minutes after, it was down; and
we sailed under mizzen-tops'ls and to'gall'nt sails. `Well,
Penelon,' said the captain, `what makes you shake your head?'
`Why,' I says, `I still think you've got too much on.' `I think
you're right,' answered he, `we shall have a gale.' `A gale? More
than that, we shall have a tempest, or I don't know what's what.'


than that, we shall have a tempest, or I don't know what's what.'
You could see the wind coming like the dust at Montredon; luckily
the captain understood his business. `Take in two reefs in the
tops'ls,' cried the captain; `let go the bowlin's, haul the brace,
lower the to'gall'nt sails, haul out the reef-tackles on the
yards.'"
"That was not enough for those latitudes," said the Englishman;
"I should have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the
spanker."
His firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice made every one start.
Penelon put his hand over his eyes, and then stared at the man who
thus criticized the manoeuvres of his captain. "We did better than
that, sir," said the old sailor respectfully; "we put the helm up
to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck our tops'ls
and scudded under bare poles."
"The vessel was very old to risk that," said the Englishman.
"Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily
for twelve hours we sprung a leak. `Penelon,' said the captain, `I
think we are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.'
I gave him the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of
water. `All hands to the pumps!' I shouted; but it was too late,
and it seemed the more we pumped the more came in. `Ah,' said I,
after four hours' work, `since we are sinking, let us sink; we can
die but once.' `That's the example you set, Penelon,' cries the
captain; `very well, wait a minute.' He went into his cabin and
came back with a brace of pistols. `I will blow the brains out of
the first man who leaves the pump,' said he."
"Well done!" said the Englishman.
"There's nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons,"
continued the sailor; "and during that time the wind had abated,
and the sea gone down, but the water kept rising; not much, only
two inches an hour, but still it rose. Two inches an hour does not
seem much, but in twelve hours that makes two feet, and three we
had before, that makes five. `Come,' said the captain, `we havehad before, that makes five. `Come,' said the captain, `we have
done all in our power, and M. Morrel will have nothing to reproach
us with, we have tried to save the ship, let us now save ourselves.
To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can.' Now," continued
Penelon, "you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to his ship, but
still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told twice; the
more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to say,
`Get along — save yourselves.' We soon launched the boat, and all
eight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he
did not descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round
the waist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after
him. It was time, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise
like the broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched
forward, then the other way, spun round and round, and then good-by
to the Pharaon. As for us, we were three days without anything to
eat or drink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should
feed the rest, when we saw La Gironde; we made signals of distress,
she perceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now,
M. Morrel, that's the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not
it true, you fellows there?" A general murmur of approbation showed
that the narrator had faithfully detailed their misfortunes and
sufferings.
"Well, well," said M. Morrel, "I know there was no one in fault
but destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen,
blessed be his name. What wages are due to you?"
"Oh, don't let us talk of that, M. Morrel."
"Yes, but we will talk of it."
"Well, then, three months," said Penelon.
"Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,"
said Morrel. "At another time," added be, "I should have said, Give
them, besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are
changed, and the little money that remains to me is not my
own."
Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with
them.own."
Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with
them.
"As for that, M. Morrel," said he, again turning his quid, "as
for that" —
"As for what?"
"The money."
"Well" —
"Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at
present, and that we will wait for the rest."
"Thanks, my friends, thanks!" cried Morrel gratefully; "take it
— take it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service;
you are free to do so." These last words produced a prodigious
effect on the seaman. Penelon nearly swallowed his quid;
fortunately he recovered. "What, M. Morrel!" said he in a low
voice, "you send us away; you are then angry with us!"
"No, no," said M. Morrel, "I am not angry, quite the contrary,
and I do not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore
I do not want any sailors."
"No more ships!" returned Penelon; "well, then, you'll build
some; we'll wait for you."
"I have no money to build ships with, Penelon," said the poor
owner mournfully, "so I cannot accept your kind offer."
"No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the
Pharaon, under bare poles."
"Enough, enough!" cried Morrel, almost overpowered; "leave me, I
pray you; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with
them, and see that my orders are executed."
"At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?" asked
Penelon.
"Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go." He made a sign to Cocles,
who went first; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the
rear. "Now," said the owner to his wife and daughter, "leave me; I
wish to speak with this gentleman." And he glanced towards the
clerk of Thomson & French, who had remained motionless in the
corner during this scene, in which he had taken no part, except the
few words we have mentioned. The two women looked at this person
whose presence they had entirely forgotten, and retired; but, as
she left the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a supplicating
glance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent


glance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent
spectator would have been surprised to see on his stern features.
The two men were left alone. "Well, sir," said Morrel, sinking into
a chair, "you have heard all, and I have nothing further to tell
you."
"I see," returned the Englishman, "that a fresh and unmerited
misfortune his overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire
to serve you."
"Oh, sir!" cried Morrel.
"Let me see," continued the stranger, "I am one of your largest
creditors."
"Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due."
"Do you wish for time to pay?"
"A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life."
"How long a delay do you wish for?" — Morrel reflected. "Two
months," said he.
"I will give you three," replied the stranger.
"But," asked Morrel, "will the house of Thomson & French
consent?"
"Oh, I take everything on myself. To-day is the 5th of
June."
"Yes."
"Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the
5th of September at eleven o'clock (the hand of the clock pointed
to eleven), I shall come to receive the money."
"I shall expect you," returned Morrel; "and I will pay you — or
I shall he dead." These last words were uttered in so low a tone
that the stranger could not hear them. The bills were renewed, the
old ones destroyed, and the poor ship-owner found himself with
three months before him to collect his resources. The Englishman
received his thanks with the phlegm peculiar to his nation; and
Morrel, overwhelming him with grateful blessings, conducted him to
the staircase. The stranger met Julie on the stairs; she pretended
to be descending, but in reality she was waiting for him. "Oh, sir"
— said she, clasping her hands.
"Mademoiselle," said the stranger, "one day you will receive a
letter signed `Sinbad the Sailor.' Do exactly what the letter bids
you, however strange it may appear."
"Yes, sir," returned Julie.
"Do you promise?"
"I swear to you I will."
"It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet"I swear to you I will."
"It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet
girl you are at present, and I have great hopes that heaven will
reward you by giving you Emmanuel for a husband."
Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned
against the baluster. The stranger waved his hand, and continued to
descend. In the court he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a
hundred francs in either hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to
retain them. "Come with me, my friend," said the Englishman; "I
wish to speak to you."The extension provided for by the agent of Thomson & French,
at the moment when Morrel expected it least, was to the poor
shipowner so decided a stroke of good fortune that he almost dared
to believe that fate was at length grown weary of wasting her spite
upon him. The same day he told his wife, Emmanuel, and his daughter
all that had occurred; and a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity,
returned to the family. Unfortunately, however, Morrel had not only
engagements with the house of Thomson & French, who had shown
themselves so considerate towards him; and, as he had said, in
business he had correspondents, and not friends. When he thought
the matter over, he could by no means account for this generous
conduct on the part of Thomson & French towards him; and could
only attribute it to some such selfish argument as this: — "We had
better help a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have those
300,000 francs at the end of three months than hasten his ruin, and
get only six or eight per cent of our money back again."
Unfortunately, whether through envy or stupidity, all Morrel's
correspondents did not take this view; and some even came to a
contrary decision. The bills signed by Morrel were presented at his
office with scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the delay granted
by the Englishman, were paid by Cocles with equal punctuality.
Cocles thus remained in his accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel
alone who remembered with alarm, that if he had to repay on the
15th the 50,000 francs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th the 32,500
francs of bills, for which, as well as the debt due to the
inspector of prisons, he had time granted, he must be a ruined
man.
The opinion of all the commercial men was that, under the
reverses which had successively weighed down Morrel, it was
impossible for him to remain solvent. Great, therefore, was the
astonishment when at the end of the month, he cancelled all his
obligations with his usual punctuality. Still confidence was notobligations with his usual punctuality. Still confidence was not
restored to all minds, and the general opinion was that the
complete ruin of the unfortunate shipowner had been postponed only
until the end of the month. The month passed, and Morrel made
extraordinary efforts to get in all his resources. Formerly his
paper, at any date, was taken with confidence, and was even in
request. Morrel now tried to negotiate bills at ninety days only,
and none of the banks would give him credit. Fortunately, Morrel
had some funds coming in on which he could rely; and, as they
reached him, he found himself in a condition to meet his
engagements when the end of July came. The agent of Thomson &
French had not been again seen at Marseilles; the day after, or two
days after his visit to Morrel, he had disappeared; and as in that
city he had had no intercourse but with the mayor, the inspector of
prisons, and M. Morrel, his departure left no trace except in the
memories of these three persons. As to the sailors of the Pharaon,
they must have found snug berths elsewhere, for they also had
disappeared.
Captain Gaumard, recovered from his illness, had returned from
Palma. He delayed presenting himself at Morrel's, but the owner,
hearing of his arrival, went to see him. The worthy shipowner knew,
from Penelon's recital, of the captain's brave conduct during the
storm, and tried to console him. He brought him also the amount of
his wages, which Captain Gaumard had not dared to apply for. As he
descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up.
Penelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was
newly clad. When he saw his employer, the worthy tar seemed much
embarrassed, drew on one side into the corner of the landing-place,
passed his quid from one cheek to the other, stared stupidly with
his great eyes, and only acknowledged the squeeze of the hand which
Morrel as usual gave him by a slight pressure in return. Morrel
attributed Penelon's embarrassment to the elegance of his attire;


attributed Penelon's embarrassment to the elegance of his attire;
it was evident the good fellow had not gone to such an expense on
his own account; he was, no doubt, engaged on board some other
vessel, and thus his bashfulness arose from the fact of his not
having, if we may so express ourselves, worn mourning for the
Pharaon longer. Perhaps he had come to tell Captain Gaumard of his
good luck, and to offer him employment from his new master. "Worthy
fellows!" said Morrel, as he went away, "may your new master love
you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been!"
August rolled by in unceasing efforts on the part of Morrel to
renew his credit or revive the old. On the 20th of August it was
known at Marseilles that he had left town in the mailcoach, and
then it was said that the bills would go to protest at the end of
the month, and that Morrel had gone away and left his chief clerk
Emmanuel, and his cashier Cocles, to meet the creditors. But,
contrary to all expectation, when the 31st of August came, the
house opened as usual, and Cocles appeared behind the grating of
the counter, examined all bills presented with the usual scrutiny,
and, from first to last, paid all with the usual precision. There
came in, moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had fully
anticipated, and which Cocles paid as punctually as the bills which
the shipowner had accepted. All this was incomprehensible, and
then, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the
failure was put off until the end of September. On the 1st, Morrel
returned; he was awaited by his family with extreme anxiety, for
from this journey to Paris they hoped great things. Morrel had
thought of Danglars, who was now immensely rich, and had lain under
great obligations to Morrel in former days, since to him it was
owing that Danglars entered the service of the Spanish banker, with
whom he had laid the foundations of his vast wealth. It was said at
this moment that Danglars was worth from six to eight millions ofthis moment that Danglars was worth from six to eight millions of
francs, and had unlimited credit. Danglars, then, without taking a
crown from his pocket, could save Morrel; he had but to pass his
word for a loan, and Morrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of
Danglars, but had kept away from some instinctive motive, and had
delayed as long as possible availing himself of this last resource.
And Morrel was right, for he returned home crushed by the
humiliation of a refusal. Yet, on his arrival, Morrel did not utter
a complaint, or say one harsh word. He embraced his weeping wife
and daughter, pressed Emmanuel's hand with friendly warmth, and
then going to his private room on the second floor had sent for
Cocles. "Then," said the two women to Emmanuel, "we are indeed
ruined."
It was agreed in a brief council held among them, that Julie
should write to her brother, who was in garrison at Nimes, to come
to them as speedily as possible. The poor women felt instinctively
that they required all their strength to support the blow that
impended. Besides, Maximilian Morrel, though hardly two and twenty,
had great influence over his father. He was a strong-minded,
upright young man. At the time when he decided on his profession
his father had no desire to choose for him, but had consulted young
Maximilian's taste. He had at once declared for a military life,
and had in consequence studied hard, passed brilliantly through the
Polytechnic School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of the 53d of the
line. For a year he had held this rank, and expected promotion on
the first vacancy. In his regiment Maximilian Morrel was noted for
his rigid observance, not only of the obligations imposed on a
soldier, but also of the duties of a man; and he thus gained the
name of "the stoic." We need hardly say that many of those who gave
him this epithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not
even know what it meant. This was the young man whom his mother and
sister called to their aid to sustain them under the serious trialsister called to their aid to sustain them under the serious trial
which they felt they would soon have to endure. They had not
mistaken the gravity of this event, for the moment after Morrel had
entered his private office with Cocles, Julie saw the latter leave
it pale, trembling, and his features betraying the utmost
consternation. She would have questioned him as he passed by her,
but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with unusual
precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and exclaimed,
"Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who
could ever have believed it!" A moment afterwards Julie saw him go
up-stairs carrying two or three heavy ledgers, a portfolio, and a
bag of money.
Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the portfolio, and counted
the money. All his funds amounted to 6,000, or 8,000 francs, his
bills receivable up to the 5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the
best of everything, gave him 14,000 francs to meet debts amounting
to 287,500 francs. He had not even the means for making a possible
settlement on account. However, when Morrel went down to his
dinner, he appeared very calm. This calmness was more alarming to
the two women than the deepest dejection would have been. After
dinner Morrel usually went out and used to take his coffee at the
Phocaean club, and read the Semaphore; this day he did not leave
the house, but returned to his office.
As to Cocles, he seemed completely bewildered. For part of the
day he went into the court-yard, seated himself on a stone with his
head bare and exposed to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to comfort
the women, but his eloquence faltered. The young man was too well
acquainted with the business of the house, not to feel that a great
catastrophe hung over the Morrel family. Night came, the two women
had watched, hoping that when he left his room Morrel would come to
them, but they heard him pass before their door, and trying to
conceal the noise of his footsteps. They listened; he went into his


conceal the noise of his footsteps. They listened; he went into his
sleeping-room, and fastened the door inside. Madame Morrel sent her
daughter to bed, and half an hour after Julie had retired, she
rose, took off her shoes, and went stealthily along the passage, to
see through the keyhole what her husband was doing. In the passage
she saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie, who, uneasy herself, had
anticipated her mother. The young lady went towards Madame
Morrel.
"He is writing," she said. They had understood each other
without speaking. Madame Morrel looked again through the keyhole,
Morrel was writing; but Madame Morrel remarked, what her daughter
had not observed, that her husband was writing on stamped paper.
The terrible idea that he was writing his will flashed across her;
she shuddered, and yet had not strength to utter a word. Next day
M. Morrel seemed as calm as ever, went into his office as usual,
came to his breakfast punctually, and then, after dinner, he placed
his daughter beside him, took her head in his arms, and held her
for a long time against his bosom. In the evening, Julie told her
mother, that although he was apparently so calm, she had noticed
that her father's heart beat violently. The next two days passed in
much the same way. On the evening of the 4th of September, M.
Morrel asked his daughter for the key of his study. Julie trembled
at this request, which seemed to her of bad omen. Why did her
father ask for this key which she always kept, and which was only
taken from her in childhood as a punishment? The young girl looked
at Morrel.
"What have I done wrong, father," she said, "that you should
take this key from me?"
"Nothing, my dear," replied the unhappy man, the tears starting
to his eyes at this simple question, — "nothing, only I want it."
Julie made a pretence to feel for the key. "I must have left it in
my room," she said. And she went out, but instead of going to her
apartment she hastened to consult Emmanuel. "Do not give this keyapartment she hastened to consult Emmanuel. "Do not give this key
to your father," said he, "and to-morrow morning, if possible, do
not quit him for a moment." She questioned Emmanuel, but he knew
nothing, or would not say what he knew. During the night, between
the 4th and 5th of September, Madame Morrel remained listening for
every sound, and, until three o'clock in the morning, she heard her
husband pacing the room in great agitation. It was three o'clock
when he threw himself on the bed. The mother and daughter passed
the night together. They had expected Maximilian since the previous
evening. At eight o'clock in the morning Morrel entered their
chamber. He was calm; but the agitation of the night was legible in
his pale and careworn visage. They did not dare to ask him how he
had slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, more affectionate to his
daughter, than he had ever been. He could not cease gazing at and
kissing the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of Emmanuel's request, was
following her father when he quitted the room, but he said to her
quickly, — "Remain with your mother, dearest." Julie wished to
accompany him. "I wish you to do so," said he.
This was the first time Morrel had ever so spoken, but he said
it in a tone of paternal kindness, and Julie did not dare to
disobey. She remained at the same spot standing mute and
motionless. An instant afterwards the door opened, she felt two
arms encircle her, and a mouth pressed her forehead. She looked up
and uttered an exclamation of joy.
"Maximilian, my dearest brother!" she cried. At these words
Madame Morrel rose, and threw herself into her son's arms.
"Mother," said the young man, looking alternately at Madame Morrel
and her daughter, "what has occurred — what has happened? Your
letter has frightened me, and I have come hither with all
speed."
"Julie," said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man, "go
and tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived." The young
lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of thelady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of the
staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand.
"Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?" inquired the man, with
a strong Italian accent.
"Yes, sir," replied Julie with hesitation; "what is your
pleasure? I do not know you."
"Read this letter," he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated.
"It concerns the best interests of your father," said the
messenger.
The young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it
quickly and read: —
"Go this moment to the Allees de Meillan, enter the house No.
15, ask the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor,
enter the apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a
purse netted in red silk, and give it to your father. It is
important that he should receive it before eleven o'clock. You
promised to obey me implicitly. Remember your oath.
"Sinbad the Sailor."
The young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked
round to question the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast
her eyes again over the note to peruse it a second time, and saw
there was a postscript. She read: —
"It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person
and alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should any
one else go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not
know anything about it."
This postscript decreased greatly the young girl's happiness.
Was there nothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her?
Her innocence had kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might
assail a young girl of her age. But there is no need to know danger
in order to fear it; indeed, it may be observed, that it is usually
unknown perils that inspire the greatest terror.
Julie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a
singular impulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that
she applied, but to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what
had occurred on the day when the agent of Thomson & French had


had occurred on the day when the agent of Thomson & French had
come to her father's, related the scene on the staircase, repeated
the promise she had made, and showed him the letter. "You must go,
then, mademoiselle," said Emmanuel.
"Go there?" murmured Julie.
"Yes; I will accompany you."
"But did you not read that I must be alone?" said Julie.
"And you shall be alone," replied the young man. "I will await
you at the corner of the Rue de Musee, and if you are so long
absent as to make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe
to him of whom you shall have cause to complain to me!"
"Then, Emmanuel?" said the young girl with hesitation, "it is
your opinion that I should obey this invitation?"
"Yes. Did not the messenger say your father's safety depended
upon it?"
"But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?" she asked.
Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide
immediately made him reply.
"Listen," he said; "to-day is the 5th of September, is it
not?"
"Yes."
"To-day, then, at eleven o'clock, your father has nearly three
hundred thousand francs to pay?"
"Yes, we know that."
"Well, then," continued Emmanuel, "we have not fifteen thousand
francs in the house."
"What will happen then?"
"Why, if to-day before eleven o'clock your father has not found
someone who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve
o'clock to declare himself a bankrupt."
"Oh, come, then, come!" cried she, hastening away with the young
man. During this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything.
The young man knew quite well that, after the succession of
misfortunes which had befallen his father, great changes had taken
place in the style of living and housekeeping; but he did not know
that matters had reached such a point. He was thunderstruck. Then,
rushing hastily out of the apartment, he ran up-stairs, expecting
to find his father in his study, but he rapped there in vain.
While he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom
door open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct todoor open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to
his study, M. Morrel had returned to his bed-chamber, which he was
only this moment quitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the
sight of his son, of whose arrival he was ignorant. He remained
motionless on the spot, pressing with his left hand something he
had concealed under his coat. Maximilian sprang down the staircase,
and threw his arms round his father's neck; but suddenly he
recoiled, and placed his right hand on Morrel's breast. "Father,"
he exclaimed, turning pale as death, "what are you going to do with
that brace of pistols under your coat?"
"Oh, this is what I feared!" said Morrel.
"Father, father, in heaven's name," exclaimed the young man,
"what are these weapons for?"
"Maximilian," replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, "you
are a man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to
you."
And with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while
Maximilian followed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the
door, and closed it behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom,
went to his desk on which he placed the pistols, and pointed with
his finger to an open ledger. In this ledger was made out an exact
balance-sheet of his affair's. Morrel had to pay, within half an
hour, 287,500 francs. All he possessed was 15,257 francs. "Read!"
said Morrel.
The young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a
word. What could he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof
in figures? "And have you done all that is possible, father, to
meet this disastrous result?" asked the young man, after a moment's
pause. "I have," replied Morrel.
"You have no money coming in on which you can rely?"
"None."
"You have exhausted every resource?"
"All."
"And in half an hour," said Maximilian in a gloomy voice, "our
name is dishonored!"
"Blood washes out dishonor," said Morrel.
"You are right, father; I understand you." Then extending his
hand towards one of the pistols, he said, "There is one for you andhand towards one of the pistols, he said, "There is one for you and
one for me — thanks!" Morrel caught his hand. "Your mother — your
sister! Who will support them?" A shudder ran through the young
man's frame. "Father," he said, "do you reflect that you are
bidding me to live?"
"Yes, I do so bid you," answered Morrel, "it is your duty. You
have a calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no
ordinary man. I make no requests or commands; I only ask you to
examine my position as if it were your own, and then judge for
yourself."
The young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of
sublime resignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad
gesture he took off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank. "Be
it so, then, my father," he said, extending his hand to Morrel,
"die in peace, my father; I will live." Morrel was about to cast
himself on his knees before his son, but Maximilian caught him in
his arms, and those two noble hearts were pressed against each
other for a moment. "You know it is not my fault," said Morrel.
Maximilian smiled. "I know, father, you are the most honorable man
I have ever known."
"Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and
rejoin your mother and sister."
"My father," said the young man, bending his knee, "bless me!"
Morrel took the head of his son between his two hands, drew him
forward, and kissing his forehead several times said, "Oh, yes,
yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three
generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, `The edifice
which misfortune has destroyed, providence may build up again.' On
seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on
you. To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused
to me. Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to
work, labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live,
yourself, your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so
that from day to day the property of those whom I leave in your


that from day to day the property of those whom I leave in your
hands may augment and fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will
be, how grand, how solemn, that day of complete restoration, on
which you will say in this very office, `My father died because he
could not do what I have this day done; but he died calmly and
peaceably, because in dying he knew what I should do.'"
"My father, my father!" cried the young man, "why should you not
live?"
"If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be
converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a
man who his broken his word, failed in his engagements — in fact,
only a bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian,
my corpse is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best
friends would avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me
in tears to my last home. Living, you would feel shame at my name;
dead, you may raise your head and say, `I am the son of him you
killed, because, for the first time, he has been compelled to break
his word.'"
The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.
"And now," said Morrel, "leave me alone, and endeavor to keep
your mother and sister away."
"Will you not see my sister once more?" asked Maximilian. A last
but final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this
interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his
head. "I saw her this morning, and bade her adieu."
"Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?"
inquired Maximilian in a faltering voice.
"Yes; my son, and a sacred command."
"Say it, my father."
"The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from
humanity, or, it may be, selfishness — it is not for me to read
men's hearts — has had any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten
minutes present himself to receive the amount of a bill of 287,500
francs, I will not say granted, but offered me three months. Let
this house be the first repaid, my son, and respect this man."
"Father, I will," said Maximilian.this house be the first repaid, my son, and respect this man."
"Father, I will," said Maximilian.
"And now, once more, adieu," said Morrel. "Go, leave me; I would
be alone. You will find my will in the secretary in my
bedroom."
The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the
force of will and not the power of execution.
"Hear me, Maximilian," said his father. "Suppose I was a soldier
like you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I
must be killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said
just now, `Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death
is preferable to shame!'"
"Yes, yes," said the young man, "yes;" and once again embracing
his father with convulsive pressure, he said, "Be it so, my
father."
And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him,
Morrel remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the
door; then putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a
moment's interval, Cocles appeared.
It was no longer the same man — the fearful revelations of the
three last days had crushed him. This thought — the house of Morrel
is about to stop payment — bent him to the earth more than twenty
years would otherwise have done.
"My worthy Cocles," said Morrel in a tone impossible to
describe, "do you remain in the ante-chamber. When the gentleman
who came three months ago — the agent of Thomson & French —
arrives, announce his arrival to me." Cocles made no reply; he made
a sign with his head, went into the anteroom, and seated himself.
Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the clock; there
were seven minutes left, that was all. The hand moved on with
incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.
What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his
agony cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he
was surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had
convinced himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet
certainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he heldcertainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held
dear in the world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of
his feelings, one must have seen his face with its expression of
enforced resignation and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven.
The minute hand moved on. The pistols were loaded; he stretched
forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter's name. Then
he laid it down seized his pen, and wrote a few words. It seemed to
him as if he had not taken a sufficient farewell of his beloved
daughter. Then he turned again to the clock, counting time now not
by minutes, but by seconds. He took up the deadly weapon again, his
lips parted and his eyes fixed on the clock, and then shuddered at
the click of the trigger as he cocked the pistol. At this moment of
mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang
stronger than death clutched at his heart-strings. He heard the
door of the staircase creak on its hinges — the clock gave its
warning to strike eleven — the door of his study opened; Morrel did
not turn round — he expected these words of Cocles, "The agent of
Thomson & French."
He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly
he heard a cry — it was his daughter's voice. He turned and saw
Julie. The pistol fell from his hands. "My father!" cried the young
girl, out of breath, and half dead with joy — "saved, you are
saved!" And she threw herself into his arms, holding in her
extended hand a red, netted silk purse.
"Saved, my child!" said Morrel; "what do you mean?"
"Yes, saved — saved! See, see!" said the young girl.
Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague
remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one
end was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other
was a diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small
slip of parchment: — Julie's Dowry.
Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream.
At this moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke


At this moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke
of the hammer fell upon his heart. "Explain, my child," he said,
"Explain, my child," he said, "explain — where did you find this
purse?"
"In a house in the Allees de Meillan, No. 15, on the corner of a
mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor."
"But," cried Morrel, "this purse is not yours!" Julie handed to
her father the letter she had received in the morning.
"And did you go alone?" asked Morrel, after he had read it.
"Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me
at the corner of the Rue de Musee, but, strange to say, he was not
there when I returned."
"Monsieur Morrel!" exclaimed a voice on the stairs. — "Monsieur
Morrel!"
"It is his voice!" said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered,
his countenance full of animation and joy. "The Pharaon!" he cried;
"the Pharaon!"
"What — what — the Pharaon! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the
vessel is lost."
"The Pharaon, sir — they signal the Pharaon! The Pharaon is
entering the harbor!" Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength
was failing him; his understanding weakened by such events, refused
to comprehend such incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his
son came in. "Father," cried Maximilian, "how could you say the
Pharaon was lost? The lookout has signalled her, and they say she
is now coming into port."
"My dear friends," said Morrel, "if this be so, it must be a
miracle of heaven! Impossible, impossible!"
But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held
in his hand, the acceptance receipted — the splendid diamond.
"Ah, sir," exclaimed Cocles, "what can it mean? — the
Pharaon?"
"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising from his seat, "let us go
and see, and heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!"
They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had
been afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the
Cannebiere. There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave wayCannebiere. There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way
before Morrel. "The Pharaon, the Pharaon!" said every voice.
And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was
a ship bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters,
"The Pharaon, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles." She was the exact
duplicate of the other Pharaon, and loaded, as that had been, with
cochineal and indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the
deck was Captain Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making
signals to M. Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was
the evidence of the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to
corroborate the testimony. As Morrel and his son embraced on the
pier-head, in the presence and amid the applause of the whole city
witnessing this event, a man, with his face half-covered by a black
beard, and who, concealed behind the sentry-box, watched the scene
with delight, uttered these words in a low tone: "Be happy, noble
heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and wilt do
hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your good
deeds."
And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his
hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the
flights of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times,
shouted "Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!" Then a launch came to shore, took
him on board, and conveyed him to a yacht splendidly fitted up, on
whose deck he sprung with the activity of a sailor; thence he once
again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping with joy, was shaking
hands most cordially with all the crowd around him, and thanking
with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to be seeking in
the skies. "And now," said the unknown, "farewell kindness,
humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand
the heart! I have been heaven's substitute to recompense the good —
now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the
wicked!" At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaitingwicked!" At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting
this signal, the yacht instantly put out to sea.Towards the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging
to the first society of Paris, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf and
the Baron Franz d'Epinay, were at Florence. They had agreed to see
the Carnival at Rome that year, and that Franz, who for the last
three or four years had inhabited Italy, should act as cicerone to
Albert. As it is no inconsiderable affair to spend the Carnival at
Rome, especially when you have no great desire to sleep on the
Piazza del Popolo, or the Campo Vaccino, they wrote to Signor
Pastrini, the proprietor of the Hotel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna,
to reserve comfortable apartments for them. Signor Pastrini replied
that he had only two rooms and a parlor on the third floor, which
he offered at the low charge of a louis per diem. They accepted his
offer; but wishing to make the best use of the time that was left,
Albert started for Naples. As for Franz, he remained at Florence,
and after having passed a few days in exploring the paradise of the
Cascine, and spending two or three evenings at the houses of the
Florentine nobility, he took a fancy into his head (having already
visited Corsica, the cradle of Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the
waiting-place of Napoleon.
One evening he cast off the painter of a sailboat from the iron
ring that secured it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped himself in his
coat and lay down, and said to the crew, — "To the Island of Elba!"
The boat shot out of the harbor like a bird and the next morning
Franz disembarked at Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, after
having followed the traces which the footsteps of the giant have
left, and re-embarked for Marciana. Two hours after he again landed
at Pianosa, where he was assured that red partridges abounded. The
sport was bad; Franz only succeeded in killing a few partridges,
and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, he returned to the boat
very much out of temper. "Ah, if your excellency chose," said the
captain, "you might have capital sport."
"Where?"


captain, "you might have capital sport."
"Where?"
"Do you see that island?" continued the captain, pointing to a
conical pile rising from the indigo sea.
"Well, what is this island?"
"The Island of Monte Cristo."
"But I have no permission to shoot over this island."
"Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is
uninhabited."
"Ah, indeed!" said the young man. "A desert island in the midst
of the Mediterranean must be a curiosity."
"It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does
not contain an acre of land capable of cultivation."
"To whom does this island belong?"
"To Tuscany."
"What game shall I find there!"
"Thousands of wild goats."
"Who live upon the stones, I suppose," said Franz with an
incredulous smile.
"No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the
crevices of the rocks."
"Where can I sleep?"
"On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if
your excellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like — we can
sail as well by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use
our oars."
As Franz had sufficient time, and his apartments at Rome were
not yet available, he accepted the proposition. Upon his answer in
the affirmative, the sailors exchanged a few words together in a
low tone. "Well," asked he, "what now? Is there any difficulty in
the way?"
"No." replied the captain, "but we must warn your excellency
that the island is an infected port."
"What do you mean?"
"Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a
refuge for the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica,
Sardinia, and Africa, and if it becomes known that we have been
there, we shall have to perform quarantine for six days on our
return to Leghorn."
"The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days!
Why, that's as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too
long a wait — too long."
"But who will say your excellency has been to Monte Cristo?"
"Oh, I shall not," cried Franz.
"Nor I, nor I," chorused the sailors.
"Then steer for Monte Cristo.""Nor I, nor I," chorused the sailors.
"Then steer for Monte Cristo."
The captain gave his orders, the helm was put up, and the boat
was soon sailing in the direction of the island. Franz waited until
all was in order, and when the sail was filled, and the four
sailors had taken their places — three forward, and one at the helm
— he resumed the conversation. "Gaetano," said he to the captain,
"you tell me Monte Cristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are,
it seems to me, a very different kind of game from the goats."
"Yes, your excellency, and it is true."
"I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the
capture of Algiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates
existed only in the romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat."
"Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the
bandits who were believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo
XII., and who yet, every day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome.
Has not your excellency heard that the French charge d'affaires was
robbed six months ago within five hundred paces of Velletri?"
"Oh, yes, I heard that."
"Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you
would hear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an
English yacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at
Civita Vecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of
it, but, doubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this
rock it has met has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or
eight men, who have surprised and plundered it, some dark and
stormy night, near some desert and gloomy island, as bandits
plunder a carriage in the recesses of a forest."
"But," asked Franz, who lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom
of the boat, "why do not those who have been plundered complain to
the French, Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?"
"Why?" said Gaetano with a smile.
"Yes, why?"
"Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to
their own boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind thetheir own boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the
crew hand and foot, they attach to every one's neck a four and
twenty pound ball, a large hole is chopped in the vessel's bottom,
and then they leave her. At the end of ten minutes the vessel
begins to roll heavily and settle down. First one gun'l goes under,
then the other. Then they lift and sink again, and both go under at
once. All at once there's a noise like a cannon — that's the air
blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes out of the scupper-holes
like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last groan, spins round
and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool in the ocean,
and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but the eye
of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the sea.
Do you understand now," said the captain, "why no complaints are
made to the government, and why the vessel never reaches port?"
It is probable that if Gaetano had related this previous to
proposing the expedition, Franz would have hesitated, but now that
they had started, he thought it would be cowardly to draw back. He
was one of those men who do not rashly court danger, but if danger
presents itself, combat it with the most unalterable coolness. Calm
and resolute, he treated any peril as he would an adversary in a
duel, — calculated its probable method of approach; retreated, if
at all, as a point of strategy and not from cowardice; was quick to
see an opening for attack, and won victory at a single thrust.
"Bah!" said he, "I have travelled through Sicily and Calabria — I
have sailed two months in the Archipelago, and yet I never saw even
the shadow of a bandit or a pirate."
"I did not tell your excellency this to deter you from your
project," replied Gaetano, "but you questioned me, and I have
answered; that's all."
"Yes, and your conversation is most interesting; and as I wish
to enjoy it as long as possible, steer for Monte Cristo."
The wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an


The wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an
hour, and they were rapidly reaching the end of their voyage. As
they drew near the island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air
was so clear that they could already distinguish the rocks heaped
on one another, like cannon balls in an arsenal, with green bushes
and trees growing in the crevices. As for the sailors, although
they appeared perfectly tranquil yet it was evident that they were
on the alert, and that they carefully watched the glassy surface
over which they were sailing, and on which a few fishing-boats,
with their white sails, were alone visible. They were within
fifteen miles of Monte Cristo when the sun began to set behind
Corsica, whose mountains appeared against the sky, showing their
rugged peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock, like the giant
Adamastor, rose dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and intercepting
the light that gilded its massive peaks so that the voyagers were
in shadow. Little by little the shadow rose higher and seemed to
drive before it the last rays of the expiring day; at last the
reflection rested on the summit of the mountain, where it paused an
instant, like the fiery crest of a volcano, then gloom gradually
covered the summit as it had covered the base, and the island now
only appeared to be a gray mountain that grew continually darker;
half an hour after, the night was quite dark.
Fortunately, the mariners were used to these latitudes, and knew
every rock in the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the midst of this
obscurity Franz was not without uneasiness — Corsica had long since
disappeared, and Monte Cristo itself was invisible; but the sailors
seemed, like the lynx, to see in the dark, and the pilot who
steered did not evince the slightest hesitation. An hour had passed
since the sun had set, when Franz fancied he saw, at a quarter of a
mile to the left, a dark mass, but he could not precisely make out
what it was, and fearing to excite the mirth of the sailors bywhat it was, and fearing to excite the mirth of the sailors by
mistaking a floating cloud for land, he remained silent; suddenly a
great light appeared on the strand; land might resemble a cloud,
but the fire was not a meteor. "What is this light?" asked he.
"Hush!" said the captain; "it is a fire."
"But you told me the island was uninhabited?"
"I said there were no fixed habitations on it, but I said also
that it served sometimes as a harbor for smugglers."
"And for pirates?"
"And for pirates," returned Gaetano, repeating Franz's words.
"It is for that reason I have given orders to pass the island, for,
as you see, the fire is behind us."
"But this fire?" continued Franz. "It seems to me rather
reassuring than otherwise; men who did not wish to be seen would
not light a fire."
"Oh, that goes for nothing," said Gaetano. "If you can guess the
position of the island in the darkness, you will see that the fire
cannot be seen from the side or from Pianosa, but only from the
sea."
"You think, then, this fire indicates the presence of unpleasant
neighbors?"
"That is what we must find out," returned Gaetano, fixing his
eyes on this terrestrial star.
"How can you find out?"
"You shall see." Gaetano consulted with his companions, and
after five minutes' discussion a manoeuvre was executed which
caused the vessel to tack about, they returned the way they had
come, and in a few minutes the fire disappeared, hidden by an
elevation of the land. The pilot again changed the course of the
boat, which rapidly approached the island, and was soon within
fifty paces of it. Gaetano lowered the sail, and the boat came to
rest. All this was done in silence, and from the moment that their
course was changed not a word was spoken.
Gaetano, who had proposed the expedition, had taken all the
responsibility on himself; the four sailors fixed their eyes on
him, while they got out their oars and held themselves in readiness
to row away, which, thanks to the darkness, would not be difficult.to row away, which, thanks to the darkness, would not be difficult.
As for Franz, he examined his arms with the utmost coolness; he had
two double-barrelled guns and a rifle; he loaded them, looked at
the priming, and waited quietly. During this time the captain had
thrown off his vest and shirt, and secured his trousers round his
waist; his feet were naked, so he had no shoes and stockings to
take off; after these preparations he placed his finger on his
lips, and lowering himself noiselessly into the sea, swam towards
the shore with such precaution that it was impossible to hear the
slightest sound; he could only be traced by the phosphorescent line
in his wake. This track soon disappeared; it was evident that he
had touched the shore. Every one on board remained motionless for
half an hour, when the same luminous track was again observed, and
the swimmer was soon on board. "Well?" exclaimed Franz and the
sailors in unison.
"They are Spanish smugglers," said he; "they have with them two
Corsican bandits."
"And what are these Corsican bandits doing here with Spanish
smugglers?"
"Alas," returned the captain with an accent of the most profound
pity, "we ought always to help one another. Very often the bandits
are hard pressed by gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see a
vessel, and good fellows like us on board, they come and demand
hospitality of us; you can't refuse help to a poor hunted devil; we
receive them, and for greater security we stand out to sea. This
costs us nothing, and saves the life, or at least the liberty, of a
fellow-creature, who on the first occasion returns the service by
pointing out some safe spot where we can land our goods without
interruption."
"Ah!" said Franz, "then you are a smuggler occasionally,
Gaetano?"
"Your excellency, we must live somehow," returned the other,
smiling impenetrably.
"Then you know the men who are now on Monte Cristo?"
"Oh, yes, we sailors are like freemasons, and recognize each
other by signs."
"And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land?"


other by signs."
"And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land?"
"Nothing at all; smugglers are not thieves."
"But these two Corsican bandits?" said Franz, calculating the
chances of peril.
"It is not their fault that they are bandits, but that of the
authorities."
"How so?"
"Because they are pursued for having made a stiff, as if it was
not in a Corsican's nature to revenge himself."
"What do you mean by having made a stiff? — having assassinated
a man?" said Franz, continuing his investigation.
"I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very
different thing," returned the captain.
"Well," said the young man, "let us demand hospitality of these
smugglers and bandits. Do you think they will grant it?"
"Without doubt."
"How many are they?"
"Four, and the two bandits make six."
"Just our number, so that if they prove troublesome, we shall be
able to hold them in check; so, for the last time, steer to Monte
Cristo."
"Yes, but your excellency will permit us to take all due
precautions."
"By all means, be as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses; I
do more than permit, I exhort you."
"Silence, then!" said Gaetano.
Every one obeyed. For a man who, like Franz, viewed his position
in its true light, it was a grave one. He was alone in the darkness
with sailors whom he did not know, and who had no reason to be
devoted to him; who knew that he had several thousand francs in his
belt, and who had often examined his weapons, — which were very
beautiful, — if not with envy, at least with curiosity. On the
other hand, he was about to land, without any other escort than
these men, on an island which had, indeed, a very religious name,
but which did not seem to Franz likely to afford him much
hospitality, thanks to the smugglers and bandits. The history of
the scuttled vessels, which had appeared improbable during the day,
seemed very probable at night; placed as he was between two
possible sources of danger, he kept his eye on the crew, and hispossible sources of danger, he kept his eye on the crew, and his
gun in his hand. The sailors had again hoisted sail, and the vessel
was once more cleaving the waves. Through the darkness Franz, whose
eyes were now more accustomed to it, could see the looming shore
along which the boat was sailing, and then, as they rounded a rocky
point, he saw the fire more brilliant than ever, and about it five
or six persons seated. The blaze illumined the sea for a hundred
paces around. Gaetano skirted the light, carefully keeping the boat
in the shadow; then, when they were opposite the fire, he steered
to the centre of the circle, singing a fishing song, of which his
companions sung the chorus. At the first words of the song the men
seated round the fire arose and approached the landing-place, their
eyes fixed on the boat, evidently seeking to know who the
new-comers were and what were their intentions. They soon appeared
satisfied and returned (with the exception of one, who remained at
the shore) to their fire, at which the carcass of a goat was
roasting. When the boat was within twenty paces of the shore, the
man on the beach, who carried a carbine, presented arms after the
manner of a sentinel, and cried, "Who comes there?" in Sardinian.
Franz coolly cocked both barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few
words with this man which the traveller did not understand, but
which evidently concerned him. "Will your excellency give your
name, or remain incognito?" asked the captain.
"My name must rest unknown, — merely say I am a Frenchman
travelling for pleasure." As soon as Gaetano had transmitted this
answer, the sentinel gave an order to one of the men seated round
the fire, who rose and disappeared among the rocks. Not a word was
spoken, every one seemed occupied, Franz with his disembarkment,
the sailors with their sails, the smugglers with their goat; but in
the midst of all this carelessness it was evident that they
mutually observed each other. The man who had disappeared returnedmutually observed each other. The man who had disappeared returned
suddenly on the opposite side to that by which he had left; he made
a sign with his head to the sentinel, who, turning to the boat,
said, "S'accommodi." The Italian s'accommodi is untranslatable; it
means at once, "Come, enter, you are welcome; make yourself at
home; you are the master." It is like that Turkish phrase of
Moliere's that so astonished the bourgeois gentleman by the number
of things implied in its utterance. The sailors did not wait for a
second invitation; four strokes of the oar brought them to land;
Gaetano sprang to shore, exchanged a few words with the sentinel,
then his comrades disembarked, and lastly came Franz. One of his
guns was swung over his shoulder, Gaetano had the other, and a
sailor held his rifle; his dress, half artist, half dandy, did not
excite any suspicion, and, consequently, no disquietude. The boat
was moored to the shore, and they advanced a few paces to find a
comfortable bivouac; but, doubtless, the spot they chose did not
suit the smuggler who filled the post of sentinel, for he cried
out, "Not that way, if you please."
Gaetano faltered an excuse, and advanced to the opposite side,
while two sailors kindled torches at the fire to light them on
their way. They advanced about thirty paces, and then stopped at a
small esplanade surrounded with rocks, in which seats had been cut,
not unlike sentry-boxes. Around in the crevices of the rocks grew a
few dwarf oaks and thick bushes of myrtles. Franz lowered a torch,
and saw by the mass of cinders that had accumulated that he was not
the first to discover this retreat, which was, doubtless, one of
the halting-places of the wandering visitors of Monte Cristo. As
for his suspicions, once on terra firma, once that he had seen the
indifferent, if not friendly, appearance of his hosts, his anxiety
had quite disappeared, or rather, at sight of the goat, had turned
to appetite. He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied that nothing


to appetite. He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied that nothing
could be more easy than to prepare a supper when they had in their
boat, bread, wine, half a dozen partridges, and a good fire to
roast them by. "Besides," added he, "if the smell of their roast
meat tempts you, I will go and offer them two of our birds for a
slice."
"You are a born diplomat," returned Franz; "go and try."
Meanwhile the sailors had collected dried sticks and branches
with which they made a fire. Franz waited impatiently, inhaling the
aroma of the roasted meat, when the captain returned with a
mysterious air.
"Well," said Franz, "anything new? — do they refuse?"
"On the contrary," returned Gaetano, "the chief, who was told
you were a young Frenchman, invites you to sup with him."
"Well," observed Franz, "this chief is very polite, and I see no
objection — the more so as I bring my share of the supper."
"Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and to spare, for supper;
but he makes one condition, and rather a peculiar one, before he
will receive you at his house."
"His house? Has he built one here, then?"
"No; but he has a very comfortable one all the same, so they
say."
"You know this chief, then?"
"I have heard talk of him."
"Favorably or otherwise?"
"Both."
"The deuce! — and what is this condition?"
"That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until
he himself bids you." Franz looked at Gaetano, to see, if possible,
what he thought of this proposal. "Ah," replied he, guessing
Franz's thought, "I know this is a serious matter."
"What should you do in my place?"
"I, who have nothing to lose, — I should go."
"You would accept?"
"Yes, were it only out of curiosity."
"There is something very peculiar about this chief, then?"
"Listen," said Gaetano, lowering his voice, "I do not know if
what they say is true" — he stopped to see if any one was near.
"What do they say?"
"That this chief inhabits a cavern to which the Pitti Palace is
nothing."
"What nonsense!" said Franz, reseating himself.nothing."
"What nonsense!" said Franz, reseating himself.
"It is no nonsense; it is quite true. Cama, the pilot of the
Saint Ferdinand, went in once, and he came back amazed, vowing that
such treasures were only to be heard of in fairy tales."
"Do you know," observed Franz, "that with such stories you make
me think of Ali Baba's enchanted cavern?"
"I tell you what I have been told."
"Then you advise me to accept?"
"Oh, I don't say that; your excellency will do as you please; I
should be sorry to advise you in the matter." Franz pondered the
matter for a few moments, concluded that a man so rich could not
have any intention of plundering him of what little he had, and
seeing only the prospect of a good supper, accepted. Gaetano
departed with the reply. Franz was prudent, and wished to learn all
he possibly could concerning his host. He turned towards the
sailor, who, during this dialogue, had sat gravely plucking the
partridges with the air of a man proud of his office, and asked him
how these men had landed, as no vessel of any kind was visible.
"Never mind that," returned the sailor, "I know their
vessel."
"Is it a very beautiful vessel?"
"I would not wish for a better to sail round the world."
"Of what burden is she?"
"About a hundred tons; but she is built to stand any weather.
She is what the English call a yacht."
"Where was she built?"
"I know not; but my own opinion is she is a Genoese."
"And how did a leader of smugglers," continued Franz, "venture
to build a vessel designed for such a purpose at Genoa?"
"I did not say that the owner was a smuggler," replied the
sailor.
"No; but Gaetano did, I thought."
"Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a distance, he had not
then spoken to any one."
"And if this person be not a smuggler, who is he?"
"A wealthy signor, who travels for his pleasure."
"Come," thought Franz, "he is still more mysterious, since the
two accounts do not agree."
"What is his name?"
"If you ask him he says Sinbad the Sailor; but I doubt if it be
his real name."
"Sinbad the Sailor?"
"Yes."his real name."
"Sinbad the Sailor?"
"Yes."
"And where does he reside?"
"On the sea."
"What country does he come from?"
"I do not know."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"Sometimes."
"What sort of a man is he?"
"Your excellency will judge for yourself."
"Where will he receive me?"
"No doubt in the subterranean palace Gaetano told you of."
"Have you never had the curiosity, when you have landed and
found this island deserted, to seek for this enchanted palace?"
"Oh, yes, more than once, but always in vain; we examined the
grotto all over, but we never could find the slightest trace of any
opening; they say that the door is not opened by a key, but a magic
word."
"Decidedly," muttered Franz, "this is an Arabian Nights'
adventure."
"His excellency waits for you," said a voice, which he
recognized as that of the sentinel. He was accompanied by two of
the yacht's crew. Franz drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and
presented it to the man who had spoken to him. Without uttering a
word, they bandaged his eyes with a care that showed their
apprehensions of his committing some indiscretion. Afterwards he
was made to promise that he would not make the least attempt to
raise the bandage. He promised. Then his two guides took his arms,
and he went on, guided by them, and preceded by the sentinel. After
going about thirty paces, he smelt the appetizing odor of the kid
that was roasting, and knew thus that he was passing the bivouac;
they then led him on about fifty paces farther, evidently advancing
towards that part of the shore where they would not allow Gaetano
to go — a refusal he could now comprehend. Presently, by a change
in the atmosphere, he knew that they were entering a cave; after
going on for a few seconds more he heard a crackling, and it seemed
to him as though the atmosphere again changed, and became balmy and
perfumed. At length his feet touched on a thick and soft carpet,
and his guides let go their hold of him. There was a moment's
silence, and then a voice, in excellent French, although, with a