serious duels so much as a duel forsworn."
"Thank you, gentlemen," replied Albert, with a smile of
indifference; "I shall follow your advice — not because you give
it, but because I had before intended to quit France. I thank you
equally for the service you have rendered me in being my seconds.
It is deeply engraved on my heart, and, after what you have just
said, I remember that only." Chateau-Renaud and Beauchamp looked at
each other; the impression was the same on both of them, and the
tone in which Morcerf had just expressed his thanks was so
determined that the position would have become embarrassing for all
if the conversation had continued.
"Good-by, Albert," said Beauchamp suddenly, carelessly extending
his hand to the young man. The latter did not appear to arouse from
his lethargy; in fact, he did not notice the offered hand.
"Good-by," said Chateau-Renaud in his turn, keeping his little cane
in his left hand, and saluting with his right. Albert's lips
scarcely whispered "Good-by," but his look was more explicit; it
expressed a whole poem of restrained anger, proud disdain, and
generous indignation. He preserved his melancholy and motionless
position for some time after his two friends had regained their
carriage; then suddenly unfastening his horse from the little tree
to which his servant had tied it, he mounted and galloped off in
the direction of Paris.
In a quarter of an hour he was entering the house in the Rue du
Helder. As he alighted, he thought he saw his father's pale face
behind the curtain of the count's bedroom. Albert turned away his
head with a sigh, and went to his own apartments. He cast one
lingering look on all the luxuries which had rendered life so easy
and so happy since his infancy; he looked at the pictures, whose
faces seemed to smile, and the landscapes, which appeared painted
in brighter colors. Then he took away his mother's portrait, with
its oaken frame, leaving the gilt frame from which he took it black
and empty. Then he arranged all his beautiful Turkish arms, hisand empty. Then he arranged all his beautiful Turkish arms, his
fine English guns, his Japanese china, his cups mounted in silver,
his artistic bronzes by Feucheres and Barye; examined the
cupboards, and placed the key in each; threw into a drawer of his
secretary, which he left open, all the pocket-money he had about
him, and with it the thousand fancy jewels from his vases and his
jewel-boxes; then he made an exact inventory of everything, and
placed it in the most conspicuous part of the table, after putting
aside the books and papers which had collected there.
At the beginning of this work, his servant, notwithstanding
orders to the contrary, came to his room. "What do you want?" asked
he, with a more sorrowful than angry tone. "Pardon me, sir,"
replied the valet; "you had forbidden me to disturb you, but the
Count of Morcerf has called me."
"Well!" said Albert.
"I did not like to go to him without first seeing you."
"Why?"
"Because the count is doubtless aware that I accompanied you to
the meeting this morning."
"It is probable," said Albert.
"And since he has sent for me, it is doubtless to question me on
what happened there. What must I answer?"
"The truth."
"Then I shall say the duel did not take place?"
"You will say I apologized to the Count of Monte Cristo.
Go."
The valet bowed and retired, and Albert returned to his
inventory. As he was finishing this work, the sound of horses
prancing in the yard, and the wheels of a carriage shaking his
window, attracted his attention. He approached the window, and saw
his father get into it, and drive away. The door was scarcely
closed when Albert bent his steps to his mother's room; and, no one
being there to announce him, he advanced to her bed-chamber, and
distressed by what he saw and guessed, stopped for one moment at
the door. As if the same idea had animated these two beings,
Mercedes was doing the same in her apartments that he had just done
in his. Everything was in order, — laces, dresses, jewels, linen,in his. Everything was in order, — laces, dresses, jewels, linen,
money, all were arranged in the drawers, and the countess was
carefully collecting the keys. Albert saw all these preparations
and understood them, and exclaiming, "My mother!" he threw his arms
around her neck.
The artist who could have depicted the expression of these two
countenances would certainly have made of them a beautiful picture.
All these proofs of an energetic resolution, which Albert did not
fear on his own account, alarmed him for his mother. "What are you
doing?" asked he.
"What were you doing?" replied she.
"Oh, my mother!" exclaimed Albert, so overcome he could scarcely
speak; "it is not the same with you and me — you cannot have made
the same resolution I have, for I have come to warn you that I bid
adieu to your house, and — and to you."
"I also," replied Mercedes, "am going, and I acknowledge I had
depended on your accompanying me; have I deceived myself?"
"Mother," said Albert with firmness. "I cannot make you share
the fate I have planned for myself. I must live henceforth without
rank and fortune, and to begin this hard apprenticeship I must
borrow from a friend the loaf I shall eat until I have earned one.
So, my dear mother, I am going at once to ask Franz to lend me the
small sum I shall require to supply my present wants."
"You, my poor child, suffer poverty and hunger? Oh, do not say
so; it will break my resolutions."
"But not mine, mother," replied Albert. "I am young and strong;
I believe I am courageous, and since yesterday I have learned the
power of will. Alas, my dear mother, some have suffered so much,
and yet live, and have raised a new fortune on the ruin of all the
promises of happiness which heaven had made them — on the fragments
of all the hope which God had given them! I have seen that, mother;
I know that from the gulf in which their enemies have plunged them
they have risen with so much vigor and glory that in their turn
they have ruled their former conquerors, and have punished them.


they have ruled their former conquerors, and have punished them.
No. mother; from this moment I have done with the past, and accept
nothing from it — not even a name, because you can understand that
your son cannot bear the name of a man who ought to blush for it
before another."
"Albert, my child," said Mercedes, "if I had a stronger heart
that is the counsel I would have given you; your conscience has
spoken when my voice became too weak; listen to its dictates. You
had friends, Albert; break off their acquaintance. But do not
despair; you have life before you, my dear Albert, for you are yet
scarcely twenty-two years old; and as a pure heart like yours wants
a spotless name, take my father's — it was Herrera. I am sure, my
dear Albert, whatever may be your career, you will soon render that
name illustrious. Then, my son, return to the world still more
brilliant because of your former sorrows; and if I am wrong, still
let me cherish these hopes, for I have no future to look forward
to. For me the grave opens when I pass the threshold of this
house."
"I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear mother," said the young
man. "Yes, I share your hopes; the anger of heaven will not pursue
us, since you are pure and I am innocent. But, since our resolution
is formed, let us act promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about half
an hour ago; the opportunity is favorable to avoid an
explanation."
"I am ready, my son," said Mercedes. Albert ran to fetch a
carriage. He recollected that there was a small furnished house to
let in the Rue de Saints Peres, where his mother would find a
humble but decent lodging, and thither he intended conducting the
countess. As the carriage stopped at the door, and Albert was
alighting, a man approached and gave him a letter. Albert
recognized the bearer. "From the count," said Bertuccio. Albert
took the letter, opened, and read it, then looked round for
Bertuccio, but he was gone. He returned to Mercedes with tears in
his eyes and heaving breast, and without uttering a word he gavehis eyes and heaving breast, and without uttering a word he gave
her the letter. Mercedes read: —
Albert, — While showing you that I have discovered your plans, I
hope also to convince you of my delicacy. You are free, you leave
the count's house, and you take your mother to your home; but
reflect, Albert, you owe her more than your poor noble heart can
pay her. Keep the struggle for yourself, bear all the suffering,
but spare her the trial of poverty which must accompany your first
efforts; for she deserves not even the shadow of the misfortune
which has this day fallen on her, and providence is not willing
that the innocent should suffer for the guilty. I know you are
going to leave the Rue du Helder without taking anything with you.
Do not seek to know how I discovered it; I know it — that is
sufficient.
Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years ago I returned, proud and
joyful, to my country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a lovely girl
whom I adored, and I was bringing to my betrothed a hundred and
fifty louis, painfully amassed by ceaseless toil. This money was
for her; I destined it for her, and, knowing the treachery of the
sea I buried our treasure in the little garden of the house my
father lived in at Marseilles, on the Allees de Meillan. Your
mother, Albert, knows that poor house well. A short time since I
passed through Marseilles, and went to see the old place, which
revived so many painful recollections; and in the evening I took a
spade and dug in the corner of the garden where I had concealed my
treasure. The iron box was there — no one had touched it — under a
beautiful fig-tree my father had planted the day I was born, which
overshadowed the spot. Well, Albert, this money, which was formerly
designed to promote the comfort and tranquillity of the woman I
adored, may now, through strange and painful circumstances, be
devoted to the same purpose. Oh, feel for me, who could offer
millions to that poor woman, but who return her only the piece ofmillions to that poor woman, but who return her only the piece of
black bread forgotten under my poor roof since the day I was torn
from her I loved. You are a generous man, Albert, but perhaps you
may be blinded by pride or resentment; if you refuse me, if you ask
another for what I have a right to offer you, I will say it is
ungenerous of you to refuse the life of your mother at the hands of
a man whose father was allowed by your father to die in all the
horrors of poverty and despair.
Albert stood pale and motionless to hear what his mother would
decide after she had finished reading this letter. Mercedes turned
her eyes with an ineffable look towards heaven. "I accept it," said
she; "he has a right to pay the dowry, which I shall take with me
to some convent!" Putting the letter in her bosom, she took her
son's arm, and with a firmer step than she even herself expected
she went down-stairs.Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with Emmanuel
and Maximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel did not conceal
his joy at the peaceful termination of the affair, and was loud in
his expressions of delight. Morrel, in a corner of the carriage,
allowed his brother-in-law's gayety to expend itself in words,
while he felt equal inward joy, which, however, betrayed itself
only in his countenance. At the Barriere du Trone they met
Bertuccio, who was waiting there, motionless as a sentinel at his
post. Monte Cristo put his head out of the window, exchanged a few
words with him in a low tone, and the steward disappeared. "Count,"
said Emmanuel, when they were at the end of the Place Royale, "put
me down at my door, that my wife may not have a single moment of
needless anxiety on my account or yours."
"If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph, I
would invite the count to our house; besides that, he doubtless has
some trembling heart to comfort. So we will take leave of our
friend, and let him hasten home."
"Stop a moment," said Monte Cristo; "do not let me lose both my
companions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and present my
best compliments to her; and do you, Morrel, accompany me to the
Champs Elysees."
"Willingly," said Maximilian; "particularly as I have business
in that quarter."
"Shall we wait breakfast for you?" asked Emmanuel.
"No," replied the young man. The door was closed, and the
carriage proceeded. "See what good fortune I brought you!" said
Morrel, when he was alone with the count. "Have you not thought
so?"
"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "for that reason I wished to keep you
near me."
"It is miraculous!" continued Morrel, answering his own
thoughts.
"What?" said Monte Cristo.
"What has just happened."
"Yes," said the Count, "you are right — it is miraculous."
"For Albert is brave," resumed Morrel.
"Very brave," said Monte Cristo; "I have seen him sleep with a
sword suspended over his head."
"And I know he has fought two duels," said Morrel. "How can you


sword suspended over his head."
"And I know he has fought two duels," said Morrel. "How can you
reconcile that with his conduct this morning?"
"All owing to your influence," replied Monte Cristo,
smiling.
"It is well for Albert he is not in the army," said Morrel.
"Why?"
"An apology on the ground!" said the young captain, shaking his
head.
"Come," said the count mildly, "do not entertain the prejudices
of ordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if Albert is brave, he
cannot be a coward; he must then have had some reason for acting as
he did this morning, and confess that his conduct is more heroic
than otherwise."
"Doubtless, doubtless," said Morrel; "but I shall say, like the
Spaniard, `He has not been so brave to-day as he was
yesterday.'"
"You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?" said the
count, to turn the conversation.
"No; I must leave you at ten o'clock."
"Your engagement was for breakfast, then?" said the count.
Morrel smiled, and shook his head. "Still you must breakfast
somewhere."
"But if I am not hungry?" said the young man.
"Oh," said the count, "I only know two things which destroy the
appetite, — grief — and as I am happy to see you very cheerful, it
is not that — and love. Now after what you told me this morning of
your heart, I may believe" —
"Well, count," replied Morrel gayly, "I will not dispute
it."
"But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?" said the
count, in a tone which showed how gladly he would have been
admitted to the secret.
"I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not,
count?" Monte Cristo only answered by extending his hand to the
young man. "Well," continued the latter, "since that heart is no
longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, and I
must go and find it."
"Go," said the count deliberately; "go, dear friend, but promise
me if you meet with any obstacle to remember that I have some power
in this world, that I am happy to use that power in the behalf of
those I love, and that I love you, Morrel."those I love, and that I love you, Morrel."
"I will remember it," said the young man, "as selfish children
recollect their parents when they want their aid. When I need your
assistance, and the moment arrives, I will come to you, count."
"Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-by, then."
"Good-by, till we meet again." They had arrived in the Champs
Elysees. Monte Cristo opened the carriage-door, Morrel sprang out
on the pavement, Bertuccio was waiting on the steps. Morrel
disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny, and Monte Cristo hastened
to join Bertuccio.
"Well?" asked he.
"She is going to leave her house," said the steward.
"And her son?"
"Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same."
"Come this way." Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study,
wrote the letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward. "Go,"
said he quickly. "But first, let Haidee be informed that I have
returned."
"Here I am," said the young girl, who at the sound of the
carriage had run down-stairs and whose face was radiant with joy at
seeing the count return safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport of
a daughter finding a father, all the delight of a mistress seeing
an adored lover, were felt by Haidee during the first moments of
this meeting, which she had so eagerly expected. Doubtless,
although less evident, Monte Cristo's joy was not less intense. Joy
to hearts which have suffered long is like the dew on the ground
after a long drought; both the heart and the ground absorb that
beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing is outwardly
apparent.
Monte Cristo was beginning to think, what he had not for a long
time dared to believe, that there were two Mercedes in the world,
and he might yet be happy. His eye, elate with happiness, was
reading eagerly the tearful gaze of Haidee, when suddenly the door
opened. The count knit his brow. "M. de Morcerf!" said Baptistin,
as if that name sufficed for his excuse. In fact, the count's face
brightened.
"Which," asked he, "the viscount or the count?"
"The count."brightened.
"Which," asked he, "the viscount or the count?"
"The count."
"Oh," exclaimed Haidee, "is it not yet over?"
"I know not if it is finished, my beloved child," said Monte
Cristo, taking the young girl's hands; "but I do know you have
nothing more to fear."
"But it is the wretched" —
"That man cannot injure me, Haidee," said Monte Cristo; "it was
his son alone that there was cause to fear."
"And what I have suffered," said the young girl, "you shall
never know, my lord." Monte Cristo smiled. "By my father's tomb,"
said he, extending his hand over the head of the young girl, "I
swear to you, Haidee, that if any misfortune happens, it will not
be to me."
"I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken to
me," said the young girl, presenting her forehead to him. Monte
Cristo pressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss which made
two hearts throb at once, the one violently, the other heavily.
"Oh," murmured the count, "shall I then be permitted to love again?
Ask M. de Morcerf into the drawing-room," said he to Baptistin,
while he led the beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase.
We must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte
Cristo, is unexpected to our readers. While Mercedes, as we have
said, was making a similar inventory of her property to Albert's,
while she was arranging her jewels, shutting her drawers,
collecting her keys, to leave everything in perfect order, she did
not perceive a pale and sinister face at a glass door which threw
light into the passage, from which everything could be both seen
and heard. He who was thus looking, without being heard or seen,
probably heard and saw all that passed in Madame de Morcerf's
apartments. From that glass door the pale-faced man went to the
count's bedroom and raised with a constricted hand the curtain of a
window overlooking the court-yard. He remained there ten minutes,
motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own heart. For
him those ten minutes were very long. It was then Albert, returning


him those ten minutes were very long. It was then Albert, returning
from his meeting with the count, perceived his father watching for
his arrival behind a curtain, and turned aside. The count's eye
expanded; he knew Albert had insulted the count dreadfully, and
that in every country in the world such an insult would lead to a
deadly duel. Albert returned safely — then the count was
revenged.
An indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched countenance
like the last ray of the sun before it disappears behind the clouds
which bear the aspect, not of a downy couch, but of a tomb. But as
we have said, he waited in vain for his son to come to his
apartment with the account of his triumph. He easily understood why
his son did not come to see him before he went to avenge his
father's honor; but when that was done, why did not his son come
and throw himself into his arms?
It was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he sent
for his servant, who he knew was authorized not to conceal anything
from him. Ten minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was seen on the
steps in a black coat with a military collar, black pantaloons, and
black gloves. He had apparently given previous orders, for as he
reached the bottom step his carriage came from the coach-house
ready for him. The valet threw into the carriage his military
cloak, in which two swords were wrapped, and, shutting the door, he
took his seat by the side of the coachman. The coachman stooped
down for his orders.
"To the Champs Elysees," said the general; "the Count of Monte
Cristo's. Hurry!" The horses bounded beneath the whip; and in five
minutes they stopped before the count's door. M. de Morcerf opened
the door himself, and as the carriage rolled away he passed up the
walk, rang, and entered the open door with his servant.
A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of Morcerf to
Monte Cristo, and the latter, leading Haidee aside, ordered that
Morcerf be asked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing theMorcerf be asked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing the
room the third time when, in turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at
the door. "Ah, it is M. de Morcerf," said Monte Cristo quietly; "I
thought I had not heard aright."
"Yes, it is I," said the count, whom a frightful contraction of
the lips prevented from articulating freely.
"May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of seeing
M. de Morcerf so early?"
"Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?" asked the
general.
"I had," replied the count.
"And I know my son had good reasons to wish to fight with you,
and to endeavor to kill you."
"Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite of
them he has not killed me, and did not even fight."
"Yet he considered you the cause of his father's dishonor, the
cause of the fearful ruin which has fallen on my house."
"It is true, sir," said Monte Cristo with his dreadful calmness;
"a secondary cause, but not the principal."
"Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation?"
"I explained nothing, and it is he who apologized to me."
"But to what do you attribute this conduct?"
"To the conviction, probably, that there was one more guilty
than I."
"And who was that?"
"His father."
"That may be," said the count, turning pale; "but you know the
guilty do not like to find themselves convicted."
"I know it, and I expected this result."
"You expected my son would be a coward?" cried the count.
"M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!" said Monte Cristo.
"A man who holds a sword in his hand, and sees a mortal enemy
within reach of that sword, and does not fight, is a coward! Why is
he not here that I may tell him so?"
"Sir." replied Monte Cristo coldly, "I did not expect that you
had come here to relate to me your little family affairs. Go and
tell M. Albert that, and he may know what to answer you."
"Oh, no, no," said the general, smiling faintly, "I did not come
for that purpose; you are right. I came to tell you that I also
look upon you as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate youlook upon you as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate you
instinctively; that it seems as if I had always known you, and
always hated you; and, in short, since the young people of the
present day will not fight, it remains for us to do so. Do you
think so, sir?"
"Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result, it is
the honor of your visit I alluded to."
"So much the better. Are you prepared?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead," said the
general, whose teeth were clinched with rage. "Until one of us
dies," repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightly up and
down.
"Let us start, then; we need no witnesses."
"Very true," said Monte Cristo; "it is unnecessary, we know each
other so well!"
"On the contrary," said the count, "we know so little of each
other."
"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable coolness;
"let us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the
eve of the battle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand
who served as guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you
not the Captain Fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his
benefactor, Ali? And have not all these Fernands, united, made
Lieutenant-General, the Count of Morcerf, peer of France?"
"Oh," cried the general, as it branded with a hot iron, "wretch,
— to reproach me with my shame when about, perhaps, to kill me! No,
I did not say I was a stranger to you. I know well, demon, that you
have penetrated into the darkness of the past, and that you have
read, by the light of what torch I know not, every page of my life;
but perhaps I may be more honorable in my shame than you under your
pompous coverings. No — no, I am aware you know me; but I know you
only as an adventurer sewn up in gold and jewellery. You call
yourself in Paris the Count of Monte Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the
Sailor; in Malta, I forget what. But it is your real name I want to
know, in the midst of your hundred names, that I may pronounce it


know, in the midst of your hundred names, that I may pronounce it
when we meet to fight, at the moment when I plunge my sword through
your heart."
The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye seemed
to burn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a dressing-room
near his bedroom, and in less than a moment, tearing off his
cravat, his coat and waistcoat, he put on a sailor's jacket and
hat, from beneath which rolled his long black hair. He returned
thus, formidable and implacable, advancing with his arms crossed on
his breast, towards the general, who could not understand why he
had disappeared, but who on seeing him again, and feeling his teeth
chatter and his legs sink under him, drew back, and only stopped
when he found a table to support his clinched hand. "Fernand,"
cried he, "of my hundred names I need only tell you one, to
overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not? — or, rather, you
remember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I
show you to-day a face which the happiness of revenge makes young
again — a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your
marriage with Mercedes, my betrothed!"
The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze
fixed, looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then seeking
the wall to support him, he glided along close to it until he
reached the door, through which he went out backwards, uttering
this single mournful, lamentable, distressing cry, — "Edmond
Dantes!" Then, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he
dragged himself to the door, reeled across the court-yard, and
falling into the arms of his valet, he said in a voice scarcely
intelligible, — "Home, home." The fresh air and the shame he felt
at having exposed himself before his servants, partly recalled his
senses, but the ride was short, and as he drew near his house all
his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a short distance from the
house and alighted.
The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in thehouse and alighted.
The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in the
middle of the yard — a strange sight before so noble a mansion; the
count looked at it with terror, but without daring to inquire its
meaning, he rushed towards his apartment. Two persons were coming
down the stairs; he had only time to creep into an alcove to avoid
them. It was Mercedes leaning on her son's arm and leaving the
house. They passed close by the unhappy being, who, concealed
behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercedes dress brush past
him, and his son's warm breath, pronouncing these words, —
"Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home!" The words died
away, the steps were lost in the distance. The general drew himself
up, clinging to the curtain; he uttered the most dreadful sob which
ever escaped from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same time
by his wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of
the hackney-coach, then the coachman's voice, and then the rolling
of the heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to his bedroom to
see once more all he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach
drove on and the head of neither Mercedes nor her son appeared at
the window to take a last look at the house or the deserted father
and husband. And at the very moment when the wheels of that coach
crossed the gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped
through one of the panes of the window, which was broken by the
explosion.We may easily conceive where Morrel's appointment was. On
leaving Monte Cristo he walked slowly towards Villefort's; we say
slowly, for Morrel had more than half an hour to spare to go five
hundred steps, but he had hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo
because he wished to be alone with his thoughts. He knew his time
well — the hour when Valentine was giving Noirtier his breakfast,
and was sure not to be disturbed in the performance of this pious
duty. Noirtier and Valentine had given him leave to go twice a
week, and he was now availing himself of that permission. He had
arrived; Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she
seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This uneasiness,
amounting almost to frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf's
adventure had made in the world, for the affair at the opera was
generally known. No one at Villefort's doubted that a duel would
ensue from it. Valentine, with her woman's instinct, guessed that
Morrel would be Monte Cristo's second, and from the young man's
well-known courage and his great affection for the count, she
feared that he would not content himself with the passive part
assigned to him. We may easily understand how eagerly the
particulars were asked for, given, and received; and Morrel could
read an indescribable joy in the eyes of his beloved, when she knew
that the termination of this affair was as happy as it was
unexpected.
"Now," said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near her
grandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool, — "now let
us talk about our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once
thought of leaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M.
de Villefort's."
"Yes," said Maximilian, "I recollect the project, of which I
highly approved."
"Well," said Valentine, "you may approve again, for grandpapa is
again thinking of it."
"Bravo," said Maximilian.
"And do you know," said Valentine, "what reason grandpapa gives
for leaving this house." Noirtier looked at Valentine to imposefor leaving this house." Noirtier looked at Valentine to impose
silence, but she did not notice him; her looks, her eyes, her
smile, were all for Morrel.
"Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier's reason," answered Morrel, "I
can readily believe it to be a good one."
"An excellent one," said Valentine. "He pretends the air of the
Faubourg St. Honore is not good for me."
"Indeed?" said Morrel; "in that M. Noirtier may be right; you
have not seemed to be well for the last fortnight."
"Not very," said Valentine. "And grandpapa has become my
physician, and I have the greatest confidence in him, because he
knows everything."
"Do you then really suffer?" asked Morrel quickly.
"Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general
uneasiness, that is all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach
feels as if it were struggling to get accustomed to something."
Noirtier did not lose a word of what Valentine said. "And what
treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint?"
"A very simple one," said Valentine. "I swallow every morning a
spoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one
spoonful, I began by one — now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a
panacea." Valentine smiled, but it was evident that she
suffered.
Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She was
very beautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her eyes were
more brilliant than ever, and her hands, which were generally white
like mother-of-pearl, now more resembled wax, to which time was
adding a yellowish hue. From Valentine the young man looked towards
Noirtier. The latter watched with strange and deep interest the
young girl, absorbed by her affection, and he also, like Morrel,
followed those traces of inward suffering which was so little
perceptible to a common observer that they escaped the notice of
every one but the grandfather and the lover.
"But," said Morrel, "I thought this mixture, of which you now
take four spoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier?"
"I know it is very bitter," said Valentine; "so bitter, that all


"I know it is very bitter," said Valentine; "so bitter, that all
I drink afterwards appears to have the same taste." Noirtier looked
inquiringly at his granddaughter. "Yes, grandpapa," said Valentine;
"it is so. Just now, before I came down to you, I drank a glass of
sugared water; I left half, because it seemed so bitter." Noirtier
turned pale, and made a sign that he wished to speak. Valentine
rose to fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched her with evident
anguish. In fact, the blood was rushing to the young girl's head
already, her cheeks were becoming red. "Oh," cried she, without
losing any of her cheerfulness, "this is singular! I can't see! Did
the sun shine in my eyes?" And she leaned against the window.
"The sun is not shining," said Morrel, more alarmed by
Noirtier's expression than by Valentine's indisposition. He ran
towards her. The young girl smiled. "Cheer up," said she to
Noirtier. "Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is nothing, and has
already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a carriage in the
court-yard?" She opened Noirtier's door, ran to a window in the
passage, and returned hastily. "Yes," said she, "it is Madame
Danglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-by; —
I must run away, for they would send here for me, or, rather,
farewell till I see you again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I
promise you not to persuade them to stay."
Morrel watched her as she left the room; he heard her ascend the
little staircase which led both to Madame de Villefort's apartments
and to hers. As soon as she was gone, Noirtier made a sign to
Morrel to take the dictionary. Morrel obeyed; guided by Valentine,
he had learned how to understand the old man quickly. Accustomed,
however, as he was to the work, he had to repeat most of the
letters of the alphabet and to find every word in the dictionary,
so that it was ten minutes before the thought of the old man was
translated by these words, "Fetch the glass of water and the
decanter from Valentine's room."translated by these words, "Fetch the glass of water and the
decanter from Valentine's room."
Morrel rang immediately for the servant who had taken Barrois's
situation, and in Noirtier's name gave that order. The servant soon
returned. The decanter and the glass were completely empty.
Noirtier made a sign that he wished to speak. "Why are the glass
and decanter empty?" asked he; "Valentine said she only drank half
the glassful." The translation of this new question occupied
another five minutes. "I do not know," said the servant, "but the
housemaid is in Mademoiselle Valentine's room: perhaps she has
emptied them."
"Ask her," said Morrel, translating Noirtier's thought this time
by his look. The servant went out, but returned almost immediately.
"Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room to go to Madame de
Villefort's," said he; "and in passing, as she was thirsty, she
drank what remained in the glass; as for the decanter, Master
Edward had emptied that to make a pond for his ducks." Noirtier
raised his eyes to heaven, as a gambler does who stakes his all on
one stroke. From that moment the old man's eyes were fixed on the
door, and did not quit it.
It was indeed Madame Danglars and her daughter whom Valentine
had seen; they had been ushered into Madame de Villefort's room,
who had said she would receive them there. That is why Valentine
passed through her room, which was on a level with Valentine's, and
only separated from it by Edward's. The two ladies entered the
drawing-room with that sort of official stiffness which preludes a
formal communication. Among worldly people manner is contagious.
Madame de Villefort received them with equal solemnity. Valentine
entered at this moment, and the formalities were resumed. "My dear
friend," said the baroness, while the two young people were shaking
hands, "I and Eugenie are come to be the first to announce to you
the approaching marriage of my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti."
Danglars kept up the title of prince. The popular banker found thatDanglars kept up the title of prince. The popular banker found that
it answered better than count. "Allow me to present you my sincere
congratulations," replied Madame de Villefort. "Prince Cavalcanti
appears to be a young man of rare qualities."
"Listen," said the baroness, smiling; "speaking to you as a
friend I can say that the prince does not yet appear all he will
be. He has about him a little of that foreign manner by which
French persons recognize, at first sight, the Italian or German
nobleman. Besides, he gives evidence of great kindness of
disposition, much keenness of wit, and as to suitability, M.
Danglars assures me that his fortune is majestic — that is his
word."
"And then," said Eugenie, while turning over the leaves of
Madame de Villefort's album, "add that you have taken a great fancy
to the young man."
"And," said Madame de Villefort, "I need not ask you if you
share that fancy."
"I?" replied Eugenie with her usual candor. "Oh, not the least
in the world, madame! My wish was not to confine myself to domestic
cares, or the caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and
consequently free in heart, in person, and in thought." Eugenie
pronounced these words with so firm a tone that the color mounted
to Valentine's cheeks. The timid girl could not understand that
vigorous nature which appeared to have none of the timidities of
woman.
"At any rate," said she, "since I am to be married whether I
will or not, I ought to be thankful to providence for having
released me from my engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I
should this day have been the wife of a dishonored man."
"It is true," said the baroness, with that strange simplicity
sometimes met with among fashionable ladies, and of which plebeian
intercourse can never entirely deprive them, — "it is very true
that had not the Morcerfs hesitated, my daughter would have married
Monsieur Albert. The general depended much on it; he even came to
force M. Danglars. We have had a narrow escape."
"But," said Valentine, timidly, "does all the father's shame


"But," said Valentine, timidly, "does all the father's shame
revert upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent
of the treason charged against the general."
"Excuse me," said the implacable young girl, "Monsieur Albert
claims and well deserves his share. It appears that after having
challenged M. de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized
on the ground to-day."
"Impossible," said Madame de Villefort.
"Ah, my dear friend," said Madame Danglars, with the same
simplicity we before noticed, "it is a fact. I heard it from M.
Debray, who was present at the explanation." Valentine also knew
the truth, but she did not answer. A single word had reminded her
that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier's room. Deeply engaged
with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had ceased for a
moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed, have found
it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few minutes,
when suddenly Madame Danglars' hand, pressed on her arm, aroused
her from her lethargy.
"What is it?" said she, starting at Madame Danglars' touch as
she would have done from an electric shock. "It is, my dear
Valentine," said the baroness, "that you are, doubtless,
suffering."
"I?" said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning
forehead.
"Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and
then red successively, three or four times in one minute."
"Indeed," cried Eugenie, "you are very pale!"
"Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days." Artless
as she was, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to
leave, and besides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance.
"Retire, Valentine," said she; "you are really suffering, and these
ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will
restore you." Valentine kissed Eugenie, bowed to Madame Danglars,
who had already risen to take her leave, and went out. "That poor
child," said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone, "she
makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she hadmakes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had
some serious illness."
Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could
not quite understand, had crossed Edward's room without noticing
some trick of the child, and through her own had reached the little
staircase. She was within three steps of the bottom; she already
heard Morrel's voice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes,
her stiffened foot missed the step, her hands had no power to hold
the baluster, and falling against the wall she lost her balance
wholly and toppled to the floor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened
it, and found Valentine stretched out at the bottom of the stairs.
Quick as a flash, he raised her in his arms and placed her in a
chair. Valentine opened her eyes.
"Oh, what a clumsy thing I am," said she with feverish
volubility; "I don't know my way. I forgot there were three more
steps before the landing."
"You have hurt yourself, perhaps," said Morrel. "What can I do
for you, Valentine?" Valentine looked around her; she saw the
deepest terror depicted in Noirtier's eyes. "Don't worry, dear
grandpapa," said she, endeavoring to smile; "it is nothing — it is
nothing; I was giddy, that is all."
"Another attack of giddiness," said Morrel, clasping his hands.
"Oh, attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you."
"But no," said Valentine, — "no, I tell you it is all past, and
it was nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugenie is to be
married in a week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast,
a betrothal festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de
Villefort, and I — at least, I understood it so."
"When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh,
Valentine, you who have so much influence over your grandpapa, try
to make him answer — Soon."
"And do you," said Valentine, "depend on me to stimulate the
tardiness and arouse the memory of grandpapa?"
"Yes," cried Morrel, "make haste. So long as you are not mine,
Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you."Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you."
"Oh," replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, "oh, indeed,
Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who,
they say, never knows fear. Ah, ha, ha!" she burst into a forced
and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and twisted, her head fell
back on her chair, and she remained motionless. The cry of terror
which was stopped on Noirtier's lips, seemed to start from his
eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance. The
young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in
Mademoiselle Valentine's room, and the servant who had replaced
Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold,
so inanimate that without listening to what was said to them they
were seized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew
into the passage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eugenie were
going out at that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.
"I told you so!" exclaimed Madame de Villefort. "Poor child!"We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally
to announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of
Eugenie Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This announcement, which
implied or appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons
concerned in this momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to
which our readers must be admitted. We beg them to take one step
backward, and to transport themselves, the morning of that day of
great catastrophes, into the showy, gilded salon we have before
shown them, and which was the pride of its owner, Baron Danglars.
In this room, at about ten o'clock in the morning, the banker
himself had been walking to and fro for some minutes thoughtfully
and in evident uneasiness, watching both doors, and listening to
every sound. When his patience was exhausted, he called his valet.
"Etienne," said he, "see why Mademoiselle Eugenie has asked me to
meet her in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so
long."
Having given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became more
calm; Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested an interview
with her father, and had fixed on the gilded drawing-room as the
spot. The singularity of this step, and above all its formality,
had not a little surprised the banker, who had immediately obeyed
his daughter by repairing first to the drawing-room. Etienne soon
returned from his errand. "Mademoiselle's lady's maid says, sir,
that mademoiselle is finishing her toilette, and will be here
shortly."
Danglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the world
and to his servants Danglars assumed the character of the
good-natured man and the indulgent father. This was one of his
parts in the popular comedy he was performing, — a make-up he had
adopted and which suited him about as well as the masks worn on the
classic stage by paternal actors, who seen from one side, were the
image of geniality, and from the other showed lips drawn down in
chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that in private the genial


chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that in private the genial
side descended to the level of the other, so that generally the
indulgent man disappeared to give place to the brutal husband and
domineering father. "Why the devil does that foolish girl, who
pretends to wish to speak to me, not come into my study? and why on
earth does she want to speak to me at all?"
He was turning this thought over in his brain for the twentieth
time, when the door opened and Eugenie appeared, attired in a
figured black satin dress, her hair dressed and gloves on, as if
she were going to the Italian Opera. "Well, Eugenie, what is it you
want with me? and why in this solemn drawing-room when the study is
so comfortable?"
"I quite understand why you ask, sir," said Eugenie, making a
sign that her father might be seated, "and in fact your two
questions suggest fully the theme of our conversation. I will
answer them both, and contrary to the usual method, the last first,
because it is the least difficult. I have chosen the drawing-room,
sir, as our place of meeting, in order to avoid the disagreeable
impressions and influences of a banker's study. Those gilded
cashbooks, drawers locked like gates of fortresses, heaps of
bank-bills, come from I know not where, and the quantities of
letters from England, Holland, Spain, India, China, and Peru, have
generally a strange influence on a father's mind, and make him
forget that there is in the world an interest greater and more
sacred than the good opinion of his correspondents. I have,
therefore, chosen this drawing-room, where you see, smiling and
happy in their magnificent frames, your portrait, mine, my
mother's, and all sorts of rural landscapes and touching pastorals.
I rely much on external impressions; perhaps, with regard to you,
they are immaterial, but I should be no artist if I had not some
fancies."
"Very well," replied M. Danglars, who had listened to all this
preamble with imperturbable coolness, but without understanding apreamble with imperturbable coolness, but without understanding a
word, since like every man burdened with thoughts of the past, he
was occupied with seeking the thread of his own ideas in those of
the speaker.
"There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so,"
said Eugenie, without the least confusion, and with that masculine
pointedness which distinguished her gesture and her language; "and
you appear satisfied with the explanation. Now, let us return to
the first. You ask me why I have requested this interview; I will
tell you in two words, sir; I will not marry count Andrea
Cavalcanti."
Danglars leaped from his chair and raised his eyes and arms
towards heaven.
"Yes, indeed, sir," continued Eugenie, still quite calm; "you
are astonished, I see; for since this little affair began, I have
not manifested the slightest opposition, and yet I am always sure,
when the opportunity arrives, to oppose a determined and absolute
will to people who have not consulted me, and things which
displease me. However, this time, my tranquillity, or passiveness
as philosophers say, proceeded from another source; it proceeded
from a wish, like a submissive and devoted daughter" (a slight
smile was observable on the purple lips of the young girl), "to
practice obedience."
"Well?" asked Danglars.
"Well, sir," replied Eugenie, "I have tried to the very last and
now that the moment has come, I feel in spite of all my efforts
that it is impossible."
"But," said Danglars, whose weak mind was at first quite
overwhelmed with the weight of this pitiless logic, marking evident
premeditation and force of will, "what is your reason for this
refusal, Eugenie? what reason do you assign?"
"My reason?" replied the young girl. "Well, it is not that the
man is more ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable than any
other; no, M. Andrea Cavalcanti may appear to those who look at
men's faces and figures as a very good specimen of his kind. It is
not, either, that my heart is less touched by him than any other;not, either, that my heart is less touched by him than any other;
that would be a schoolgirl's reason, which I consider quite beneath
me. I actually love no one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do not
then see why, without real necessity, I should encumber my life
with a perpetual companion. Has not some sage said, `Nothing too
much'? and another, `I carry all my effects with me'? I have been
taught these two aphorisms in Latin and in Greek; one is, I
believe, from Phaedrus, and the other from Bias. Well, my dear
father, in the shipwreck of life — for life is an eternal shipwreck
of our hopes — I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that is
all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly
alone, and consequently perfectly free."
"Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!" murmured Danglars, turning pale,
for he knew from long experience the solidity of the obstacle he
had so suddenly encountered.
"Unhappy girl," replied Eugenie, "unhappy girl, do you say, sir?
No, indeed; the exclamation appears quite theatrical and affected.
Happy, on the contrary, for what am I in want of! The world calls
me beautiful. It is something to be well received. I like a
favorable reception; it expands the countenance, and those around
me do not then appear so ugly. I possess a share of wit, and a
certain relative sensibility, which enables me to draw from life in
general, for the support of mine, all I meet with that is good,
like the monkey who cracks the nut to get at its contents. I am
rich, for you have one of the first fortunes in France. I am your
only daughter, and you are not so exacting as the fathers of the
Porte Saint-Martin and Gaiete, who disinherit their daughters for
not giving them grandchildren. Besides, the provident law has
deprived you of the power to disinherit me, at least entirely, as
it has also of the power to compel me to marry Monsieur This or
Monsieur That. And so — being, beautiful, witty, somewhat talented,
as the comic operas say, and rich — and that is happiness, sir —


as the comic operas say, and rich — and that is happiness, sir —
why do you call me unhappy?"
Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling, and proud even to
insolence, could not entirely repress his brutal feelings, but they
betrayed themselves only by an exclamation. Under the fixed and
inquiring gaze levelled at him from under those beautiful black
eyebrows, he prudently turned away, and calmed himself immediately,
daunted by the power of a resolute mind. "Truly, my daughter,"
replied he with a smile, "you are all you boast of being, excepting
one thing; I will not too hastily tell you which, but would rather
leave you to guess it." Eugenie looked at Danglars, much surprised
that one flower of her crown of pride, with which she had so
superbly decked herself, should be disputed. "My daughter,"
continued the banker, "you have perfectly explained to me the
sentiments which influence a girl like you, who is determined she
will not marry; now it remains for me to tell you the motives of a
father like me, who has decided that his daughter shall marry."
Eugenie bowed, not as a submissive daughter, but as an adversary
prepared for a discussion.
"My daughter," continued Danglars, "when a father asks his
daughter to choose a husband, he has always some reason for wishing
her to marry. Some are affected with the mania of which you spoke
just now, that of living again in their grandchildren. This is not
my weakness, I tell you at once; family joys have no charm for me.
I may acknowledge this to a daughter whom I know to be
philosophical enough to understand my indifference, and not to
impute it to me as a crime."
"This is not to the purpose," said Eugenie; "let us speak
candidly, sir; I admire candor."
"Oh," said Danglars, "I can, when circumstances render it
desirable, adopt your system, although it may not be my general
practice. I will therefore proceed. I have proposed to you to
marry, not for your sake, for indeed I did not think of you in the
least at the moment (you admire candor, and will now be satisfied,least at the moment (you admire candor, and will now be satisfied,
I hope); but because it suited me to marry you as soon as possible,
on account of certain commercial speculations I am desirous of
entering into." Eugenie became uneasy.
"It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be
angry with me, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not
willingly enter into arithmetical explanations with an artist like
you, who fears to enter my study lest she should imbibe
disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions and sensations. But in that
same banker's study, where you very willingly presented yourself
yesterday to ask for the thousand francs I give you monthly for
pocket-money, you must know, my dear young lady, that many things
may be learned, useful even to a girl who will not marry. There one
may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your nervous
susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room, namely,
that the credit of a banker is his physical and moral life; that
credit sustains him as breath animates the body; and M. de Monte
Cristo once gave me a lecture on that subject, which I have never
forgotten. There we may learn that as credit sinks, the body
becomes a corpse, and this is what must happen very soon to the
banker who is proud to own so good a logician as you for his
daughter." But Eugenie, instead of stooping, drew herself up under
the blow. "Ruined?" said she.
"Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean," said
Danglars, almost digging his nails into his breast, while he
preserved on his harsh features the smile of the heartless though
clever man; "ruined — yes, that is it."
"Ah!" said Eugenie.
"Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this secret so full of horror,
as the tragic poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from my lips how
you may alleviate this misfortune, so far as it will affect
you."
"Oh," cried Eugenie, "you are a bad physiognomist, if you
imagine I deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which youimagine I deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which you
warn me. I ruined? and what will that signify to me? Have I not my
talent left? Can I not, like Pasta, Malibran, Grisi, acquire for
myself what you would never have given me, whatever might have been
your fortune, a hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand livres per
annum, for which I shall be indebted to no one but myself; and
which, instead of being given as you gave me those poor twelve
thousand francs, with sour looks and reproaches for my prodigality,
will be accompanied with acclamations, with bravos, and with
flowers? And if I do not possess that talent, which your smiles
prove to me you doubt, should I not still have that ardent love of
independence, which will be a substitute for wealth, and which in
my mind supersedes even the instinct of self-preservation? No, I
grieve not on my own account, I shall always find a resource; my
books, my pencils, my piano, all the things which cost but little,
and which I shall be able to procure, will remain my own.
"Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive
yourself again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided
against the catastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass
over without affecting her. She has taken care for herself, — at
least I hope so, — for her attention has not been diverted from her
projects by watching over me. She has fostered my independence by
professedly indulging my love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my
childhood I have seen too much, and understood too much, of what
has passed around me, for misfortune to have an undue power over
me. From my earliest recollections, I have been beloved by no one —
so much the worse; that has naturally led me to love no one — so
much the better — now you have my profession of faith."
"Then," said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all due
to offended paternal love, — "then, mademoiselle, you persist in
your determination to accelerate my ruin?"
"Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not


"Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not
understand you."
"So much the better, I have a ray of hope left; listen."
"I am all attention," said Eugenie, looking so earnestly at her
father that it was an effort for the latter to endure her
unrelenting gaze.
"M. Cavalcanti," continued Danglars, "is about to marry you, and
will place in my hands his fortune, amounting to three million
livres."
"That is admirable!" said Eugenie with sovereign contempt,
smoothing her gloves out one upon the other.
"You think I shall deprive you of those three millions," said
Danglars; "but do not fear it. They are destined to produce at
least ten. I and a brother banker have obtained a grant of a
railway, the only industrial enterprise which in these days
promises to make good the fabulous prospects that Law once held out
to the eternally deluded Parisians, in the fantastic Mississippi
scheme. As I look at it, a millionth part of a railway is worth
fully as much as an acre of waste land on the banks of the Ohio. We
make in our case a deposit, on a mortgage, which is an advance, as
you see, since we gain at least ten, fifteen, twenty, or a hundred
livres' worth of iron in exchange for our money. Well, within a
week I am to deposit four millions for my share; the four millions,
I promise you, will produce ten or twelve."
"But during my visit to you the day before yesterday, sir, which
you appear to recollect so well," replied Eugenie, "I saw you
arranging a deposit — is not that the term? — of five millions and
a half; you even pointed it out to me in two drafts on the
treasury, and you were astonished that so valuable a paper did not
dazzle my eyes like lightning."
"Yes, but those five millions and a half are not mine, and are
only a proof of the great confidence placed in me; my title of
popular banker has gained me the confidence of charitable
institutions, and the five millions and a half belong to them; at
any other time I should not have hesitated to make use of them, butany other time I should not have hesitated to make use of them, but
the great losses I have recently sustained are well known, and, as
I told you, my credit is rather shaken. That deposit may be at any
moment withdrawn, and if I had employed it for another purpose, I
should bring on me a disgraceful bankruptcy. I do not despise
bankruptcies, believe me, but they must be those which enrich, not
those which ruin. Now, if you marry M. Cavalcanti, and I get the
three millions, or even if it is thought I am going to get them, my
credit will be restored, and my fortune, which for the last month
or two has been swallowed up in gulfs which have been opened in my
path by an inconceivable fatality, will revive. Do you understand
me?"
"Perfectly; you pledge me for three millions, do you not?"
"The greater the amount, the more flattering it is to you; it
gives you an idea of your value."
"Thank you. One word more, sir; do you promise me to make what
use you can of the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti will bring
without touching the money? This is no act of selfishness, but of
delicacy. I am willing to help rebuild your fortune, but I will not
be an accomplice in the ruin of others."
"But since I tell you," cried Danglars, "that with these three
million" —
"Do you expect to recover your position, sir, without touching
those three million?"
"I hope so, if the marriage should take place and confirm my
credit."
"Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti the five hundred
thousand francs you promise for my dowry?"
"He shall receive them on returning from the mayor's."*
(* The performance of the civil marriage.)
"Very well!"
"What next? what more do you want?"
"I wish to know if, in demanding my signature, you leave me
entirely free in my person?"
"Absolutely."
"Then, as I said before, sir, — very well; I am ready to marry
M. Cavalcanti."
"But what are you up to?"
"Ah, that is my affair. What advantage should I have over you,
if knowing your secret I were to tell you mine?" Danglars bit hisif knowing your secret I were to tell you mine?" Danglars bit his
lips. "Then," said he, "you are ready to pay the official visits,
which are absolutely indispensable?"
"Yes," replied Eugenie.
"And to sign the contract in three days?"
"Yes."
"Then, in my turn, I also say, very well!" Danglars pressed his
daughter's hand in his. But, extraordinary to relate, the father
did not say, "Thank you, my child," nor did the daughter smile at
her father. "Is the conference ended?" asked Eugenie, rising.
Danglars motioned that he had nothing more to say. Five minutes
afterwards the piano resounded to the touch of Mademoiselle
d'Armilly's fingers, and Mademoiselle Danglars was singing
Brabantio's malediction on Desdemona. At the end of the piece
Etienne entered, and announced to Eugenie that the horses were in
the carriage, and that the baroness was waiting for her to pay her
visits. We have seen them at Villefort's; they proceeded then on
their course.And now let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend
pursuing their way to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea
Cavalcanti, so inopportunely interrupted in his rise to fortune.
Notwithstanding his youth, Master Andrea was a very skilful and
intelligent boy. We have seen that on the first rumor which reached
the salon he had gradually approached the door, and crossing two or
three rooms at last disappeared. But we have forgotten to mention
one circumstance, which nevertheless ought not to be omitted; in
one of the rooms he crossed, the trousseau of the bride-elect was
on exhibition. There were caskets of diamonds, cashmere shawls,
Valenciennes lace, English veilings, and in fact all the tempting
things, the bare mention of which makes the hearts of young girls
bound with joy, and which is called the "corbeille."* Now, in
passing through this room, Andrea proved himself not only to be
clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he helped himself
to the most valuable of the ornaments before him.
(* Literally, "the basket," because wedding gifts were
originally brought in such a receptacle.)
Furnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart
from the window, intending to slip through the hands of the
gendarmes. Tall and well proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and
muscular as a Spartan, he walked for a quarter of an hour without
knowing where to direct his steps, actuated by the sole idea of
getting away from the spot where if he lingered he knew that he
would surely be taken. Having passed through the Rue Mont Blanc,
guided by the instinct which leads thieves always to take the
safest path, he found himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette.
There he stopped, breathless and panting. He was quite alone; on
one side was the vast wilderness of the Saint-Lazare, on the other,
Paris enshrouded in darkness. "Am I to be captured?" he cried; "no,
not if I can use more activity than my enemies. My safety is now a
mere question of speed." At this moment he saw a cab at the top of


mere question of speed." At this moment he saw a cab at the top of
the Faubourg Poissonniere. The dull driver, smoking his pipe, was
plodding along toward the limits of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where
no doubt he ordinarily had his station. "Ho, friend!" said
Benedetto.
"What do you want, sir?" asked the driver.
"Is your horse tired?"
"Tired? oh, yes, tired enough — he has done nothing the whole of
this blessed day! Four wretched fares, and twenty sous over, making
in all seven francs, are all that I have earned, and I ought to
take ten to the owner."
"Will you add these twenty francs to the seven you have?"
"With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised. Tell
me what I am to do for this."
"A very easy thing, if your horse isn't tired."
"I tell you he'll go like the wind, — only tell me which way to
drive."
"Towards the Louvres."
"Ah, I know the way — you get good sweetened rum over
there."
"Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends, with
whom I am going to hunt to-morrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He should
have waited for me here with a cabriolet till half-past eleven; it
is twelve, and, tired of waiting, he must have gone on."
"It is likely."
"Well, will you try and overtake him?"
"Nothing I should like better."
"If you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you shall
have twenty francs; if not before Louvres, thirty."
"And if we do overtake him?"
"Forty," said Andrea, after a moment's hesitation, at the end of
which he remembered that he might safely promise. "That's all
right," said the man; "hop in, and we're off! Who-o-o-p, la!"
Andrea got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the
Faubourg Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg Saint-Martin, crossed the
barrier, and threaded its way through the interminable Villette.
They never overtook the chimerical friend, yet Andrea frequently
inquired of people on foot whom he passed and at the inns which
were not yet closed, for a green cabriolet and bay horse; and as
there are a great many cabriolets to be seen on the road to the Lowthere are a great many cabriolets to be seen on the road to the Low
Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are green, the inquiries
increased at every step. Every one had just seen it pass; it was
only five hundred, two hundred, one hundred steps in advance; at
length they reached it, but it was not the friend. Once the cab was
also passed by a calash rapidly whirled along by two post-horses.
"Ah," said Cavalcanti to himself, "if I only had that britzska,
those two good post-horses, and above all the passport that carries
them on!" And he sighed deeply. The calash contained Mademoiselle
Danglars and Mademoiselle d'Armilly. "Hurry, hurry!" said Andrea,
"we must overtake him soon." And the poor horse resumed the
desperate gallop it had kept up since leaving the barrier, and
arrived steaming at Louvres.
"Certainly," said Andrea, "I shall not overtake my friend, but I
shall kill your horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty
francs; I will sleep at the Red Horse, and will secure a place in
the first coach. Good-night, friend." And Andrea, after placing six
pieces of five francs each in the man's hand, leaped lightly on to
the pathway. The cabman joyfully pocketed the sum, and turned back
on his road to Paris. Andrea pretended to go towards the Red Horse
inn, but after leaning an instant against the door, and hearing the
last sound of the cab, which was disappearing from view, he went on
his road, and with a lusty stride soon traversed the space of two
leagues. Then he rested; he must be near Chapelle-en-Serval, where
he pretended to be going. It was not fatigue that stayed Andrea
here; it was that he might form some resolution, adopt some plan.
It would be impossible to make use of a diligence, equally so to
engage post-horses; to travel either way a passport was necessary.
It was still more impossible to remain in the department of the
Oise, one of the most open and strictly guarded in France; this was
quite out of the question, especially to a man like Andrea,
perfectly conversant with criminal matters.perfectly conversant with criminal matters.
He sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his
hands and reflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head; his
resolution was made. He threw some dust over the topcoat, which he
had found time to unhook from the ante-chamber and button over his
ball costume, and going to Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at
the door of the only inn in the place. The host opened. "My
friend," said Andrea, "I was coming from Montefontaine to Senlis,
when my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw
me. I must reach Compiegne to-night, or I shall cause deep anxiety
to my family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?"
An inn-keeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or
bad. The host called the stable-boy, and ordered him to saddle
"Whitey," then he awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he
ordered to ride before the gentleman and bring back the horse.
Andrea gave the inn-keeper twenty francs, and in taking them from
his pocket dropped a visiting card. This belonged to one of his
friends at the Cafe de Paris, so that the innkeeper, picking it up
after Andrea had left, was convinced that he had let his horse to
the Count of Mauleon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that being the name
and address on the card. "Whitey" was not a fast animal, but he
kept up an easy, steady pace; in three hours and a half Andrea had
traversed the nine leagues which separated him from Compiegne, and
four o'clock struck as he reached the place where the coaches stop.
There is an excellent tavern at Compiegne, well remembered by those
who have ever been there. Andrea, who had often stayed there in his
rides about Paris, recollected the Bell and Bottle inn; he turned
around, saw the sign by the light of a reflected lamp, and having
dismissed the child, giving him all the small coin he had about
him, he began knocking at the door, very reasonably concluding that
having now three or four hours before him he had best fortify


having now three or four hours before him he had best fortify
himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a
good supper. A waiter opened the door.
"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been dining at
Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and expected to catch the coach which passes by
at midnight, but like a fool I have lost my way, and have been
walking for the last four hours in the forest. Show me into one of
those pretty little rooms which overlook the court, and bring me a
cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux." The waiter had no suspicions;
Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he had a cigar in his mouth,
and his hands in the pocket of his top coat; his clothes were
fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable; he
looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, that was all.
While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess arose; Andrea
assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could have No. 3,
which he had occupied on his last stay at Compiegne. Unfortunately,
No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was travelling with his
sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the
hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated
precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and
chatting about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they
announced his room to be ready.
Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking
out upon the court of the Bell Tavern, which with its triple
galleries like those of a theatre, with the jessamine and clematis
twining round the light columns, forms one of the prettiest
entrances to an inn that you can imagine. The fowl was tender, the
wine old, the fire clear and sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to
find himself eating with as good an appetite as though nothing had
happened. Then he went to bed and almost immediately fell into that
deep sleep which is sure to visit men of twenty years of age, even
when they are torn with remorse. Now, here we are obliged to ownwhen they are torn with remorse. Now, here we are obliged to own
that Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that he did not. This
was the plan which had appealed to him to afford the best chance of
his security. Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after
rigorously paying his bill, and reaching the forest, he would,
under pretence of making studies in painting, test the hospitality
of some peasants, procure himself the dress of a woodcutter and a
hatchet, casting off the lion's skin to assume that of the woodman;
then, with his hands covered with dirt, his hair darkened by means
of a leaden comb, his complexion embrowned with a preparation for
which one of his old comrades had given him the recipe, he
intended, by following the wooded districts, to reach the nearest
frontier, walking by night and sleeping in the day in the forests
and quarries, and only entering inhabited regions to buy a loaf
from time to time.
Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his
diamonds; and by uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he always
carried about with him in case of accident, he would then find
himself possessor of about 50,000 livres, which he philosophically
considered as no very deplorable condition after all. Moreover, he
reckoned much on the interest of the Danglars to hush up the rumor
of their own misadventures. These were the reasons which, added to
the fatigue, caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he
might awaken early he did not close the shutters, but contented
himself with bolting the door and placing on the table an unclasped
and long-pointed knife, whose temper he well knew, and which was
never absent from him. About seven in the morning Andrea was
awakened by a ray of sunlight, which played, warm and brilliant,
upon his face. In all well-organized brains, the predominating idea
— and there always is one — is sure to be the last thought before
sleeping, and the first upon waking in the morning. Andrea had
scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating idea presentedscarcely opened his eyes when his predominating idea presented
itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too long. He
jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was crossing
the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in the
world, even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a
timid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and
white uniform is really very alarming.
"Why is that gendarme there?" asked Andrea of himself. Then, all
at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader has,
doubtless, remarked in him, "There is nothing astonishing in seeing
a gendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress
myself." And the youth dressed himself with a facility his valet de
chambre had failed to rob him of during the two months of
fashionable life he had led in Paris. "Now then," said Andrea,
while dressing himself, "I'll wait till he leaves, and then I'll
slip away." And, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his boots
and cravat, stole gently to the window, and a second time lifted up
the muslin curtain. Not only was the first gendarme still there,
but the young man now perceived a second yellow, blue, and white
uniform at the foot of the staircase, the only one by which he
could descend, while a third, on horseback, holding a musket in his
fist, was posted as a sentinel at the great street door which alone
afforded the means of egress.
The appearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for a
crowd of curious loungers was extended before him, effectually
blocking the entrance to the hotel. "They're after me!" was
Andrea's first thought. "The devil!" A pallor overspread the young
man's forehead, and he looked around him with anxiety. His room,
like all those on the same floor, had but one outlet to the gallery
in the sight of everybody. "I am lost!" was his second thought;
and, indeed, for a man in Andrea's situation, an arrest meant the
assizes, trial, and death, — death without mercy or delay. For a


assizes, trial, and death, — death without mercy or delay. For a
moment he convulsively pressed his head within his hands, and
during that brief period he became nearly mad with terror; but soon
a ray of hope glimmered in the multitude of thoughts which
bewildered his mind, and a faint smile played upon his white lips
and pallid cheeks. He looked around and saw the objects of his
search upon the chimney-piece; they were a pen, ink, and paper.
With forced composure he dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote the
following lines upon a sheet of paper: —
"I have no money to pay my bill, but I am not a dishonest man; I
leave behind me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times the amount. I
shall be excused for leaving at daybreak, for I was ashamed."
He then drew the pin from his cravat and placed it on the paper.
This done, instead of leaving the door fastened, he drew back the
bolts and even placed the door ajar, as though he had left the
room, forgetting to close it, and slipping into the chimney like a
man accustomed to that kind of gymnastic exercise, having effaced
the marks of his feet upon the floor, he commenced climbing the
only opening which afforded him the means of escape. At this
precise time, the first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked
up-stairs, preceded by the commissary of police, and supported by
the second gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself
re-enforced by the one stationed at the door.
Andrea was indebted for this visit to the following
circumstances. At daybreak, the telegraphs were set at work in all
directions, and almost immediately the authorities in every
district had exerted their utmost endeavors to arrest the murderer
of Caderousse. Compiegne, that royal residence and fortified town,
is well furnished with authorities, gendarmes, and commissaries of
police; they therefore began operations as soon as the telegraphic
despatch arrived, and the Bell and Bottle being the best-known
hotel in the town, they had naturally directed their first
inquiries there.hotel in the town, they had naturally directed their first
inquiries there.
Now, besides the reports of the sentinels guarding the Hotel de
Ville, which is next door to the Bell and Bottle, it had been
stated by others that a number of travellers had arrived during the
night. The sentinel who was relieved at six o'clock in the morning,
remembered perfectly that just as he was taking his post a few
minutes past four a young man arrived on horseback, with a little
boy before him. The young man, having dismissed the boy and horse,
knocked at the door of the hotel, which was opened, and again
closed after his entrance. This late arrival had attracted much
suspicion, and the young man being no other than Andrea, the
commissary and gendarme, who was a brigadier, directed their steps
towards his room.
They found the door ajar. "Oh, ho," said the brigadier, who
thoroughly understood the trick; "a bad sign to find the door open!
I would rather find it triply bolted." And, indeed, the little note
and pin upon the table confirmed, or rather corroborated, the sad
truth. Andrea had fled. We say corroborated, because the brigadier
was too experienced to be convinced by a single proof. He glanced
around, looked in the bed, shook the curtains, opened the closets,
and finally stopped at the chimney. Andrea had taken the precaution
to leave no traces of his feet in the ashes, but still it was an
outlet, and in this light was not to be passed over without serious
investigation.
The brigadier sent for some sticks and straw, and having filled
the chimney with them, set a light to it. The fire crackled, and
the smoke ascended like the dull vapor from a volcano; but still no
prisoner fell down, as they expected. The fact was, that Andrea, at
war with society ever since his youth, was quite as deep as a
gendarme, even though he were advanced to the rank of brigadier,
and quite prepared for the fire, he had climbed out on the roof and
was crouching down against the chimney-pots. At one time he thoughtwas crouching down against the chimney-pots. At one time he thought
he was saved, for he heard the brigadier exclaim in a loud voice,
to the two gendarmes, "He is not here!" But venturing to peep, he
perceived that the latter, instead of retiring, as might have been
reasonably expected upon this announcement, were watching with
increased attention.
It was now his turn to look about him; the Hotel de Ville, a
massive sixteenth century building, was on his right; any one could
descend from the openings in the tower, and examine every corner of
the roof below, and Andrea expected momentarily to see the head of
a gendarme appear at one of these openings. If once discovered, he
knew he would be lost, for the roof afforded no chance of escape;
he therefore resolved to descend, not through the same chimney by
which he had come up, but by a similar one conducting to another
room. He looked around for a chimney from which no smoke issued,
and having reached it, he disappeared through the orifice without
being seen by any one. At the same minute, one of the little
windows of the Hotel de Ville was thrown open, and the head of a
gendarme appeared. For an instant it remained motionless as one of
the stone decorations of the building, then after a long sigh of
disappointment the head disappeared. The brigadier, calm and
dignified as the law he represented, passed through the crowd,
without answering the thousand questions addressed to him, and
re-entered the hotel.
"Well?" asked the two gendarmes.
"Well, my boys," said the brigadier, "the brigand must really
have escaped early this morning; but we will send to the
Villers-Coterets and Noyon roads, and search the forest, when we
shall catch him, no doubt." The honorable functionary had scarcely
expressed himself thus, in that intonation which is peculiar to
brigadiers of the gendarmerie, when a loud scream, accompanied by
the violent ringing of a bell, resounded through the court of the
hotel. "Ah, what is that?" cried the brigadier.


hotel. "Ah, what is that?" cried the brigadier.
"Some traveller seems impatient," said the host. "What number
was it that rang?"
"Number 3."
"Run, waiter!" At this moment the screams and ringing were
redoubled. "Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the servant, "the
person who is ringing appears to want something more than a waiter;
we will attend upon him with a gendarme. Who occupies Number
3?"
"The little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise with
his sister, and who asked for an apartment with two beds." The bell
here rang for the third time, with another shriek of anguish.
"Follow me, Mr. Commissary!" said the brigadier; "tread in my
steps."
"Wait an instant," said the host; "Number 3 has two staircases,
— inside and outside."
"Good," said the brigadier. "I will take charge of the inside
one. Are the carbines loaded?"
"Yes, brigadier."
"Well, you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly, fire
upon him; he must be a great criminal, from what the telegraph
says."
The brigadier, followed by the commissary, disappeared by the
inside staircase, accompanied by the noise which his assertions
respecting Andrea had excited in the crowd. This is what had
happened. Andrea had very cleverly managed to descend two-thirds of
the chimney, but then his foot slipped, and notwithstanding his
endeavors, he came into the room with more speed and noise than he
intended. It would have signified little had the room been empty,
but unfortunately it was occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in one bed,
were awakened by the noise, and fixing their eyes upon the spot
whence the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One of these ladies,
the fair one, uttered those terrible shrieks which resounded
through the house, while the other, rushing to the bell-rope, rang
with all her strength. Andrea, as we can see, was surrounded by
misfortune.
"For pity's sake," he cried, pale and bewildered, without seeing
whom he was addressing, — "for pity's sake do not call assistance!
Save me! — I will not harm you."whom he was addressing, — "for pity's sake do not call assistance!
Save me! — I will not harm you."
"Andrea, the murderer!" cried one of the ladies.
"Eugenie! Mademoiselle Danglars!" exclaimed Andrea,
stupefied.
"Help, help!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, taking the bell from
her companion's hand, and ringing it yet more violently. "Save me,
I am pursued!" said Andrea, clasping his hands. "For pity, for
mercy's sake do not deliver me up!"
"It is too late, they are coming," said Eugenie.
"Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly
alarmed; you can turn their suspicions and save my life!"
The two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing the
bedclothes tightly around them, remained silent to this
supplicating voice, repugnance and fear taking possession of their
minds.
"Well, be it so," at length said Eugenie; "return by the same
road you came, and we will say nothing about you, unhappy
wretch."
"Here he is, here he is!" cried a voice from the landing; "here
he is! I see him!" The brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole,
and had discovered Andrea in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow
from the butt end of the musket burst open the lock, two more
forced out the bolts, and the broken door fell in. Andrea ran to
the other door, leading to the gallery, ready to rush out; but he
was stopped short, and he stood with his body a little thrown back,
pale, and with the useless knife in his clinched hand.
"Fly, then!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, whose pity returned
as her fears diminished; "fly!"
"Or kill yourself!" said Eugenie (in a tone which a Vestal in
the amphitheatre would have used, when urging the victorious
gladiator to finish his vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered,
and looked on the young girl with an expression which proved how
little he understood such ferocious honor. "Kill myself?" he cried,
throwing down his knife; "why should I do so?"
"Why, you said," answered Mademoiselle Danglars, "that you would
be condemned to die like the worst criminals."be condemned to die like the worst criminals."
"Bah," said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, "one has
friends."
The brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand. "Come, come," said
Andrea, "sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there is no occasion
to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;" and he held out his
hands to be manacled. The girls looked with horror upon this
shameful metamorphosis, the man of the world shaking off his
covering and appearing as a galley-slave. Andrea turned towards
them, and with an impertinent smile asked, — "Have you any message
for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars, for in all probability I
shall return to Paris?"
Eugenie covered her face with her hands. "Oh, ho!" said Andrea,
"you need not be ashamed, even though you did post after me. Was I
not nearly your husband?"
And with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two girls a
prey to their own feelings of shame, and to the comments of the
crowd. An hour after they stepped into their calash, both dressed
in feminine attire. The gate of the hotel had been closed to screen
them from sight, but they were forced, when the door was open, to
pass through a throng of curious glances and whispering voices.
Eugenie closed her eyes; but though she could not see, she could
hear, and the sneers of the crowd reached her in the carriage. "Oh,
why is not the world a wilderness?" she exclaimed, throwing herself
into the arms of Mademoiselle d'Armilly, her eyes sparkling with
the same kind of rage which made Nero wish that the Roman world had
but one neck, that he might sever it at a single blow. The next day
they stopped at the Hotel de Flandre, at Brussels. The same evening
Andrea was incarcerated in the Conciergerie.


As the procureur had told Madame Danglars, Valentine was not yet
recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she was indeed confined to her
bed; and it was in her own room, and from the lips of Madame de
Villefort, that she heard all the strange events we have related, —
we mean the flight of Eugenie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti,
or rather Benedetto, together with the accusation of murder
pronounced against him. But Valentine was so weak that this recital
scarcely produced the same effect it would have done had she been
in her usual state of health. Indeed, her brain was only the seat
of vague ideas, and confused forms, mingled with strange fancies,
alone presented themselves before her eyes.
During the daytime Valentine's perceptions remained tolerably
clear, owing to the constant presence of M. Noirtier, who caused
himself to be carried to his granddaughter's room, and watched her
with his paternal tenderness; Villefort also, on his return from
the law courts, frequently passed an hour or two with his father
and child. At six o'clock Villefort retired to his study, at eight
M. d'Avrigny himself arrived, bringing the night draught prepared
for the young girl, and then M. Noirtier was carried away. A nurse
of the doctor's choice succeeded them, and never left till about
ten or eleven o'clock, when Valentine was asleep. As she went
down-stairs she gave the keys of Valentine's room to M. de
Villefort, so that no one could reach the sick-room excepting
through that of Madame de Villefort and little Edward.
Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of
Valentine, and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found him less
uneasy. Certainly, though Valentine still labored under dreadful
nervous excitement, she was better; and moreover, Monte Cristo had
told him when, half distracted, he had rushed to the count's house,
that if she were not dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four
days had elapsed, and Valentine still lived.
The nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine evenThe nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine even
in her sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence which succeeded
her waking hours; it was then, in the silence of night, in the dim
light shed from the alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece, that she
saw the shadows pass and repass which hover over the bed of
sickness, and fan the fever with their trembling wings. First she
fancied she saw her stepmother threatening her, then Morrel
stretched his arms towards her; sometimes mere strangers, like the
Count of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even the very furniture,
in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and this state lasted
till about three o'clock in the morning, when a deep, heavy slumber
overcame the young girl, from which she did not awake till
daylight. On the evening of the day on which Valentine had learned
of the flight of Eugenie and the arrest of Benedetto, — Villefort
having retired as well as Noirtier and d'Avrigny, — her thoughts
wandered in a confused maze, alternately reviewing her own
situation and the events she had just heard.
Eleven o'clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the beverage
prepared by the doctor within reach of the patient, and locked the
door, was listening with terror to the comments of the servants in
the kitchen, and storing her memory with all the horrible stories
which had for some months past amused the occupants of the
ante-chambers in the house of the king's attorney. Meanwhile an
unexpected scene was passing in the room which had been so
carefully locked. Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse had left;
Valentine, who for the last hour had been suffering from the fever
which returned nightly, incapable of controlling her ideas, was
forced to yield to the excitement which exhausted itself in
producing and reproducing a succession and recurrence of the same
fancies and images. The night-lamp threw out countless rays, each
resolving itself into some strange form to her disordered
imagination, when suddenly by its flickering light Valentineimagination, when suddenly by its flickering light Valentine
thought she saw the door of her library, which was in the recess by
the chimney-piece, open slowly, though she in vain listened for the
sound of the hinges on which it turned.
At any other time Valentine would have seized the silken
bell-pull and summoned assistance, but nothing astonished her in
her present situation. Her reason told her that all the visions she
beheld were but the children of her imagination, and the conviction
was strengthened by the fact that in the morning no traces remained
of the nocturnal phantoms, who disappeared with the coming of
daylight. From behind the door a human figure appeared, but the
girl was too familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed, and
therefore only stared, hoping to recognize Morrel. The figure
advanced towards the bed and appeared to listen with profound
attention. At this moment a ray of light glanced across the face of
the midnight visitor.
"It is not he," she murmured, and waited, in the assurance that
this was but a dream, for the man to disappear or assume some other
form. Still, she felt her pulse, and finding it throb violently she
remembered that the best method of dispelling such illusions was to
drink, for a draught of the beverage prepared by the doctor to
allay her fever seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a
short time she suffered less. Valentine therefore reached her hand
towards the glass, but as soon as her trembling arm left the bed
the apparition advanced more quickly towards her, and approached
the young girl so closely that she fancied she heard his breath,
and felt the pressure of his hand.
This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed
anything Valentine had before experienced; she began to believe
herself really alive and awake, and the belief that her reason was
this time not deceived made her shudder. The pressure she felt was
evidently intended to arrest her arm, and she slowly withdrew it.
Then the figure, from whom she could not detach her eyes, and who