# The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 5/Chapter 118

Contents
CHAPTER CXVIII
THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER
T was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, streamed from heaven down on the blue sea. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning siesta of the south began to be felt; a delicious zephyr refreshing the coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafting from shore to shore the sweet perfume of the trees, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.
A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The motion resembled that of the swan that opens its wings to the wind and seems to glide over the water. It advanced, at the same time, swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a phosphorescent track. By degrees the sun, whose last rays had faded, disappeared behind the western horizon; but, as though to prove the truth of the glittering dreams in heathen mythology, its indiscreet fires reappearing on the summit of each wave, seemed to reveal that the god of fire had just enfolded himself in the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.
The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient wind to ruffle the curling ringlets of a girl. Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, rising from the midst of the waves, like the hat of a Catalan.
"Is that Monte-Cristo?" asked the traveler, to whose orders the yacht was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.
"Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached it!" ​ "We have reached it!" repeated the traveler, in an accent of indescribable sadness.
Then he added in a low tone, "Yes; that is the haven."
And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of which was better revealed by a sad smile than it would have been by tears. A few minutes afterward a flash of light, which was extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of fire-arms reached the yacht.
"Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land signal; will you answer it yourself?"
"What signal!"
The captain pointed toward the island, up the side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as it rose.
"Ah, yes," he said, as if awaking from a dream. "Give it to me."
The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveler slowly raised it, and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterward, the sails were brailed, and they cast anchor about one hundred paces from a little harbor. The boat was already in the sea, loaded with four rowers and a pilot. The traveler descended and instead of sitting down at the stem of the boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their oars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.
"Proceed," said the traveler. The eight oars fell into the sea simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found themselves in a little creek, formed by a natural indentation; the boat touched a bottom of fine sand.
"Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of our men; they will carry you ashore?" The young man answered this invitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepping out of the boat, the sea immediately rose to his waist.
"Ah! your excellency," murmured the pilot, "you should not have done so; our master will scold us for it."
The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a firm footing. After about thirty paces they landed; the young man stamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked round for some one to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice, which made him shudder, exclaimed:
"Good-evening, Maximilian! you are punctual, thank you!"
​"Yes; you see, I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus. Come, I have a habitation prepared for you, soon forget fatigue and cold."
Monte-Cristo perceived that the young man had turned round; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had left without being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as they returned to the yacht.;
"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the sailors." ​"Yes; I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."
"Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte-Cristo, smiling. "I have made an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall free of all charge. I am, as they in civilized lands, on the free list."
Morrel looked at the count with surprise. "Count," he said, "you are not the same here as in Paris."
"How so?"
"Here, you laugh." The count's brow became clouded.
"You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting."
"Oh, no, no! count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's hands, "pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is not evil except to sufferers. Oh! how charitable, kind, and good! you affect this gayety to inspire me with courage."
"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."
"Then you forget me; so much the better."
"How so?"
"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the arena, 'He who is going to die salutes you.'"
"Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, "do you think it possible I could be?"
"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well! Morrel, let us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the same feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a lion stung by a mosquito? Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the grave? Have you still that ideality of regret which hurls the living from life to the pursuit of death, or are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue and the weariness that quenches the ray of hope which fain would shine? Has the loss of memory rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh! my dear friend, if this be the case, if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if you put all your trust in God, and turn all your looks to heaven,—let us leave aside words too narrow for the sense which the soul gives them,—then, Maximilian, you are consoled—do not complain."
"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice, "listen to me, as to a man who speaks with his hand stretched to earth, his eyes raised to heaven; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Cer​Certainly, there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,—I love her husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last moments; my sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I should see her suffer, and I have suffered enough; Emmanuel would tear the
weapon from my hand, and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, whose promise I have, you who are more than man, you whom I would call a god if you were not mortal; you, I am sure, will lead me to death by a pleasant path—will you not?"
​"My friend," said the count, "I have still one doubt,—are you weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"
"No, indeed, I am calm," said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; "my pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel I have reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell: something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes: I did wait;—yes; I did hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh! count, I shall sleep calmly, deliciously, in the arms of death!"
Morrel pronounced these words with an energy which made the count shudder.
"My friend," continued Morrel, "you named the fifth of October as the term of the delay you asked,—to-day is the fifth of October," he took out his watch; "it is now nine o'clock,—I have yet three hours to live."
"Be it so!" said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically followed the count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance, he dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte-Cristo drew him in gently.
"Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life like those ancient Romans who, when condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at table crowned with flowers, and inhaled death in the perfume of heliotropes and roses?"
Morrel smiled. "As you please," he said; "death is always death, that is forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief."
He sat down, and Monte-Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were in the marvelous dining-room before described, where the statues had baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.
"Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.
"Proceed!"
"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and you seem to be a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world than ours."
​"There is something true in what you say," said the count, with that smile which made him so handsome; "I have descended from a planet called Grief."
"I believe all you tell me without questioning its sense; in proof, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had experienced death, 'Is it painful to die??'" ​Monte-Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness.
"Yes," he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break this outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you make your flesh quiver under the imperceptible teeth of your dagger, if you send a ball which has no sense and is always ready to lose its way into your brain, which the least shock disorders; certainly, then, you will suffer pain, you will repent quitting life, and in the midst of your despairing agonies you will find it better than a repose bought so dear."
"Yes; I understand there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as well as in life; the only thing is to understand it."
"You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the world is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the destructive powers in nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the secrets of death, then death will become as sweet and voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved."
"And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?"
"Yes."
Morrel extended his hand. "Now I understand," he said, "why you had me brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this subterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It was because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet means of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine's name and pressing your hand."
"Yes; you have guessed rightly, Morrel," said the count, "that is what I intended."
"Thanks! the idea that to-morrow I shall no longer suffer is sweet to my heart."
"Do you, then, regret nothing?"
"No," replied Morrel.
"Not even me?" asked the count, with deep emotion. Morrel's clear eye was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual luster, and a large tear rolled down his cheek.
"What!" said the count, "do you still regret anything in the world, and yet die?"
"Oh! I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel, in a low voice, "do not speak another word, count; do not prolong my punishment."
The count fancied he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château-d'If.
​"I am endeavoring," he thought, "to make this man happy; I look upon this restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived; if this man has
not been unhappy enough to merit happiness, alas! what would become of me who can only atone for evil by doing good?" Then he said aloud, "Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul." Morrel smiled sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear to you my soul is no longer my own." ​"Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomed myself to regard you as my sou: well, then, to save my son I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions, I give them to you: with such a fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? every career is open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal—but live."
"Count, I have your word," said Morrel, coldly; then, taking out his watch, he added: "It is half-past eleven."
"Morrel, can you intend it in my house, beneath my eyes?"
"Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or I shall think you did not love me for my own sake, but for yours." And he rose.
"It is well," said Monte-Cristo, whose countenance brightened at these words, "you wish it; you are inflexible; yes, as you said, you are indeed wretched, and a miracle alone can cure you; sit down, Morrel, and wait."
Morrel obeyed; the count rose, and unlocking a closet with a key suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket, beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols of angels aspiring to heaven.
He placed the casket on the table; then opening it, took out a little golden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring. This box contained an unctuous substance, partly solid, of which it was impossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of the polished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds which ornamented the box. It was a dazzling blaze of blue, red, and gold.
The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and offered it to Morrel, fixing a long, steadfast glance upon him. It was then observable that the substance was greenish.
"This is what you asked for," he said, "and what I promised to give you."
"I thank you from the depth of my heart," said the young man, taking the spoon from the hands of Monte-Cristo. The count took another spoon, and again dipped it into the golden box. "What are you going to do, my friend?" asked Morrel, arresting his hand.
"Ma foi! Morrel, I was thinking that I, too, am weary of life, and since an opportunity presents itself———"
"Stay!" said the young man. "You, who love and are beloved; you, who have faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example; in your case ​it would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go and tell Valentine what you have done for me."
And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the count's hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance
offered by Monte-Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive, brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees the lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held them, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him, Monte-Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel ​saw nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took possession of the young man; his hands relaxed their hold of the nargileh; the objects in the room gradually lost their form and color; and his disturbed vision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.
"Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am dying; thanks!"
He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside him. Then it appeared to him that Monte-Cristo smiled, not with the strange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the secrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for an infant that is unreasonable. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature; his form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the attitude of a menacing angel of the day of judgment. Morrel, overpowered, turned round in the arm-chair; a delicious torpor was insinuated into every vein; a change of ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on the kaleidoscope; enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he felt nothing living in him but this dream; he seemed to be entering that vague delirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count's hand; but his own was unmovable; he wished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like a stone at the mouth of a sepulcher. Involuntarily his languid eyes closed; and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.
The count had just opened the door. Immediately a brilliant light from the next room, or rather from a palace adjoining, shone upon the room into which he was gently gliding for his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of marvelous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of vengeance.
"Is it heaven that opens before me?" thought the dying man; "that angel resembles the one I have lost."
Monte-Cristo pointed Morrel to the young woman, who advanced toward him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.
"Valentine! Valentine!" he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no sound; and, as though all his strength were centered in that internal emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed toward him; his lips again moved.
"He is calling you," said the count; "he to whom you have confided your destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him. Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never again be separated on earth; since he has rushed into death ​to find you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement of these two existences!"
Valentine seized the count's hand, and, in her irresistible impulse of joy, carried it to her lips.
"Oh! thank me again!" said the count; "tell me till you are weary that I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require this assurance."
"Oh! yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart," said Valentine; and if you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! ask my ​beloved sister Haydée, who, ever since our departure from France, has caused me to wait patiently for the happy day, which to-day shines for me, while talking to me of you."
"You then love Haydée?" asked Monte-Cristo, with an emotion he in vain endeavored to dissimulate.
"Oh, yes! with all my soul."
"Well, then! listen, Valentine," said the count; "I have a favor to ask of you."
"Of me! Oh, am I happy enough for that?"
"Yes; you have called Haydée your sister; let her become so indeed, Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy you owe me. Do you and Morrel protect her, for" (the count's voice was thick with emotion) "henceforth she will be alone in the world."
"Alone iu the world!" repeated a voice behind the count, "and why?"
Monte-Cristo turned round. Haydée was standing, pale, motionless, looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.
"Because to-morrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume your proper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince! I restore to you the riches and name of your father."
Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with tears:—
"Then you leave me, my lord?"
"Haydée, Haydée! you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and be happy!"
"It is well," said Haydée; "your order shall be executed, my lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy." And she stepped back to retire.
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of Morrel on her shoulder, "do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see how she suffers?"
Haydée answered with a heartrending expression.
"Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he has the right to notice nothing."
The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl, and he could not bear their brilliancy.
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Monte-Cristo, "can my suspicions be correct? Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?"
"I am young," gently replied Haydée; "I love the life you have made so sweet to me, and should regret to die."
"You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée———"
​"I should die; yes, my lord."
"Do you, then, love me?"
"Oh, Valentine! he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love Maximilian."
The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them.
"Oh, yes!" she cried, "I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created beings!"
​"Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my struggle with my enemies, and has given me this victory; he will not let me end my triumphs with this penance; I wished to punish myself, but he has pardoned me! Love me, then, Haydée! Who knows? perhaps your love will make me forget all I wish to forget."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty years of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through you I again connect myself with life, through you I shall suffer, through you rejoice."
"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed Haydée; "he says that through me he will suffer—through me, who would yield my life for his."
The count drew back for a moment. "Have I discovered the truth?" he said; "but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come, Haydée, come!" And throwing his arm round the young girl's waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.
An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder announcing the return of life passed through the young man's frame. At length, his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and expressionless; then sight returned, and, with it, feeling and grief.
"Oh!" he cried, in an accent of despair, "the count has deceived me; I am yet living." And extending his hand toward the table, he seized a knife.
"Dearest!" exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, "awake, and look this way." Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.
The next morning at the first beams of day, Valentine and Morrel were walking arm-in-arm on the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte-Cristo had appeared in her room; how he had unveiled everything; how he had revealed the crime; and, finally, how he had saved her life by allowing her to seem dead.
They found the door of the grotto opened, and went forth, the few remaining stars of night yet gleaming through the morning blue.
Morrel perceived a man standing amidst the group of rocks, who was awaiting a sign from them to advance; he pointed him out to Valentine.
"Ah! it is Jacopo," she said, "the captain of the yacht." And she beckoned him toward them.
"I have a letter to give you from the count."
"From the count!" murmured the two young people.
"Yes; read it."
Morrel opened the letter, and read:
"My Dear Maximillian:
"There is a felucea for you at anchor. Jacopo will conduct you to Leghorn, where M. Noirtier awaits his grand-daughter, whom he wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs Elysées, and my ​house at Tréport, are the marriage-gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès upon the son of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor all the fortune reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother, who died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man who, like Satan, thought
himself, for an instant, equal to God; but who now acknowledges, with Christian humility, that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct toward you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only ​ the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life.
"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart! and never forget, that until the day when God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words, 'Wait and hope.'
"Your friend,
"Edmond Dantes,
"Count of Monte-Cristo."
During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine, for the first time, of the madness of her father and the death of her brother, she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not the less painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her happiness cost her very dear. Morrel looked round uneasily.
"But," he said, "the count's generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? Lead me to him."
Jacopo pointed toward the horizon.
"What do you mean?" asked Valentine. "Where is the count?—where is Haydée?"
"Look!" said Jacopo.
The eyes of the young people were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean sea, they perceived a large white sail, like the wing of a sea-mew.
"Gone!" said Morrel; "gone!—Adieu, my friend!—Adieu, my father!"
"Gone!" murmured Valentine. "Adieu, my friend!—adieu, my sister!"
"Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" said Morrel, with tearful eyes.
"My friend," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us that all human wisdom was contained in these two words,
"' Wait and hope'?"
THE END.