When Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo,
"My dear count," said he, "allow me to commence my services as cicerone by showing you a specimen of a bachelor's apartment.
You, who are accustomed to the palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live.
As we pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you breathe."
Monte Cristo had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the ground-floor.
Albert led him first to his atelier, which was, as we have said, his favorite apartment.
Monte Cristo quickly appreciated all that Albert had collected here — old cabinets, Japanese porcelain, Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the world — everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he recognized their date, their country, and their origin.
Morcerf had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he who, under the count's guidance, followed a course of archaeology, mineralogy, and natural history.
They descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest into the salon.
The salon was filled with the works of modern artists; there were landscapes by Dupre, with their long reeds and tall trees, their lowing oxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix's Arabian cavaliers, with their long white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked arms, their horses, who tore each other with their teeth while their riders contended fiercely with their maces; aquarelles of Boulanger, representing Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist the rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his flowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the sun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa, but more poetic; pastels by Giraud and Muller, representing children like angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from the album of Dauzats'
"Travels in the East," that had been made in a few seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a mosque — in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as recompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past.
Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking for the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy to see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style associated with it had been appreciated and studied by him.
From the salon they passed into the bed-chamber; it was a model of taste and simple elegance.
A single portrait, signed by Leopold Robert, shone in its carved and gilded frame.
This portrait attracted the Count of Monte Cristo's attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and stopped suddenly before it.
It was the portrait of a young woman of five or six and twenty, with a dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long lashes.
She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a red and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair.
She was looking at the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue ocean and sky.
The light was so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that spread itself over the count's visage, or the nervous heaving of his chest and shoulders.
Silence prevailed for an instant, during which Monte Cristo gazed intently on the picture.
"You have there a most charming mistress, viscount," said the count in a perfectly calm tone; "and this costume — a ball costume, doubtless — becomes her admirably."
"Ah, monsieur," returned Albert,
"I would never forgive you this mistake if you had seen another picture beside this.
You do not know my mother; she it is whom you see here.
She had her portrait painted thus six or eight years ago.
This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and the resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same as she was in 1830.
The countess had this portrait painted during the count's absence.
She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable surprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my father, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the best works of Leopold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it.
It is true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most assiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a most mediocre amateur of art.
It is different with my mother, who paints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a picture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you.
Excuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of introducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any allusions to this picture.
The picture seems to have a malign influence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and still more rarely does she look at it without weeping.
This disagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the count and countess, who are still as much united, although married more than twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding."
Monte Cristo glanced rapidly at Albert, as if to seek a hidden meaning in his words, but it was evident the young man uttered them in the simplicity of his heart.
"Now," said Albert, "that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to offer them to you, unworthy as they are.
Consider yourself as in your own house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany me to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an account of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your promised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess anxiously desire to thank you in person.
You are somewhat blase I know, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who has seen so many others.
However, accept what I propose to you as an initiation into Parisian life — a life of politeness, visiting, and introductions."
Monte Cristo bowed without making any answer; he accepted the offer without enthusiasm and without regret, as one of those conventions of society which every gentleman looks upon as a duty.
Albert summoned his servant, and ordered him to acquaint M. and Madame de Morcerf of the arrival of the Count of Monte Cristo.
Albert followed him with the count.
When they arrived at the ante-chamber, above the door was visible a shield, which, by its rich ornaments and its harmony with the rest of the furniture, indicated the importance the owner attached to this blazon.
Monte Cristo stopped and examined it attentively.
"Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender," said he.
"These are, doubtless, your family arms?
Except the knowledge of blazons, that enables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry — I, a count of a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery of St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been told that when you travel much it is necessary.
Besides, you must have something on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by the custom-house officers.
Excuse my putting such a question to you."
"It is not indiscreet," returned Morcerf, with the simplicity of conviction.
"You have guessed rightly.
These are our arms, that is, those of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield, which has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother's.
By her side I am Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one of the oldest of the south of France."
"Yes," replied Monte Cristo "these blazons prove that.
Almost all the armed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a cross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the long voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to accomplish on the wings of faith.
One of your ancestors had joined the Crusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you mount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient."
"It is possible," said Morcerf; "my father has in his study a genealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made commentaries that would have greatly edified Hozier and Jaucourt.
At present I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are beginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our popular government."
"Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past something better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments, and which have no heraldic meaning whatever.
As for you, viscount," continued Monte Cristo to Morcerf, "you are more fortunate than the government, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the imagination.
Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that explains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much admired on the visage of the noble Catalan."
It would have required the penetration of Oedipus or the Sphinx to have divined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently uttered with the greatest politeness.
Morcerf thanked him with a smile, and pushed open the door above which were his arms, and which, as we have said, opened into the salon.
In the most conspicuous part of the salon was another portrait.
It was that of a man, from five to eight and thirty, in the uniform of a general officer, wearing the double epaulet of heavy bullion, that indicates superior rank, the ribbon of the Legion of Honor around his neck, which showed he was a commander, and on the right breast, the star of a grand officer of the order of the Saviour, and on the left that of the grand cross of Charles III., which proved that the person represented by the picture had served in the wars of Greece and Spain, or, what was just the same thing as regarded decorations, had fulfilled some diplomatic mission in the two countries.
Monte Cristo was engaged in examining this portrait with no less care than he had bestowed upon the other, when another door opened, and he found himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf in person.
He was a man of forty to forty-five years, but he seemed at least fifty, and his black mustache and eyebrows contrasted strangely with his almost white hair, which was cut short, in the military fashion.
He was dressed in plain clothes, and wore at his button-hole the ribbons of the different orders to which he belonged.
He entered with a tolerably dignified step, and some little haste.
Monte Cristo saw him advance towards him without making a single step.
It seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the Count of Morcerf.
"Father," said the young man,
"I have the honor of presenting to you the Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend whom I had the good fortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you."
"You are most welcome, monsieur," said the Count of Morcerf, saluting Monte Cristo with a smile, "and monsieur has rendered our house, in preserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal gratitude."
As he said these words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a chair, while he seated himself in another opposite the window.
Monte Cristo, in taking the seat Morcerf offered him, placed himself in such a manner as to remain concealed in the shadow of the large velvet curtains, and read on the careworn and livid features of the count a whole history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted there.
"The countess," said Morcerf, "was at her toilet when she was informed of the visit she was about to receive.
She will, however, be in the salon in ten minutes."
"It is a great honor to me," returned Monte Cristo, "to be thus, on the first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Metidja, or in the mountains of Atlas, a marshal's staff to offer you?"
"Oh," replied Morcerf, reddening slightly,
"I have left the service, monsieur.
Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont.
I could, therefore, expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the elder branch remained on the throne?
But the Revolution of July was, it seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period.
I tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the battle-field, you do not know how to manoeuvre on the slippery grounds of the salons.
I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics.
I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts.
During the twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the time."
"These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other," returned Monte Cristo.
"A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure soldier, step by step — this is uncommon; then become general, peer of France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire than that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this, indeed, is praiseworthy, — nay, more, it is sublime."
Albert looked on and listened with astonishment; he was not used to see Monte Cristo give vent to such bursts of enthusiasm.
"Alas," continued the stranger, doubtless to dispel the slight cloud that covered Morcerf's brow, "we do not act thus in Italy; we grow according to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines, and often the same uselessness, all our lives."
"But, monsieur," said the Count of Morcerf, "for a man of your merit, Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you; respond to her call.
France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful.
She treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers."
"Ah, father," said Albert with a smile, "it is evident you do not know the Count of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors, and contents himself with those written on his passport."
"That is the most just remark," replied the stranger,
"I ever heard made concerning myself."
"You have been free to choose your career," observed the Count of Morcerf, with a sigh; "and you have chosen the path strewed with flowers."
"Precisely, monsieur," replied Monte Cristo with one of those smiles that a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze.
"If I did not fear to fatigue you," said the general, evidently charmed with the count's manners,
"I would have taken you to the Chamber; there is a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern senators."
"I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time, renew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being introduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait."
"Ah, here is my mother," cried the viscount.
Monte Cristo, turned round hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at the entrance of the salon, at the door opposite to that by which her husband had entered, pale and motionless; when Monte Cristo turned round, she let fall her arm, which for some unknown reason had been resting on the gilded door-post.
She had been there some moments, and had heard the last words of the visitor.
The latter rose and bowed to the countess, who inclined herself without speaking.
"Ah, good heavens, madame," said the count, "are you ill, or is it the heat of the room that affects you?"
"Are you ill, mother?" cried the viscount, springing towards her.
She thanked them both with a smile.
"No," returned she, "but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first time, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears and desolation.
Monsieur," continued the countess, advancing with the majesty of a queen,
"I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I bless you.
Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus affording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you, from the bottom of my heart."
The count bowed again, but lower than before; He was even paler than Mercedes.
"Madame," said he, "the count and yourself recompense too generously a simple action.
To save a man, to spare a father's feelings, or a mother's sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of humanity."
At these words, uttered with the most exquisite sweetness and politeness, Madame de Morcerf replied.
"It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a friend, and I thank God that things are thus."
And Mercedes raised her fine eyes to heaven with so fervent an expression of gratitude, that the count fancied he saw tears in them.
M. de Morcerf approached her.
"Madame," said he.
"I have already made my excuses to the count for quitting him, and I pray you to do so also.
The sitting commences at two; it is now three, and I am to speak."
"Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your absence," replied the countess, with the same tone of deep feeling.
"Monsieur," continued she, turning to Monte Cristo, "will you do us the honor of passing the rest of the day with us?"
"Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got out of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am ignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is but a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated."
"We shall have the pleasure another time," said the countess; "you promise that?"
Monte Cristo inclined himself without answering, but the gesture might pass for assent.
"I will not detain you, monsieur," continued the countess;
"I would not have our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate."
"My dear Count," said Albert,
"I will endeavor to return your politeness at Rome, and place my coupe at your disposal until your own be ready."
"A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount," returned the Count of Monte Cristo "but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the four hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a carriage of some sort ready at the door."
Albert was used to the count's manner of proceeding; he knew that, like Nero, he was in search of the impossible, and nothing astonished him, but wishing to judge with his own eyes how far the count's orders had been executed, he accompanied him to the door of the house.
Monte Cristo was not deceived.
As soon as he appeared in the Count of Morcerf's ante-chamber, a footman, the same who at Rome had brought the count's card to the two young men, and announced his visit, sprang into the vestibule, and when he arrived at the door the illustrious traveller found his carriage awaiting him.
It was a coupe of Koller's building, and with horses and harness for which Drake had, to the knowledge of all the lions of Paris, refused on the previous day seven hundred guineas.
"Monsieur," said the count to Albert,
"I do not ask you to accompany me to my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry, and I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being taken by surprise.
Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite you; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality."
"If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not be a house I shall see, but a palace.
You have decidedly some genius at your control."
"Ma foi, spread that idea," replied the Count of Monte Cristo, putting his foot on the velvet-lined steps of his splendid carriage, "and that will be worth something to me among the ladies."
As he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle, the door was closed, but not so rapidly that Monte Cristo failed to perceive the almost imperceptible movement which stirred the curtains of the apartment in which he had left Madame de Morcerf.
When Albert returned to his mother, he found her in the boudoir reclining in a large velvet arm-chair, the whole room so obscure that only the shining spangle, fastened here and there to the drapery, and the angles of the gilded frames of the pictures, showed with some degree of brightness in the gloom.
Albert could not see the face of the countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head, and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him as though her voice had altered.
He could distinguish amid the perfumes of the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and fragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased cups on the mantle-piece the countess's smelling-bottle, taken from its shagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered, — "My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?"
"No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such violent perfumes."
"Then, my dear mother," said Albert, putting his hand to the bell, "they must be taken into the ante-chamber.
You are really ill, and just now were so pale as you came into the room" —
"Was I pale, Albert?"
"Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the less alarm my father and myself."
"Did your father speak of it?" inquired Mercedes eagerly.
"No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?"
"Yes, I do remember," replied the countess.
A servant entered, summoned by Albert's ring of the bell.
"Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room," said the viscount; "they make the countess ill."
The footman obeyed his orders.
A long pause ensued, which lasted until all the flowers were removed.
"What is this name of Monte Cristo?" inquired the countess, when the servant had taken away the last vase of flowers, "is it a family name, or the name of the estate, or a simple title?"
"I believe, mother, it is merely a title.
The count purchased an island in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you to-day, has founded a commandery.
You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of Florence, Saint George, Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order of Malta.
Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that the count is a man of very high distinction."
"His manners are admirable," said the countess, "at least, as far as I could judge in the few minutes he remained here."
"They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I have known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities of Europe — the English, the Spanish, and the German."
The countess paused a moment; then, after a slight hesitation, she resumed, — "You have seen, my dear Albert — I ask the question as a mother — you have seen M. de Monte Cristo in his house, you are quicksighted, have much knowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you think the count is really what he appears to be?"
"What does he appear to be?"
"Why, you have just said, — a man of high distinction."
"I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such."
"But what is your own opinion, Albert?"
"I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting him, but I think him a Maltese."
"I do not ask you of his origin but what he is."
"Ah, what he is; that is quite another thing.
I have seen so many remarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I think, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron's heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient family, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the force of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws of society."
"You say" —
"I say that Monte Cristo is an island in the midst of the Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers of all nations, and pirates of every flag.
Who knows whether or not these industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues for his protection?"
"That is possible," said the countess, reflecting.
"Never mind," continued the young man, "smuggler or not, you must agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the salons of Paris.
Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his entree amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not even excepting Chateau-Renaud."
"And what do you suppose is the count's age?" inquired Mercedes, evidently attaching great importance to this question.
"Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother."
"So young, — it is impossible," said Mercedes, replying at the same time to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.
"It is the truth, however.
Three or four times he has said to me, and certainly without the slightest premeditation, 'at such a period I was five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,' and I, induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate.
The age of this singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five.
Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair, and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles, — he is not only vigorous, but also young."
The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter thoughts.
"And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?" she asked with a nervous shudder.
"I am inclined to think so."
"And — do — you — like — him?"
"Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d'Epinay, who tries to convince me that he is a being returned from the other world."
The countess shuddered.
"Albert," she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion,
"I have always put you on your guard against new acquaintances.
Now you are a man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be prudent."
"Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust.
The count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little sherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at me, try to borrow money.
What, then, have I to fear from him?"
"You are right," said the countess, "and my fears are weakness, especially when directed against a man who has saved your life.
How did your father receive him, Albert?
It is necessary that we should be more than complaisant to the count.
M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his business makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it" —
"Nothing could be in better taste than my father's demeanor, madame," said Albert; "nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three compliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with as much ease as if he had known him these thirty years.
Each of these little tickling arrows must have pleased my father," added Albert with a laugh.
"And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de Morcerf even wished to take him to the Chamber to hear the speakers."
The countess made no reply.
She fell into so deep a revery that her eyes gradually closed.
The young man, standing up before her, gazed upon her with that filial affection which is so tender and endearing with children whose mothers are still young and handsome.
Then, after seeing her eyes closed, and hearing her breathe gently, he believed she had dropped asleep, and left the apartment on tiptoe, closing the door after him with the utmost precaution.
"This devil of a fellow," he muttered, shaking his head;
"I said at the time he would create a sensation here, and I measure his effect by an infallible thermometer.
My mother has noticed him, and he must therefore, perforce, be remarkable."
He went down to the stables, not without some slight annoyance, when he remembered that the Count of Monte Cristo had laid his hands on a "turnout" which sent his bays down to second place in the opinion of connoisseurs.
"Most decidedly," said he, "men are not equal, and I must beg my father to develop this theorem in the Chamber of Peers."

Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house; it had taken him six minutes to perform the distance, but these six minutes were sufficient to induce twenty young men who knew the price of the equipage they had been unable to purchase themselves, to put their horses in a gallop in order to see the rich foreigner who could afford to give 20,000 francs apiece for his horses.
The house Ali had chosen, and which was to serve as a town residence to Monte Cristo, was situated on the right hand as you ascend the Champs Elysees.
A thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in the centre, and masked a portion of the front; around this shrubbery two alleys, like two arms, extended right and left, and formed a carriage-drive from the iron gates to a double portico, on every step of which stood a porcelain vase, filled with flowers.
This house, isolated from the rest, had, besides the main entrance, another in the Rue Ponthieu.
Even before the coachman had hailed the concierge, the massy gates rolled on their hinges — they had seen the Count coming, and at Paris, as everywhere else, he was served with the rapidity of lightning.
The coachman entered and traversed the half-circle without slackening his speed, and the gates were closed ere the wheels had ceased to sound on the gravel.
The carriage stopped at the left side of the portico, two men presented themselves at the carriage-window; the one was Ali, who, smiling with an expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid by a mere look from Monte Cristo.
The other bowed respectfully, and offered his arm to assist the count in descending.
"Thanks, M. Bertuccio," said the count, springing lightly up the three steps of the portico; "and the notary?"
"He is in the small salon, excellency," returned Bertuccio.
"And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of the house?"
"Your excellency, it is done already.
I have been myself to the best engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence.
The first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, No. 7; the others are on the mantle-piece of your excellency's bedroom."
"Good; what o'clock is it?"
"Four o'clock."
Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf's, and then he passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the way.
"These are but indifferent marbles in this ante-chamber," said Monte Cristo.
"I trust all this will soon be taken away."
Bertuccio bowed.
As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon.
He was a simple-looking lawyer's clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.
"You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?" asked Monte Cristo.
"Yes, count," returned the notary.
"Is the deed of sale ready?"
"Yes, count."
"Have you brought it?"
"Here it is."
"Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?" asked the count carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary.
The steward made a gesture that signified,
"I do not know."
The notary looked at the count with astonishment.
"What!" said he, "does not the count know where the house he purchases is situated?"
"No," returned the count.
"The count does not know?"
"How should I know?
I have arrived from Cadiz this morning.
I have never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even set my foot in France."
"Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil."
At these words Bertuccio turned pale.
"And where is Auteuil?" asked the count.
"Close by here, monsieur," replied the notary — "a little beyond Passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne."
"So near as that?" said the Count; "but that is not in the country.
What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?"
"I," cried the steward with a strange expression.
"His excellency did not charge me to purchase this house.
If his excellency will recollect — if he will think" —
"Ah, true," observed Monte Cristo;
"I recollect now.
I read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, 'a country house.'"
"It is not yet too late," cried Bertuccio, eagerly; "and if your excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue."
"Oh, no," returned Monte Cristo negligently; "since I have this, I will keep it."
"And you are quite right," said the notary, who feared to lose his fee.
"It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time, without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that old things are so much sought after.
I suppose the count has the tastes of the day?"
"To be sure," returned Monte Cristo; "it is very convenient, then?"
"It is more — it is magnificent."
"Peste, let us not lose such an opportunity," returned Monte Cristo.
"The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary."
And he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part of the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the names of the proprietors.
"Bertuccio," said he, "give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur."
The steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a bundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never gives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there.
"And now," demanded the count, "are all the forms complied with?"
"All, sir."
"Have you the keys?"
"They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house, but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new possessions."
"Very well;" and Monte Cristo made a sign with his hand to the notary, which said,
"I have no further need of you; you may go."
"But," observed the honest notary, "the count is, I think, mistaken; it is only fifty thousand francs, everything included."
"And your fee?"
"Is included in this sum."
"But have you not come from Auteuil here?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of time and trouble," said the count; and he made a gesture of polite dismissal.
The notary left the room backwards, and bowing down to the ground; it was the first time he had ever met a similar client.
"See this gentleman out," said the count to Bertuccio.
And the steward followed the notary out of the room.
Scarcely was the count alone, when he drew from his pocket a book closed with a lock, and opened it with a key which he wore round his neck, and which never left him.
After having sought for a few minutes, he stopped at a leaf which had several notes, and compared them with the deed of sale, which lay on the table. "'Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No.
28;' it is indeed the same," said he; "and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or physical terror?
However, in an hour I shall know all.
Bertuccio!" cried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong.
"Bertuccio!"
The steward appeared at the door.
"Monsieur Bertuccio," said the count, "did you never tell me that you had travelled in France?"
"In some parts of France — yes, excellency."
"You know the environs of Paris, then?"
"No, excellency, no," returned the steward, with a sort of nervous trembling, which Monte Cristo, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly attributed to great disquietude.
"It is unfortunate," returned he, "that you have never visited the environs, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you gone with me, you could have given me some useful information."
"To Auteuil!" cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid — "I go to Auteuil?"
"Well, what is there surprising in that?
When I live at Auteuil, you must come there, as you belong to my service."
Bertuccio hung down his head before the imperious look of his master, and remained motionless, without making any answer.
"Why, what has happened to you? — are you going to make me ring a second time for the carriage?" asked Monte Cristo, in the same tone that Louis XIV. pronounced the famous,
"I have been almost obliged to wait."
Bertuccio made but one bound to the ante-chamber, and cried in a hoarse voice — "His excellency's horses!"
Monte Cristo wrote two or three notes, and, as he sealed the last, the steward appeared.
"Your excellency's carriage is at the door," said he.
"Well, take your hat and gloves," returned Monte Cristo.
"Am I to accompany you, your excellency?" cried Bertuccio.
"Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the house."
It was unexampled for a servant of the count's to dare to dispute an order of his, so the steward, without saying a word, followed his master, who got into the carriage, and signed to him to follow, which he did, taking his place respectfully on the front seat.

Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio signed himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of the cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the carriage, muttered a short prayer.
Any one but a man of exhaustless thirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward's extraordinary repugnance for the count's projected drive without the walls; but the Count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this little journey.
In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward's emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village.
Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine with a feverish anxiety every house they passed.
"Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28," said the count, fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order.
Bertuccio's forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed, and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman, — "Rue de la Fontaine, No.
28."
No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village; during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings the artificial appearance of a scene on the stage.
The carriage stopped, the footman sprang off the box, and opened the door.
"Well," said the count, "you do not get out, M. Bertuccio — you are going to stay in the carriage, then?
What are you thinking of this evening?"
Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.
"Knock," said the count, "and announce me."
Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.
"What is it?" asked he.
"It is your new master, my good fellow," said the footman.
And he held out to the concierge the notary's order.
"The house is sold, then?" demanded the concierge; "and this gentleman is coming to live here?"
"Yes, my friend," returned the count; "and I will endeavor to give you no cause to regret your old master."
"Oh, monsieur," said the concierge,
"I shall not have much cause to regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him in anything at all."
"What was the name of your old master?" said Monte Cristo.
"The Marquis of Saint-Meran.
Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it."
"The Marquis of Saint-Meran!" returned the count.
"The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Meran!" and he appeared to meditate.
"An old gentleman," continued the concierge, "a stanch follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had been the king's attorney at Nimes, and afterwards at Versailles."
Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.
"And is not this daughter dead?" demanded Monte Cristo;
"I fancy I have heard so."
"Yes, monsieur, one and twenty years ago; and since then we have not seen the poor marquis three times."
"Thanks, thanks," said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward's utter prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger of breaking it.
"Give me a light."
"Shall I accompany you, monsieur?"
"No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light."
And Monte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two gold pieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the concierge.
"Ah, monsieur," said he, after having vainly searched on the mantle-piece and the shelves,
"I have not got any candles."
"Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio," said the count, "and show me the apartments."
The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner in which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to obey.
They went over a tolerably large ground-floor; a second floor consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden.
"Ah, here is a private staircase," said the count; "that is convenient.
Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to."
"Monsieur," replied Bertuccio, "it leads to the garden."
"And, pray, how do you know that?"
"It ought to do so, at least."
"Well, let us be sure of that."
Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to the garden.
At the outer door the steward paused.
"Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio," said the count.
But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned; his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some terrible event, and with his clinched hands he seemed striving to shut out horrible recollections.
"Well," insisted the Count.
"No, no," cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the interior wall.
"No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther."
"What does this mean?" demanded the irresistible voice of Monte Cristo.
"Why, you must see, your excellency," cried the steward, "that this is not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine.
Oh, why did I not tell you all?
I am sure you would not have forced me to come.
I hoped your house would have been some other one than this; as if there was not another house at Auteuil than that of the assassination!"
"What, what!" cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, "what words do you utter?
Devil of a man, Corsican that you are — always mysteries or superstitions.
Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?"
Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed.
The door, as it opened, disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle through a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity.
The steward wished to turn to the left.
"No, no, monsieur," said Monte Cristo.
"What is the use of following the alleys?
Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards."
Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he continued to take the left hand.
Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took the right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped.
The steward could not restrain himself.
"Move, monsieur — move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!"
"What spot?"
"Where he fell."
"My dear Monsieur Bertuccio," said Monte Cristo, laughing, "control yourself; we are not at Sartena or at Corte.
This is not a Corsican arbor, but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must not calumniate it for that."
"Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!"
"I think you are going mad, Bertuccio," said the count coldly.
"If that is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum."
"Alas, excellency," returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking his head in a manner that would have excited the count's laughter, had not thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him attentive to the least revelation of this timorous conscience.
"Alas, excellency, the evil has arrived!"
"M. Bertuccio," said the count,
"I am very glad to tell you, that while you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret.
I knew you were a Corsican.
I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding over some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy, because in Italy those things are thought nothing of.
But in France they are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy themselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which avenge."
Bertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did not let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered countenance.
Monte Cristo examined him with the same look that, at Rome, he had bent upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone that made a shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward, — "The Abbe Busoni, then told me an untruth," said he, "when, after his journey in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities.
Well, I shall write to the abbe; I shall hold him responsible for his protege's misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this assassination.
Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the compass of the French laws for your sake."
"Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully," cried Bertuccio, in despair.
"I have always been an honest man, and, as far as lay in my power, I have done good."
"I do not deny it," returned the count; "but why are you thus agitated.
It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man."
"But, your excellency," replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, "did not the Abbe Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nimes, tell you that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?"
"Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded you had stolen — that was all."
"Oh, your excellency," returned Bertuccio in deep contempt.
"Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the desire of making a 'stiff,' as you call it."
"Yes, my good master," cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count's feet, "it was simply vengeance — nothing else."
"I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes you in this manner."
"But, monsieur, it is very natural," returned Bertuccio, "since it was in this house that my vengeance was accomplished."
"What! my house?"
"Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then."
"Whose, then?
The Marquis de Saint-Meran, I think, the concierge said.
What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Meran?"
"Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another."
"This is strange," returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to his reflections, "that you should find yourself without any preparation in a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse."
"Monsieur," said the steward, "it is fatality, I am sure.
First, you purchase a house at Auteuil — this house is the one where I have committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just buried his child.
This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too much like providence."
"Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is providence.
I always suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede something to diseased minds.
Come, collect yourself, and tell me all."
"I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbe Busoni.
Such things," continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, "are only related under the seal of confession."
"Then," said the count,
"I refer you to your confessor.
Turn Chartreux or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like any one who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening.
I confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent — in France she is paid only when she speaks.
Peste, I thought you somewhat Corsican, a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have other strings to your bow.
You are no longer in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio."
"Oh, your excellency, your excellency!" cried the steward, struck with terror at this threat, "if that is the only reason I cannot remain in your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go to the scaffold."
"That is different," replied Monte Cristo; "but if you intend to tell an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all."
"No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell you all, for the Abbe Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree.
The moon is just bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de Villefort."
"What!" cried Monte Cristo, "it was M. de Villefort?"
"Your excellency knows him?"
"The former royal attorney at Nimes?"
"Yes."
"Who married the Marquis of Saint-Meran's daughter?"
"Yes."
"Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright, the most rigid magistrate on the bench?"
"Well, monsieur," said Bertuccio, "this man with this spotless reputation" —
"Well?"
"Was a villain."
"Bah," replied Monte Cristo, "impossible!"
"It is as I tell you."
"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo.
"Have you proof of this?"
"I had it."
"And you have lost it; how stupid!"
"Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered."
"Really," returned the count, "relate it to me, for it begins to interest me."
And the count, humming an air from
"Lucia," went to sit down on a bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts.
Bertuccio remained standing before him.

"At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?" asked Bertuccio.
"Where you please," returned Monte Cristo, "since I know nothing at all of it."
"I thought the Abbe Busoni had told your excellency."
"Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and I have forgotten them."
"Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency."
"Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers."
"The story begins in 1815."
"Ah," said Monte Cristo,
"1815 is not yesterday."
"No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had happened but then.
I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the service of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed entirely of Corsicans.
This brother was my only friend; we became orphans — I at five, he at eighteen.
He brought me up as if I had been his son, and in 1814 he married.
When the emperor returned from the Island of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly wounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire."
"But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio," said the count; "unless I am mistaken, it has been already written."
"Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you promised to be patient."
"Go on; I will keep my word."
"One day we received a letter.
I should tell you that we lived in the little village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cape Corso.
This letter was from my brother.
He told us that the army was disbanded, and that he should return by Chateauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nimes; and, if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nimes, with an inn-keeper with whom I had dealings."
"In the smuggling line?" said Monte Cristo.
"Eh, your excellency?
Every one must live."
"Certainly; go on."
"I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved not to send the money, but to take it to him myself.
I possessed a thousand francs.
I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law, and with the other five hundred I set off for Nimes.
It was easy to do so, and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything favored my project.
But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind became contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able to enter the Rhone.
At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to Arles.
I left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the road to Nimes."
"We are getting to the story now?"
"Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you what is absolutely necessary.
Just at this time the famous massacres took place in the south of France.
Three brigands, called Trestaillon, Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they suspected of Bonapartism.
You have doubtless heard of these massacres, your excellency?"
"Vaguely; I was far from France at that period.
Go on."
"As I entered Nimes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered, and burned.
At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became terrified, not for myself — for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had nothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us smugglers — but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from the army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was everything to apprehend.
I hastened to the inn-keeper.
My misgivings had been but too true.
My brother had arrived the previous evening at Nimes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand hospitality, he had been assassinated.
I did all in my power to discover the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much were they dreaded.
I then thought of that French justice of which I had heard so much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king's attorney."
"And this king's attorney was named Villefort?" asked Monte Cristo carelessly.
"Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been deputy-procureur.
His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was said to be one of the first who had informed the government of the departure from the Island of Elba."
"Then," said Monte Cristo "you went to him?"
"'Monsieur,' I said, 'my brother was assassinated yesterday in the streets of Nimes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out.
You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to avenge those she has been unable to protect.' — 'Who was your brother?' asked he. — 'A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.' — 'A soldier of the usurper, then?' — 'A soldier of the French army.' — 'Well,' replied he, 'he has smitten with the sword, and he has perished by the sword.' — 'You are mistaken, monsieur,' I replied; 'he has perished by the poniard.' — 'What do you want me to do?' asked the magistrate. — 'I have already told you — avenge him.' — 'On whom?' — 'On his murderers.' — 'How should I know who they are?' — 'Order them to be sought for.' — 'Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a duel.
All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in the time of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people here do not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct.' — 'Monsieur,' I replied, 'it is not for myself that I entreat your interference — I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brother had a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature would perish from want, for my brother's pay alone kept her.
Pray, try and obtain a small government pension for her.'
"'Every revolution has its catastrophes,' returned M. de Villefort; 'your brother has been the victim of this.
It is a misfortune, and government owes nothing to his family.
If we are to judge by all the vengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisans of the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother would be to-day, in all probability, condemned to death.
What has happened is quite natural, and in conformity with the law of reprisals.' — 'What,' cried I, 'do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me?' — 'All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,' replied M. de Villefort; 'they fancy that their countryman is still emperor.
You have mistaken the time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too late now.
Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out.'
"I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope from further entreaty.
But he was a man of stone.
I approached him, and said in a low voice,
'Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know that they always keep their word.
You think that it was a good deed to kill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist.
Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is, that I will kill you.
From this moment I declare the vendetta against you, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meet your last hour has come.'
And before he had recovered from his surprise, I opened the door and left the room."
"Well, well," said Monte Cristo, "such an innocent looking person as you are to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king's attorney at that!
But did he know what was meant by the terrible word 'vendetta'?"
"He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house, and never went out unattended, seeking me high and low.
Fortunately, I was so well concealed that he could not find me.
Then he became alarmed, and dared not stay any longer at Nimes, so he solicited a change of residence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was nominated to Versailles.
But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to avenge himself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it went, was never above half a day's journey before me, who followed him on foot.
The most important thing was, not to kill him only — for I had an opportunity of doing so a hundred times — but to kill him without being discovered — at least, without being arrested.
I no longer belonged to myself, for I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for.
For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he took not a step out-of-doors without my following him.
At length I discovered that he went mysteriously to Auteuil.
I followed him thither, and I saw him enter the house where we now are, only, instead of entering by the great door that looks into the street, he came on horseback, or in his carriage, left the one or the other at the little inn, and entered by the gate you see there."
Monte Cristo made a sign with his head to show that he could discern in the darkness the door to which Bertuccio alluded.
"As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, and gained all the information I could.
If I wished to surprise him, it was evident this was the spot to lie in wait for him.
The house belonged, as the concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-Meran, Villefort's father-in-law.
M. de Saint-Meran lived at Marseilles, so that this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to be let to a young widow, known only by the name of 'the baroness.'
"One evening, as I was looking over the wall, I saw a young and handsome woman who was walking alone in that garden, which was not overlooked by any windows, and I guessed that she was awaiting M. de Villefort.
When she was sufficiently near for me to distinguish her features, I saw she was from eighteen to nineteen, tall and very fair.
As she had a loose muslin dress on and as nothing concealed her figure, I saw she would ere long become a mother.
A few moments after, the little door was opened and a man entered.
The young woman hastened to meet him.
They threw themselves into each other's arms, embraced tenderly, and returned together to the house.
The man was M. de Villefort; I fully believed that when he went out in the night he would be forced to traverse the whole of the garden alone."
"And," asked the count, "did you ever know the name of this woman?"
"No, excellency," returned Bertuccio; "you will see that I had no time to learn it."
"Go on."
"That evening," continued Bertuccio,
"I could have killed the procureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the neighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if his cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the next occasion, and in order that nothing should escape me, I took a chamber looking into the street bordered by the wall of the garden.
Three days after, about seven o'clock in the evening, I saw a servant on horseback leave the house at full gallop, and take the road to Sevres.
I concluded that he was going to Versailles, and I was not deceived.
Three hours later, the man returned covered with dust, his errand was performed, and two minutes after, another man on foot, muffled in a mantle, opened the little door of the garden, which he closed after him.
I descended rapidly; although I had not seen Villefort's face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart.
I crossed the street, and stopped at a post placed at the angle of the wall, and by means of which I had once before looked into the garden.
This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knife out of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over the wall.
My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it, taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock.
Nothing, then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds.
The garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers.
In order to go from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees.
"It was the end of September; the wind blew violently.
The faint glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of discovery.
I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your excellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies that he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears.
Two hours passed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly.
Midnight struck.
As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through the windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended.
The door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared.
The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it that my heart did not fail in the least.
I drew my knife from my pocket again, opened it, and made ready to strike.
The man in the mantle advanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in his hand.
I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure.
When he was only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon was only a spade.
I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de Villefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the thicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the earth.
I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle, which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely.
Then, I confess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort was going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath.
Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or eight inches deep.
I let him place the box in the hole he had made, then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast, exclaiming, — 'I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother's; thy treasure for his widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had hoped.'
I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fell without a cry.
I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was intoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of burning me.
In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it might not be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over the wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carrying off the key."
"Ah," said Monte Cristo "it seems to me this was nothing but murder and robbery."
"No, your excellency," returned Bertuccio; "it was a vendetta followed by restitution."
"And was the sum a large one?"
"It was not money."
"Ah, I recollect," replied the count; "did you not say something of an infant?"
"Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and with my knife forced open the lock of the box.
In a fine linen cloth was wrapped a new-born child.
Its purple visage, and its violet-colored hands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet.
After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart, and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a doctor would have done — I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them, and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and cried feebly.
In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy.
'God has not cursed me then,' I cried, 'since he permits me to save the life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken away.'"
"And what did you do with the child?" asked Monte Cristo.
"It was an embarrassing load for a man seeking to escape."
"I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at Paris there was an asylum where they receive such creatures.
As I passed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the road, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my statement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy parents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from the child as well as from any one else.
No objection was raised, but they pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the Rue d'Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen in two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on the piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my possession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed.
A fortnight after I was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta, — 'Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.'
She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all, — 'Giovanni,' said she, 'you should have brought this child with you; we would have replaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then, in consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.'
In reply I gave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim him if we became rich."
"What letters were marked on the linen?" said Monte Cristo.
"An H and an N, surmounted by a baron's coronet."
"By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you study heraldry?"
"In your service, excellency, where everything is learned."
"Go on, I am curious to know two things."
"What are they, your excellency?"
"What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy, M. Bertuccio."
"No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that."
"I thought you did; I must have been mistaken."
"No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy.
But your excellency wished to know two things; what was the second?"
"The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for a confessor, and the Abbe Busoni came to visit you at your request in the prison at Nimes."
"The story will be very long, excellency."
"What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose you are very much inclined for it either."
Bertuccio bowed, and resumed his story.
"Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly to supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade of smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the laws which always follows a revolution.
The southern districts were ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were perpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nimes, or Uzes.
We profited by this respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere.
Since my brother's assassination in the streets of Nimes, I had never entered the town; the result was that the inn-keeper with whom we were connected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to come to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from Bellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard.
We had thus, at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our goods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the gendarmes and custom-house officers.
Smuggling is a profitable trade, when a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for myself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing the gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the judges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into the past.
And in my past life they might find something far more grave than the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a permit.
So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most astonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of those projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and determined execution.
In reality, when you have once devoted your life to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or, rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled."
"Philosophy, M. Bertuccio," interrupted the Count; "you have done a little of everything in your life."
"Oh, excellency!"
"No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet I have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which is more than can be said for all philosophy."
"My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive.
Assunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased.
One day as I was setting off on an expedition,
'Go,' said she; 'at your return I will give you a surprise.'
I questioned her, but in vain; she would tell me nothing, and I departed.
Our expedition lasted nearly six weeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English cottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home full of joy.
When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the middle of Assunta's chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous compared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or eight months old.
I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I had known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the recollection that I had abandoned this child.
For the assassination itself I had never felt any remorse.
Poor Assunta had guessed all.
She had profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen, and having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the child at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it.
No objection was raised, and the infant was given up to her.
Ah, I confess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping peacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears.
'Ah, Assunta,' cried I, 'you are an excellent woman, and heaven will bless you.'"
"This," said Monte Cristo, "is less correct than your philosophy, — it is only faith."
"Alas, your excellency is right," replied Bertuccio, "and God made this infant the instrument of our punishment.
Never did a perverse nature declare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault in his bringing up.
He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes, of that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion; only his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular expression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of his smile.
Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that 'red is either altogether good or altogether bad.'
The proverb was but too correct as regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst disposition.
It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother encouraged him.
This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the town, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the most tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese preserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor's orchard, or the dried apples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and apples that grew in my garden.
One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Vasilio, who, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purse or his valuables — for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves in Corsica — complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we thought he must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he persisted in the accuracy of his statement.
One day, Benedetto, who had been gone from the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not return until late in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he said he had found chained to the foot of a tree.
For more than a month past, the mischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken it into his head to have a monkey.
A boatman, who had passed by Rogliano, and who had several of these animals, whose tricks had greatly diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him.
'Monkeys are not found in our woods chained to trees,' said I; 'confess how you obtained this animal.'
Benedetto maintained the truth of what he had said, and accompanied it with details that did more honor to his imagination than to his veracity.
I became angry; he began to laugh, I threatened to strike him, and he made two steps backwards.
'You cannot beat me,' said he; 'you have no right, for you are not my father.'
"We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had so carefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which the child's whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, and my arm fell without touching him.
The boy triumphed, and this victory rendered him so audacious, that all the money of Assunta, whose affection for him seemed to increase as he became more unworthy of it, was spent in caprices she knew not how to contend against, and follies she had not the courage to prevent.
When I was at Rogliano everything went on properly, but no sooner was my back turned than Benedetto became master, and everything went ill.
When he was only eleven, he chose his companions from among the young men of eighteen or twenty, the worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed, in Corsica, and they had already, for some mischievous pranks, been several times threatened with a prosecution.
I became alarmed, as any prosecution might be attended with serious consequences.
I was compelled, at this period, to leave Corsica on an important expedition; I reflected for a long time, and with the hope of averting some impending misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto should accompany me.
I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with the severe discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on his character, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt.
I spoke to Benedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring to tempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of a child of twelve.
He heard me patiently, and when I had finished, burst out laughing.
"'Are you mad, uncle?' (he called me by this name when he was in good humor); 'do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your mode of existence — my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious toil you impose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and the scorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you are perceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum?
Why, I have as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me when I ask for it!
You see that I should be a fool to accept your offer.'
The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me.
Benedetto rejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out to them as a fool."
"Sweet child," murmured Monte Cristo.
"Oh, had he been my own son," replied Bertuccio, "or even my nephew, I would have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge that you are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I was striking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me to punish him.
I gave my sister, who constantly defended the unfortunate boy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several times missed money to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place in which to conceal our little treasure for the future.
My mind was already made up.
Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for when the fit seized him, he learned more in a day than others in a week.
My intention was to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and without letting him know anything of my plan, to convey him some morning on board; by this means his future treatment would depend upon his own conduct.
I set off for France, after having fixed upon the plan.
Our cargo was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons, and this was a difficult thing to do because it was then the year 1829.
The most perfect tranquillity was restored, and the vigilance of the custom-house officers was redoubled, and their strictness was increased at this time, in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire.
"Our expedition made a favorable beginning.
We anchored our vessel — which had a double hold, where our goods were concealed — amidst a number of other vessels that bordered the banks of the Rhone from Beaucaire to Arles.
On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in the night, and to convey it into the town, by the help of the inn-keeper with whom we were connected.
Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, I know not; but one evening, about five o'clock, our little cabin-boy came breathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of custom-house officers advancing in our direction.
It was not their proximity that alarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling along the banks of the Rhone, but the care, according to the boy's account, that they took to avoid being seen.
In an instant we were on the alert, but it was too late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst the custom-house officers I observed several gendarmes, and, as terrified at the sight of their uniforms as I was brave at the sight of any other, I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the river, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a ditch that had recently been made from the Rhone to the canal that runs from Beaucaire to Aigues-Mortes.
I was now safe, for I could swim along the ditch without being seen, and I reached the canal in safety.
I had designedly taken this direction.
I have already told your excellency of an inn-keeper from Nimes who had set up a little tavern on the road from Bellegarde to Beaucaire."
"Yes," said Monte Cristo
"I perfectly recollect him; I think he was your colleague."
"Precisely," answered Bertuccio; "but he had, seven or eight years before this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles, who, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make his fortune in another.
Of course, we made the same arrangements with the new landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that I intended to ask shelter."
"What was his name?" inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhat interested in Bertuccio's story.
"Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of Carconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her village.
She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by inches.
As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or five and forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample proof of his presence of mind and courage."
"And you say," interrupted Monte Cristo "that this took place towards the year" —
"1829, your excellency."
"In what month?"
"June."
"The beginning or the end?"
"The evening of the 3d."
"Ah," said Monte Cristo "the evening of the 3d of June, 1829.
Go on."
"It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as we never entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not to break through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I crept amongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse might have some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passed the night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, in which holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunity of announcing our presence.
My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with my presence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted, and profit by the threatened storm to return to the Rhone, and ascertain the state of our vessel and its crew.
I stepped into the shed, and it was fortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse entered with a stranger.
"I waited patiently, not to overhear what they said, but because I could do nothing else; besides, the same thing had occurred often before.
The man who was with Caderousse was evidently a stranger to the South of France; he was one of those merchants who come to sell jewellery at the Beaucaire fair, and who during the month the fair lasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and customers from all parts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount of 100,000 to 150,000 francs.
Caderousse entered hastily.
Then, seeing that the room was, as usual, empty, and only guarded by the dog, he called to his wife,
'Hello, Carconte,' said he, 'the worthy priest has not deceived us; the diamond is real.'
An exclamation of joy was heard, and the staircase creaked beneath a feeble step.
'What do you say?' asked his wife, pale as death.
"'I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the first jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000. francs for it.
Only, in order to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to relate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which the diamond came into our possession.
In the meantime please to sit down, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment.'
The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and the apparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond that seemed to have come from the casket of a prince.
'Relate your story, madame,' said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit by the absence of the husband, so that the latter could not influence the wife's story, to see if the two recitals tallied.
"'Oh,' returned she, 'it was a gift of heaven.
My husband was a great friend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantes.
This poor fellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at his death he bequeathed this diamond to him.' — 'But how did he obtain it?' asked the jeweller; 'had he it before he was imprisoned?' — 'No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance of a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantes took the same care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman, when he was set free, gave this stone to Dantes, who, less fortunate, died, and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbe, who was here this morning, to deliver it.' — 'The same story,' muttered the jeweller; 'and improbable as it seemed at first, it may be true.
There's only the price we are not agreed about.' — 'How not agreed about?' said Caderousse.
'I thought we agreed for the price I asked.' — 'That is,' replied the jeweller,
'I offered 40,000 francs.' — 'Forty thousand,' cried La Carconte; 'we will not part with it for that sum.
The abbe told us it was worth 50,000. without the setting.'
"'What was the abbe's name?' asked the indefatigable questioner. — 'The Abbe Busoni,' said La Carconte. — 'He was a foreigner?' — 'An Italian, from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.' — 'Let me see this diamond again,' replied the jeweller; 'the first time you are often mistaken as to the value of a stone.'
Caderousse took from his pocket a small case of black shagreen, opened, and gave it to the jeweller.
At the sight of the diamond, which was as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte's eyes sparkled with cupidity."
"And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?" said Monte Cristo; "did you credit it?"
"Yes, your excellency.
I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft."
"That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M. Bertuccio.
Had you known this Edmond Dantes, of whom they spoke?"
"No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but once afterwards, and that was from the Abbe Busoni himself, when I saw him in the prison at Nimes."
"Go on."
"The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of steel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of its setting, and weighed it carefully.
'I will give you 45,000,' said he, 'but not a sou more; besides, as that is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me.' — 'Oh, that's no matter,' replied Caderousse,
'I will go back with you to fetch the other 5,000 francs.' — 'No,' returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring to Caderousse — 'no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much, for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen.
However, I will not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000.' — 'At least, replace the diamond in the ring,' said La Carconte sharply. — 'Ah, true,' replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone. — 'No matter,' observed Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket, 'some one else will purchase it.' — 'Yes,' continued the jeweller; 'but some one else will not be so easy as I am, or content himself with the same story.
It is not natural that a man like you should possess such a diamond.
He will inform against you.
You will have to find the Abbe Busoni; and abbes who give diamonds worth two thousand louis are rare.
The law would seize it, and put you in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs, will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000 francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in purchasing.'
Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each other. — 'No,' said Caderousse, 'we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs.' — 'As you please, my dear sir,' said the jeweller;
'I had, however, as you see, brought you the money in bright coin.'
And he drew from his pocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyes of the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of bank-notes.
"There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it was plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over in his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous sum which fascinated his gaze.
He turned towards his wife.
'What do you think of this?' he asked in a low voice. — 'Let him have it — let him have it,' she said.
'If he returns to Beaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he says, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbe Busoni? — in all probability we shall never see him.' — 'Well, then, so I will!' said Caderousse; 'so you may have the diamond for 45,000 francs.
But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of silver buckles.'
The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which contained several samples of the articles demanded.
'Here,' he said,
'I am very straightforward in my dealings — take your choice.'
The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the husband a pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs. — 'I hope you will not complain now?' said the jeweller.
"'The abbe told me it was worth 50,000 francs,' muttered Caderousse.
'Come, come — give it to me!
What a strange fellow you are,' said the jeweller, taking the diamond from his hand.
'I give you 45,000 francs — that is, 2,500 livres of income, — a fortune such as I wish I had myself, and you are not satisfied!' — 'And the five and forty thousand francs,' inquired Caderousse in a hoarse voice, 'where are they?
Come — let us see them.' — 'Here they are,' replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon the table 15,000. francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in bank-notes.
"'Wait while I light the lamp,' said La Carconte; 'it is growing dark, and there may be some mistake.'
In fact, night had come on during this conversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for the last half-hour.
The thunder growled in the distance; but it was apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte, absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain.
I myself felt; a strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all these bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it always happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot.
Caderousse counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then handed them to his wife, who counted and counted them again in her turn.
During this time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle in the lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of light which made him unmindful of those which — precursors of the storm — began to play in at the windows.
'Well,' inquired the jeweller, 'is the cash all right?'
"'Yes,' said Caderousse.
'Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and find a bag somewhere.'
"La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern pocket-book and a bag.
From the former she took some greasy letters, and put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or three crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the entire fortune of the miserable couple.
'There,' said Caderousse; 'and now, although you have wronged us of perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us?
I invite you with good-will.' — 'Thank you,' replied the jeweller, 'it must be getting late, and I must return to Beaucaire — my wife will be getting uneasy.'
He drew out his watch, and exclaimed,
'Morbleu, nearly nine o'clock — why, I shall not get back to Beaucaire before midnight!
Good-night, my friends.
If the Abbe Busoni should by any accident return, think of me.' — 'In another week you will have left Beaucaire.' remarked Caderousse, 'for the fair ends in a few days.' — 'True, but that makes no difference.
Write to me at Paris, to M. Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45.
I will make the journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.'
At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the lamp.
"'See here,' exclaimed Caderousse.
'You cannot think of going out in such weather as this.' — 'Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,' said the jeweller. — 'And then there are robbers,' said La Carconte.
'The road is never very safe during fair time.' — 'Oh, as to the robbers,' said Joannes, 'here is something for them,' and he drew from his pocket a pair of small pistols, loaded to the muzzle.
'Here,' said he, 'are dogs who bark and bite at the same time, they are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond, Friend Caderousse.'
"Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look.
It seemed as though they were both inspired at the same time with some horrible thought.
'Well, then, a good journey to you,' said Caderousse. — 'Thanks,' replied the jeweller.
He then took his cane, which he had placed against an old cupboard, and went out.
At the moment when he opened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was nearly extinguished.
'Oh,' said he, 'this is very nice weather, and two leagues to go in such a storm.' — 'Remain,' said Caderousse.
'You can sleep here.' — 'Yes; do stay,' added La Carconte in a tremulous voice; 'we will take every care of you.' — 'No; I must sleep at Beaucaire.
So, once more, good-night.'
Caderousse followed him slowly to the threshold.
'I can see neither heaven nor earth,' said the jeweller, who was outside the door.
'Do I turn to the right, or to the left hand?' — 'To the right,' said Caderousse.
'You cannot go wrong — the road is bordered by trees on both sides.' — 'Good — all right,' said a voice almost lost in the distance.
'Close the door,' said La Carconte;
'I do not like open doors when it thunders.' — 'Particularly when there is money in the house, eh?' answered Caderousse, double-locking the door.
"He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and pocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold and bank-notes.
I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the flickering lamp revealed in those two countenances.
The woman, especially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was intensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled burning coals.
'Why,' she inquired in a hoarse voice, 'did you invite him to sleep here to-night?' — 'Why?' said Caderousse with a shudder; 'why, that he might not have the trouble of returning to Beaucaire.' — 'Ah,' responded the woman, with an expression impossible to describe;
'I thought it was for something else.' — 'Woman, woman — why do you have such ideas?' cried Caderousse; 'or, if you have them, why don't you keep them to yourself?' — 'Well,' said La Carconte, after a moment's pause, 'you are not a man.' — 'What do you mean?' added Caderousse. — 'If you had been a man, you would not have let him go from here.' — 'Woman!' — 'Or else he should not have reached Beaucaire.' — 'Woman!' — 'The road takes a turn — he is obliged to follow it — while alongside of the canal there is a shorter road.' — 'Woman! — you offend the good God.
There — listen!'
And at this moment there was a tremendous peal of thunder, while the livid lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in the distance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode.
'Mercy!' said Caderousse, crossing himself.
"At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence which usually follows a clap of thunder, they heard a knocking at the door.
Caderousse and his wife started and looked aghast at each other.
'Who's there?' cried Caderousse, rising, and drawing up in a heap the gold and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with his two hands. — 'It is I,' shouted a voice. — 'And who are you?' — 'Eh, pardieu, Joannes, the jeweller.' — 'Well, and you said I offended the good God,' said La Carconte with a horrid smile.
'Why, the good God sends him back again.'
Caderousse sank pale and breathless into his chair.
La Carconte, on the contrary, rose, and going with a firm step towards the door, opened it, saying, as she did so — 'Come in, dear M. Joannes.' — 'Ma foi,' said the jeweller, drenched with rain,
'I am not destined to return to Beaucaire to-night.
The shortest follies are best, my dear Caderousse.
You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and have returned to sleep beneath your friendly roof.'
Caderousse stammered out something, while he wiped away the sweat that started to his brow.
La Carconte double-locked the door behind the jeweller."

"As the jeweller returned to the apartment, he cast around him a scrutinizing glance — but there was nothing to excite suspicion, if it did not exist, or to confirm it, if it were already awakened.
Caderousse's hands still grasped the gold and bank-notes, and La Carconte called up her sweetest smiles while welcoming the reappearance of their guest.
'Well, well,' said the jeweller, 'you seem, my good friends, to have had some fears respecting the accuracy of your money, by counting it over so carefully directly I was gone.' — 'Oh, no,' answered Caderousse, 'that was not my reason, I can assure you; but the circumstances by which we have become possessed of this wealth are so unexpected, as to make us scarcely credit our good fortune, and it is only by placing the actual proof of our riches before our eyes that we can persuade ourselves that the whole affair is not a dream.'
The jeweller smiled. — 'Have you any other guests in your house?' inquired he. — 'Nobody but ourselves,' replied Caderousse; 'the fact is, we do not lodge travellers — indeed, our tavern is so near the town, that nobody would think of stopping here.' — 'Then I am afraid I shall very much inconvenience you.' — 'Inconvenience us?
Not at all, my dear sir,' said La Carconte in her most gracious manner.
'Not at all, I assure you.' — 'But where will you manage to stow me?' — 'In the chamber overhead.' — 'Surely that is where you yourselves sleep?' — 'Never mind that; we have a second bed in the adjoining room.'
Caderousse stared at his wife with much astonishment.
"The jeweller, meanwhile, was humming a song as he stood warming his back at the fire La Carconte had kindled to dry the wet garments of her guest; and this done, she next occupied herself in arranging his supper, by spreading a napkin at the end of the table, and placing on it the slender remains of their dinner, to which she added three or four fresh-laid eggs.
Caderousse had once more parted with his treasure — the banknotes were replaced in the pocket-book, the gold put back into the bag, and the whole carefully locked in the cupboard.
He then began pacing the room with a pensive and gloomy air, glancing from time to time at the jeweller, who stood reeking with the steam from his wet clothes, and merely changing his place on the warm hearth, to enable the whole of his garments to be dried.
"'There,' said La Carconte, as she placed a bottle of wine on the table, 'supper is ready whenever you are.' — 'And you?' asked Joannes. — 'I don't want any supper,' said Caderousse. — 'We dined so very late,' hastily interposed La Carconte. — 'Then it seems I am to eat alone,' remarked the jeweller. — 'Oh, we shall have the pleasure of waiting upon you,' answered La Carconte, with an eager attention she was not accustomed to manifest even to guests who paid for what they took.
"From time to time Caderousse darted on his wife keen, searching glances, but rapid as the lightning flash.
The storm still continued.
'There, there,' said La Carconte; 'do you hear that? upon my word, you did well to come back.' — 'Nevertheless,' replied the jeweller, 'if by the time I have finished my supper the tempest has at all abated, I shall make another start.' — 'It's the mistral,' said Caderousse, 'and it will be sure to last till to-morrow morning.'
He sighed heavily. — 'Well,' said the jeweller, as he placed himself at table, 'all I can say is, so much the worse for those who are abroad.' — 'Yes,' chimed in La Carconte, 'they will have a wretched night of it.'
"The jeweller began eating his supper, and the woman, who was ordinarily so querulous and indifferent to all who approached her, was suddenly transformed into the most smiling and attentive hostess.
Had the unhappy man on whom she lavished her assiduities been previously acquainted with her, so sudden an alteration might well have excited suspicion in his mind, or at least have greatly astonished him.
Caderousse, meanwhile, continued to pace the room in gloomy silence, sedulously avoiding the sight of his guest; but as soon as the stranger had completed his repast, the agitated inn-keeper went eagerly to the door and opened it.
'I believe the storm is over,' said he.
But as if to contradict his statement, at that instant a violent clap of thunder seemed to shake the house to its very foundation, while a sudden gust of wind, mingled with rain, extinguished the lamp he held in his hand.
Trembling and awe-struck, Caderousse hastily shut the door and returned to his guest, while La Carconte lighted a candle by the smouldering ashes that glimmered on the hearth.
'You must be tired,' said she to the jeweller;
'I have spread a pair of white sheets on your bed; go up when you are ready, and sleep well.'
"Joannes stayed for a while to see whether the storm seemed to abate in its fury, but a brief space of time sufficed to assure him that, instead of diminishing, the violence of the rain and thunder momentarily increased; resigning himself, therefore, to what seemed inevitable, he bade his host good-night, and mounted the stairs.
He passed over my head and I heard the flooring creak beneath his footsteps.
The quick, eager glance of La Carconte followed him as he ascended, while Caderousse, on the contrary, turned his back, and seemed most anxiously to avoid even glancing at him.
"All these circumstances did not strike me as painfully at the time as they have since done; in fact, all that had happened (with the exception of the story of the diamond, which certainly did wear an air of improbability), appeared natural enough, and called for neither apprehension nor mistrust; but, worn out as I was with fatigue, and fully purposing to proceed onwards directly the tempest abated, I determined to obtain a few hours' sleep.
Overhead I could accurately distinguish every movement of the jeweller, who, after making the best arrangements in his power for passing a comfortable night, threw himself on his bed, and I could hear it creak and groan beneath his weight.
Insensibly my eyelids grew heavy, deep sleep stole over me, and having no suspicion of anything wrong, I sought not to shake it off.
I looked into the kitchen once more and saw Caderousse sitting by the side of a long table upon one of the low wooden stools which in country places are frequently used instead of chairs; his back was turned towards me, so that I could not see the expression of his countenance — neither should I have been able to do so had he been placed differently, as his head was buried between his two hands.
La Carconte continued to gaze on him for some time, then shrugging her shoulders, she took her seat immediately opposite to him.
At this moment the expiring embers threw up a fresh flame from the kindling of a piece of wood that lay near, and a bright light flashed over the room.
La Carconte still kept her eyes fixed on her husband, but as he made no sign of changing his position, she extended her hard, bony hand, and touched him on the forehead.
"Caderousse shuddered.
The woman's lips seemed to move, as though she were talking; but because she merely spoke in an undertone, or my senses were dulled by sleep, I did not catch a word she uttered.
Confused sights and sounds seemed to float before me, and gradually I fell into a deep, heavy slumber.
How long I had been in this unconscious state I know not, when I was suddenly aroused by the report of a pistol, followed by a fearful cry.
Weak and tottering footsteps resounded across the chamber above me, and the next instant a dull, heavy weight seemed to fall powerless on the staircase.
I had not yet fully recovered consciousness, when again I heard groans, mingled with half-stifled cries, as if from persons engaged in a deadly struggle.
A cry more prolonged than the others and ending in a series of groans effectually roused me from my drowsy lethargy.
Hastily raising myself on one arm, I looked around, but all was dark; and it seemed to me as if the rain must have penetrated through the flooring of the room above, for some kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop by drop, upon my forehead, and when I passed my hand across my brow, I felt that it was wet and clammy.
"To the fearful noises that had awakened me had succeeded the most perfect silence — unbroken, save by the footsteps of a man walking about in the chamber above.
The staircase creaked, he descended into the room below, approached the fire and lit a candle.
The man was Caderousse — he was pale and his shirt was all bloody.
Having obtained the light, he hurried up-stairs again, and once more I heard his rapid and uneasy footsteps.
A moment later he came down again, holding in his hand the small shagreen case, which he opened, to assure himself it contained the diamond, — seemed to hesitate as to which pocket he should put it in, then, as if dissatisfied with the security of either pocket, he deposited it in his red handkerchief, which he carefully rolled round his head.
After this he took from his cupboard the bank-notes and gold he had put there, thrust the one into the pocket of his trousers, and the other into that of his waistcoat, hastily tied up a small bundle of linen, and rushing towards the door, disappeared in the darkness of the night.
"Then all became clear and manifest to me, and I reproached myself with what had happened, as though I myself had done the guilty deed.
I fancied that I still heard faint moans, and imagining that the unfortunate jeweller might not be quite dead, I determined to go to his relief, by way of atoning in some slight degree, not for the crime I had committed, but for that which I had not endeavored to prevent.
For this purpose I applied all the strength I possessed to force an entrance from the cramped spot in which I lay to the adjoining room.
The poorly fastened boards which alone divided me from it yielded to my efforts, and I found myself in the house.
Hastily snatching up the lighted candle, I hurried to the staircase; about midway a body was lying quite across the stairs.
It was that of La Carconte.
The pistol I had heard had doubtless been fired at her.
The shot had frightfully lacerated her throat, leaving two gaping wounds from which, as well as the mouth, the blood was pouring in floods.
She was stone dead.
I strode past her, and ascended to the sleeping chamber, which presented an appearance of the wildest disorder.
The furniture had been knocked over in the deadly struggle that had taken place there, and the sheets, to which the unfortunate jeweller had doubtless clung, were dragged across the room.
The murdered man lay on the floor, his head leaning against the wall, and about him was a pool of blood which poured forth from three large wounds in his breast; there was a fourth gash, in which a long table knife was plunged up to the handle.
"I stumbled over some object; I stooped to examine — it was the second pistol, which had not gone off, probably from the powder being wet.
I approached the jeweller, who was not quite dead, and at the sound of my footsteps and the creaking of the floor, he opened his eyes, fixed them on me with an anxious and inquiring gaze, moved his lips as though trying to speak, then, overcome by the effort, fell back and expired.
This appalling sight almost bereft me of my senses, and finding that I could no longer be of service to any one in the house, my only desire was to fly.
I rushed towards the staircase, clutching my hair, and uttering a groan of horror.
Upon reaching the room below, I found five or six custom-house officers, and two or three gendarmes — all heavily armed.
They threw themselves upon me.
I made no resistance; I was no longer master of my senses.
When I strove to speak, a few inarticulate sounds alone escaped my lips.
"As I noticed the significant manner in which the whole party pointed to my blood-stained garments, I involuntarily surveyed myself, and then I discovered that the thick warm drops that had so bedewed me as I lay beneath the staircase must have been the blood of La Carconte.
I pointed to the spot where I had concealed myself.
'What does he mean?' asked a gendarme.
One of the officers went to the place I directed.
'He means,' replied the man upon his return, 'that he got in that way;' and he showed the hole I had made when I broke through.
"Then I saw that they took me for the assassin.
I recovered force and energy enough to free myself from the hands of those who held me, while I managed to stammer forth — 'I did not do it!
Indeed, indeed I did not!'
A couple of gendarmes held the muzzles of their carbines against my breast. — 'Stir but a step,' said they, 'and you are a dead man.' — 'Why should you threaten me with death,' cried I, 'when I have already declared my innocence?' — 'Tush, tush,' cried the men; 'keep your innocent stories to tell to the judge at Nimes.
Meanwhile, come along with us; and the best advice we can give you is to do so unresistingly.'
Alas, resistance was far from my thoughts.
I was utterly overpowered by surprise and terror; and without a word I suffered myself to be handcuffed and tied to a horse's tail, and thus they took me to Nimes.
"I had been tracked by a customs-officer, who had lost sight of me near the tavern; feeling certain that I intended to pass the night there, he had returned to summon his comrades, who just arrived in time to hear the report of the pistol, and to take me in the midst of such circumstantial proofs of my guilt as rendered all hopes of proving my innocence utterly futile.
One only chance was left me, that of beseeching the magistrate before whom I was taken to cause every inquiry to be made for the Abbe Busoni, who had stopped at the inn of the Pont du Gard on that morning.
If Caderousse had invented the story relative to the diamond, and there existed no such person as the Abbe Busoni, then, indeed, I was lost past redemption, or, at least, my life hung upon the feeble chance of Caderousse himself being apprehended and confessing the whole truth.
Two months passed away in hopeless expectation on my part, while I must do the magistrate the justice to say that he used every means to obtain information of the person I declared could exculpate me if he would.
Caderousse still evaded all pursuit, and I had resigned myself to what seemed my inevitable fate.
My trial was to come on at the approaching assizes; when, on the 8th of September — that is to say, precisely three months and five days after the events which had perilled my life — the Abbe Busoni, whom I never ventured to believe I should see, presented himself at the prison doors, saying he understood one of the prisoners wished to speak to him; he added, that having learned at Marseilles the particulars of my imprisonment, he hastened to comply with my desire.
You may easily imagine with what eagerness I welcomed him, and how minutely I related the whole of what I had seen and heard.
I felt some degree of nervousness as I entered upon the history of the diamond, but, to my inexpressible astonishment, he confirmed it in every particular, and to my equal surprise, he seemed to place entire belief in all I said.
And then it was that, won by his mild charity, seeing that he was acquainted with all the habits and customs of my own country, and considering also that pardon for the only crime of which I was really guilty might come with a double power from lips so benevolent and kind, I besought him to receive my confession, under the seal of which I recounted the Auteuil affair in all its details, as well as every other transaction of my life.
That which I had done by the impulse of my best feelings produced the same effect as though it had been the result of calculation.
My voluntary confession of the assassination at Auteuil proved to him that I had not committed that of which I stood accused.
When he quitted me, he bade me be of good courage, and to rely upon his doing all in his power to convince my judges of my innocence.
"I had speedy proofs that the excellent abbe was engaged in my behalf, for the rigors of my imprisonment were alleviated by many trifling though acceptable indulgences, and I was told that my trial was to be postponed to the assizes following those now being held.
In the interim it pleased providence to cause the apprehension of Caderousse, who was discovered in some distant country, and brought back to France, where he made a full confession, refusing to make the fact of his wife's having suggested and arranged the murder any excuse for his own guilt.
The wretched man was sentenced to the galleys for life, and I was immediately set at liberty."
"And then it was, I presume," said Monte Cristo "that you came to me as the bearer of a letter from the Abbe Busoni?"
"It was, your excellency; the benevolent abbe took an evident interest in all that concerned me.
"'Your mode of life as a smuggler,' said he to me one day, 'will be the ruin of you; if you get out, don't take it up again.' — 'But how,' inquired I, 'am I to maintain myself and my poor sister?'
"'A person, whose confessor I am,' replied he, 'and who entertains a high regard for me, applied to me a short time since to procure him a confidential servant.
Would you like such a post?
If so, I will give you a letter of introduction to him.' — 'Oh, father,' I exclaimed, 'you are very good.'
"'But you must swear solemnly that I shall never have reason to repent my recommendation.'
I extended my hand, and was about to pledge myself by any promise he would dictate, but he stopped me.
'It is unnecessary for you to bind yourself by any vow,' said he;
'I know and admire the Corsican nature too well to fear you.
Here, take this,' continued he, after rapidly writing the few lines I brought to your excellency, and upon receipt of which you deigned to receive me into your service, and proudly I ask whether your excellency has ever had cause to repent having done so?"
"No," replied the count;
"I take pleasure in saying that you have served me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might have shown more confidence in me."
"I, your excellency?"
"Yes; you.
How comes it, that having both a sister and an adopted son, you have never spoken to me of either?"
"Alas, I have still to recount the most distressing period of my life.
Anxious as you may suppose I was to behold and comfort my dear sister, I lost no time in hastening to Corsica, but when I arrived at Rogliano I found a house of mourning, the consequences of a scene so horrible that the neighbors remember and speak of it to this day.
Acting by my advice, my poor sister had refused to comply with the unreasonable demands of Benedetto, who was continually tormenting her for money, as long as he believed there was a sou left in her possession.
One morning that he had demanded money, threatening her with the severest consequences if she did not supply him with what he desired, he disappeared and remained away all day, leaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him as if he were her own child, to weep over his conduct and bewail his absence.
Evening came, and still, with all the patient solicitude of a mother, she watched for his return.
"As the eleventh hour struck, he entered with a swaggering air, attended by two of the most dissolute and reckless of his boon companions.
She stretched out her arms to him, but they seized hold of her, and one of the three — none other than the accursed Benedetto exclaimed, — 'Put her to torture and she'll soon tell us where her money is.'
"It unfortunately happened that our neighbor, Vasilio, was at Bastia, leaving no person in his house but his wife; no human creature beside could hear or see anything that took place within our dwelling.
Two held poor Assunta, who, unable to conceive that any harm was intended to her, smiled in the face of those who were soon to become her executioners.
The third proceeded to barricade the doors and windows, then returned, and the three united in stifling the cries of terror incited by the sight of these preparations, and then dragged Assunta feet foremost towards the brazier, expecting to wring from her an avowal of where her supposed treasure was secreted.
In the struggle her clothes caught fire, and they were obliged to let go their hold in order to preserve themselves from sharing the same fate.
Covered with flames, Assunta rushed wildly to the door, but it was fastened; she flew to the windows, but they were also secured; then the neighbors heard frightful shrieks; it was Assunta calling for help.
The cries died away in groans, and next morning, as soon as Vasilio's wife could muster up courage to venture abroad, she caused the door of our dwelling to be opened by the public authorities, when Assunta, although dreadfully burnt, was found still breathing; every drawer and closet in the house had been forced open, and the money stolen.
Benedetto never again appeared at Rogliano, neither have I since that day either seen or heard anything concerning him.
"It was subsequently to these dreadful events that I waited on your excellency, to whom it would have been folly to have mentioned Benedetto, since all trace of him seemed entirely lost; or of my sister, since she was dead."
"And in what light did you view the occurrence?" inquired Monte Cristo.
"As a punishment for the crime I had committed," answered Bertuccio.
"Oh, those Villeforts are an accursed race!"
"Truly they are," murmured the count in a lugubrious tone.
"And now," resumed Bertuccio, "your excellency may, perhaps, be able to comprehend that this place, which I revisit for the first time — this garden, the actual scene of my crime — must have given rise to reflections of no very agreeable nature, and produced that gloom and depression of spirits which excited the notice of your excellency, who was pleased to express a desire to know the cause.
At this instant a shudder passes over me as I reflect that possibly I am now standing on the very grave in which lies M. de Villefort, by whose hand the ground was dug to receive the corpse of his child."
"Everything is possible," said Monte Cristo, rising from the bench on which he had been sitting; "even," he added in an inaudible voice, "even that the procureur be not dead.
The Abbe Busoni did right to send you to me," he went on in his ordinary tone, "and you have done well in relating to me the whole of your history, as it will prevent my forming any erroneous opinions concerning you in future.
As for that Benedetto, who so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace out whither he has gone, or what has become of him?"
"No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should shun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast.
Thank God, I have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and believe he is dead."
"Do not think so, Bertuccio," replied the count; "for the wicked are not so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special watch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance."
"So be it," responded Bertuccio, "all I ask of heaven is that I may never see him again.
And now, your excellency," he added, bowing his head, "you know everything — you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty is in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation?"
"My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the Abbe Busoni.
Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you, and, perhaps, to others.
Benedetto, if still living, will become the instrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly punished in his turn.
As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but one point in which you are really guilty.
Ask yourself, wherefore, after rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it to its mother?
There was the crime, Bertuccio — that was where you became really culpable."
"True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that I acted like a coward.
My first duty, directly I had succeeded in recalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in order to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which would, in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung to life, partly on my sister's account, and partly from that feeling of pride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and victorious in the execution of our vengeance.
Perhaps, too, the natural and instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my own.
And then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor brother."
Bertuccio hid his face in his hands as he uttered these words, while Monte Cristo fixed on him a look of inscrutable meaning.
After a brief silence, rendered still more solemn by the time and place, the count said, in a tone of melancholy wholly unlike his usual manner,
"In order to bring this conversation to a fitting termination (the last we shall ever hold upon this subject), I will repeat to you some words I have heard from the lips of the Abbe Busoni.
For all evils there are two remedies — time and silence.
And now leave me, Monsieur Bertuccio, to walk alone here in the garden.
The very circumstances which inflict on you, as a principal in the tragic scene enacted here, such painful emotions, are to me, on the contrary, a source of something like contentment, and serve but to enhance the value of this dwelling in my estimation.
The chief beauty of trees consists in the deep shadow of their umbrageous boughs, while fancy pictures a moving multitude of shapes and forms flitting and passing beneath that shade.
Here I have a garden laid out in such a way as to afford the fullest scope for the imagination, and furnished with thickly grown trees, beneath whose leafy screen a visionary like myself may conjure up phantoms at will.
This to me, who expected but to find a blank enclosure surrounded by a straight wall, is, I assure you, a most agreeable surprise.
I have no fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had been done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the living in a single day.
Retire within, Bertuccio, and tranquillize your mind.
Should your confessor be less indulgent to you in your dying moments than you found the Abbe Busoni, send for me, if I am still on earth, and I will soothe your ears with words that shall effectually calm and soothe your parting soul ere it goes forth to traverse the ocean called eternity."
Bertuccio bowed respectfully, and turned away, sighing heavily.
Monte Cristo, left alone, took three or four steps onwards, and murmured,
"Here, beneath this plane-tree, must have been where the infant's grave was dug.
There is the little door opening into the garden.
At this corner is the private staircase communicating with the sleeping apartment.
There will be no necessity for me to make a note of these particulars, for there, before my eyes, beneath my feet, all around me, I have the plan sketched with all the living reality of truth."
After making the tour of the garden a second time, the count re-entered his carriage, while Bertuccio, who perceived the thoughtful expression of his master's features, took his seat beside the driver without uttering a word.
The carriage proceeded rapidly towards Paris.
That same evening, upon reaching his abode in the Champs Elysees, the Count of Monte Cristo went over the whole building with the air of one long acquainted with each nook or corner.
Nor, although preceding the party, did he once mistake one door for another, or commit the smallest error when choosing any particular corridor or staircase to conduct him to a place or suite of rooms he desired to visit.
Ali was his principal attendant during this nocturnal survey.
Having given various orders to Bertuccio relative to the improvements and alterations he desired to make in the house, the Count, drawing out his watch, said to the attentive Nubian,
"It is half-past eleven o'clock; Haidee will soon be here.
Have the French attendants been summoned to await her coming?"
Ali extended his hands towards the apartments destined for the fair Greek, which were so effectually concealed by means of a tapestried entrance, that it would have puzzled the most curious to have divined their existence.
Ali, having pointed to the apartments, held up three fingers of his right hand, and then, placing it beneath his head, shut his eyes, and feigned to sleep.
"I understand," said Monte Cristo, well acquainted with Ali's pantomime; "you mean to tell me that three female attendants await their new mistress in her sleeping-chamber."
Ali, with considerable animation, made a sign in the affirmative.
"Madame will be tired to-night," continued Monte Cristo, "and will, no doubt, wish to rest.
Desire the French attendants not to weary her with questions, but merely to pay their respectful duty and retire.
You will also see that the Greek servants hold no communication with those of this country."
He bowed.
Just at that moment voices were heard hailing the concierge.
The gate opened, a carriage rolled down the avenue, and stopped at the steps.
The count hastily descended, presented himself at the already opened carriage door, and held out his hand to a young woman, completely enveloped in a green silk mantle heavily embroidered with gold.
She raised the hand extended towards her to her lips, and kissed it with a mixture of love and respect.
Some few words passed between them in that sonorous language in which Homer makes his gods converse.
The young woman spoke with an expression of deep tenderness, while the count replied with an air of gentle gravity.
Preceded by Ali, who carried a rose-colored flambeau in his hand, the new-comer, who was no other than the lovely Greek who had been Monte Cristo's companion in Italy, was conducted to her apartments, while the count retired to the pavilion reserved for himself.
In another hour every light in the house was extinguished, and it might have been thought that all its inmates slept.

About two o'clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of magnificent English horses, stopped at the door of Monte Cristo and a person, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a white waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown trousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so low over his eyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so little did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles stamped on his features — a person, in a word, who, although evidently past fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards from the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the armorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the porter's lodge whether the Count of Monte Cristo resided there, and if he were within.
While waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the garden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants who passed to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat impertinent.
His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than intelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed, they were drawn in over the teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and projecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the flatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull, which rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears, combined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the eyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage must needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when they gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the red ribbon that depended from his button-hole.
The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the porter's lodge, saying,
"Pray, does not the Count of Monte Cristo live here?"
"His excellency does reside here," replied the concierge; "but" — added he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali.
Ali returned a sign in the negative.
"But what?" asked the groom.
"His excellency does not receive visitors to-day."
"Then here is my master's card, — the Baron Danglars.
You will take it to the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him."
"I never speak to his excellency," replied the concierge; "the valet de chambre will carry your message."
The groom returned to the carriage.
"Well?" asked Danglars.
The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated what the concierge had said.
"Bless me," murmured Baron Danglars, "this must surely be a prince instead of a count by their styling him 'excellency,' and only venturing to address him by the medium of his valet de chambre.
However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I must see him when he requires his money."
Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road,
"To the Chamber of Deputies."
Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house, garden, and servants.
"That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance," said the count in a tone of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case.
"How comes it that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding, serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of a buzzard?
Ali," cried he, striking at the same time on the brazen gong.
Ali appeared.
"Summon Bertuccio," said the count.
Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment.
"Did your excellency desire to see me?" inquired he.
"I did," replied the count.
"You no doubt observed the horses standing a few minutes since at the door?"
"Certainly, your excellency.
I noticed them for their remarkable beauty."
"Then how comes it," said Monte Cristo with a frown, "that, when I desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my stables?"
At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head.
"It is not your fault, my good Ali," said the count in the Arabic language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of showing, either in voice or face — "it is not your fault.
You do not understand the points of English horses."
The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity.
"Permit me to assure your excellency," said Bertuccio, "that the horses you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours."
Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders.
"It seems, sir steward," said he, "that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as care to pay the price."
"His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000 francs for his horses?"
"Very well.
Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an opportunity of doubling his capital."
"Is your excellency really in earnest?" inquired the steward.
Monte Cristo regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words with the look of one equally surprised and displeased.
"I have to pay a visit this evening," replied he.
"I desire that these horses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my carriage."
Bertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door, he paused, and then said,
"At what o'clock does your excellency wish the carriage and horses to be ready?"
"At five o'clock," replied the count.
"I beg your excellency's pardon," interposed the steward in a deprecating manner, "for venturing to observe that it is already two o'clock."
"I am perfectly aware of that fact," answered Monte Cristo calmly.
Then, turning towards Ali, he said,
"Let all the horses in my stables be led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those she prefers for her carriage.
Request her also to oblige me by saying whether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served in her apartments.
Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to come hither."
Scarcely had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber.
"Monsieur Baptistin," said the count, "you have been in my service one year, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or demerits of those about me.
You suit me very well."
Baptistin bowed low.
"It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you?"
"Oh, your excellency!" exclaimed Baptistin eagerly.
"Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking," replied Monte Cristo.
"You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here — more than many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his country, obtains.
You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who work ten times harder than you do for their money.
Then, though yourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care of your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you.
Again, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet, amounting in the course of a year to a sum equalling your wages."
"Nay, indeed, your excellency."
"I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your profits end here.
It would be long indeed ere you would find so lucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill.
I neither ill-use nor ill-treat my servants by word or action.
An error I readily forgive, but wilful negligence or forgetfulness, never.
My commands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather be obliged to repeat my words twice, or even three times, than they should be misunderstood.
I am rich enough to know whatever I desire to know, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity.
If, then, I should learn that you had taken upon yourself to speak of me to any one favorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my conduct, that very instant you would quit my service.
You may now retire.
I never caution my servants a second time — remember that."
Baptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door.
"I forgot to mention to you," said the count, "that I lay yearly aside a certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I am compelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in this money, while their portion goes to the fund accumulating for those domestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my death.
You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun to accumulate — let it continue to do so."
This address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding one word of the language in which it was spoken, stood wholly unmoved, produced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have occasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics.
"I assure your excellency," said he, "that at least it shall be my study to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali as my model."
"By no means," replied the count in the most frigid tones;
"Ali has many faults mixed with most excellent qualities.
He cannot possibly serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid servant, but a mere slave — a dog, who, should he fail in his duty towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill."
Baptistin opened his eyes with astonishment.
"You seem incredulous," said Monte Cristo, who repeated to Ali in the Arabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French.
The Nubian smiled assentingly to his master's words, then, kneeling on one knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the count.
This corroboration of the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin.
The count then motioned the valet de chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where they conversed long and earnestly together.
As the hand of the clock pointed to five the count struck thrice upon his gong.
When Ali was wanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three Bertuccio.
The steward entered.
"My horses," said Monte Cristo.
"They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency desired.
Does your excellency wish me to accompany him?"
"No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go."
The count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld his carriage drawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning as the property of Danglars.
As he passed them he said — "They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to purchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured them sooner."
"Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in obtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price."
"Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful," inquired the count, shrugging his shoulders.
"Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish.
Whither does your excellency desire to be driven?"
"To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin."
This conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which a flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive.
As Bertuccio, with a respectful bow, was moving away, the count called him back.
"I have another commission for you, M. Bertuccio," said he;
"I am desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy — for instance, between Havre and Boulogne.
You see I give you a wide range.
It will be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small harbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at anchor.
She draws only fifteen feet.
She must be kept in constant readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal.
Make the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you have met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name.
The corvette must now, I think, be on her way to Fecamp, must she not?"
"Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we quitted Marseilles."
"And the yacht."
"Was ordered to remain at Martigues."
"'Tis well.
I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in charge of the two vessels so as to keep them on the alert."
"And the steamboat?"
"She is at Chalons?"
"Yes."
"The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels."
"Very good."
"When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of horses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road."
"Your excellency may depend upon me."
The Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps, and sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the banker's house.
Danglars was engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad committee.
But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his visitor was announced.
As the count's title sounded on his ear he rose, and addressing his colleagues, who were members of one or the other Chamber, he said, — "Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most ridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this, — Thomson & French, the Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the Count of Monte Cristo, and have given him an unlimited credit with me.
I confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course of my extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it has greatly roused my curiosity.
I took the trouble this morning to call on the pretended count — if he were a real count he wouldn't be so rich.
But, would you believe it,
'He was not receiving.'
So the master of Monte Cristo gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a capricious beauty.
I made inquiries, and found that the house in the Champs Elysees is his own property, and certainly it was very decently kept up.
But," pursued Danglars with one of his sinister smiles, "an order for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part of the banker to whom that order is given.
I am very anxious to see this man.
I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it little knew whom they had to deal with.
'They laugh best who laugh last!'"
Having delivered himself of this pompous address, uttered with a degree of energy that left the baron almost out of breath, he bowed to the assembled party and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose sumptuous furnishings of white and gold had caused a great sensation in the Chaussee d'Antin.
It was to this apartment he had desired his guest to be shown, with the purpose of overwhelming him at the sight of so much luxury.
He found the count standing before some copies of Albano and Fattore that had been passed off to the banker as originals; but which, mere copies as they were, seemed to feel their degradation in being brought into juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that covered the ceiling.
The count turned round as he heard the entrance of Danglars into the room.
With a slight inclination of the head, Danglars signed to the count to be seated, pointing significantly to a gilded arm-chair, covered with white satin embroidered with gold.
The count sat down.
"I have the honor, I presume, of addressing M. de Monte Cristo."
The count bowed.
"And I of speaking to Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion of Honor, and member of the Chamber of Deputies?"
Monte Cristo repeated all the titles he had read on the baron's card.
Danglars felt the irony and compressed his lips.
"You will, I trust, excuse me, monsieur, for not calling you by your title when I first addressed you," he said, "but you are aware that we are living under a popular form of government, and that I am myself a representative of the liberties of the people."
"So much so," replied Monte Cristo, "that while you call yourself baron you are not willing to call anybody else count."
"Upon my word, monsieur," said Danglars with affected carelessness,
"I attach no sort of value to such empty distinctions; but the fact is, I was made baron, and also chevalier of the Legion of Honor, in return for services rendered, but" —
"But you have discarded your titles after the example set you by Messrs. de Montmorency and Lafayette?
That was a noble example to follow, monsieur."
"Why," replied Danglars, "not entirely so; with the servants, — you understand."
"I see; to your domestics you are 'my lord,' the journalists style you 'monsieur,' while your constituents call you 'citizen.'
These are distinctions very suitable under a constitutional government.
I understand perfectly."
Again Danglars bit his lips; he saw that he was no match for Monte Cristo in an argument of this sort, and he therefore hastened to turn to subjects more congenial.
"Permit me to inform you, Count," said he, bowing, "that I have received a letter of advice from Thomson & French, of Rome."
"I am glad to hear it, baron, — for I must claim the privilege of addressing you after the manner of your servants.
I have acquired the bad habit of calling persons by their titles from living in a country where barons are still barons by right of birth.
But as regards the letter of advice, I am charmed to find that it has reached you; that will spare me the troublesome and disagreeable task of coming to you for money myself.
You have received a regular letter of advice?"
"Yes," said Danglars, "but I confess I didn't quite comprehend its meaning."
"Indeed?"
"And for that reason I did myself the honor of calling upon you, in order to beg for an explanation."
"Go on, monsieur.
Here I am, ready to give you any explanation you desire."
"Why," said Danglers, "in the letter — I believe I have it about me" — here he felt in his breast-pocket — "yes, here it is.
Well, this letter gives the Count of Monte Cristo unlimited credit on our house."
"Well, baron, what is there difficult to understand about that?"
"Merely the term unlimited — nothing else, certainly."
"Is not that word known in France?
The people who wrote are Anglo-Germans, you know."
"Oh, as for the composition of the letter, there is nothing to be said; but as regards the competency of the document, I certainly have doubts."
"Is it possible?" asked the count, assuming all air and tone of the utmost simplicity and candor.
"Is it possible that Thomson & French are not looked upon as safe and solvent bankers?
Pray tell me what you think, baron, for I feel uneasy, I can assure you, having some considerable property in their hands."
"Thomson & French are perfectly solvent," replied Danglars, with an almost mocking smile: "but the word unlimited, in financial affairs, is so extremely vague."
"Is, in fact, unlimited," said Monte Cristo.
"Precisely what I was about to say," cried Danglars.
"Now what is vague is doubtful; and it was a wise man who said, 'when in doubt, keep out.'"
"Meaning to say," rejoined Monte Cristo, "that however Thomson & French may be inclined to commit acts of imprudence and folly, the Baron Danglars is not disposed to follow their example."
"Not at all."
"Plainly enough.
Messrs.
Thomson & French set no bounds to their engagements while those of M. Danglars have their limits; he is a wise man, according to his own showing."
"Monsieur," replied the banker, drawing himself up with a haughty air, "the extent of my resources has never yet been questioned."
"It seems, then, reserved for me," said Monte Cristo coldly, "to be the first to do so."
"By what right, sir?"
"By right of the objections you have raised, and the explanations you have demanded, which certainly must have some motive."
Once more Danglars bit his lips.
It was the second time he had been worsted, and this time on his own ground.
His forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence.
Monte Cristo on the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a certain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure, and thus possessed the advantage.
"Well, sir," resumed Danglars, after a brief silence,
"I will endeavor to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum you propose to draw upon me?"
"Why, truly," replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained, "my reason for desiring an 'unlimited' credit was precisely because I did not know how much money I might need."
The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand.
So throwing himself back in his arm-chair, he said, with an arrogant and purse-proud air, — "Let me beg of you not to hesitate in naming your wishes; you will then be convinced that the resources of the house of Danglars, however limited, are still equal to meeting the largest demands; and were you even to require a million" —
"I beg your pardon," interposed Monte Cristo.
"I said a million," replied Danglars, with the confidence of ignorance.
"But could I do with a million?" retorted the count.
"My dear sir, if a trifle like that could suffice me, I should never have given myself the trouble of opening an account.
A million?
Excuse my smiling when you speak of a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or dressing-case."
And with these words Monte Cristo took from his pocket a small case containing his visiting-cards, and drew forth two orders on the treasury for 500,000 francs each, payable at sight to the bearer.
A man like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of correction.
The effect of the present revelation was stunning; he trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy.
The pupils of his eyes, as he gazed at Monte Cristo dilated horribly.
"Come, come," said Monte Cristo, "confess honestly that you have not perfect confidence in Thomson & French.
I understand, and foreseeing that such might be the case, I took, in spite of my ignorance of affairs, certain precautions.
See, here are two similar letters to that you have yourself received; one from the house of Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, to Baron Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of London, upon M. Laffitte.
Now, sir, you have but to say the word, and I will spare you all uneasiness by presenting my letter of credit to one or other of these two firms."
The blow had struck home, and Danglars was entirely vanquished; with a trembling hand he took the two letters from the count, who held them carelessly between finger and thumb, and proceeded to scrutinize the signatures, with a minuteness that the count might have regarded as insulting, had it not suited his present purpose to mislead the banker.
"Oh, sir," said Danglars, after he had convinced himself of the authenticity of the documents he held, and rising as if to salute the power of gold personified in the man before him, — "three letters of unlimited credit!
I can be no longer mistrustful, but you must pardon me, my dear count, for confessing to some degree of astonishment."
"Nay," answered Monte Cristo, with the most gentlemanly air, "'tis not for such trifling sums as these that your banking house is to be incommoded.
Then, you can let me have some money, can you not?"
"Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders."
"Why," replied Monte Cristo, "since we mutually understand each other — for such I presume is the case?"
Danglars bowed assentingly.
"You are quite sure that not a lurking doubt or suspicion lingers in your mind?"
"Oh, my dear count," exclaimed Danglars,
"I never for an instant entertained such a feeling towards you."
"No, you merely wished to be convinced, nothing more; but now that we have come to so clear an understanding, and that all distrust and suspicion are laid at rest, we may as well fix a sum as the probable expenditure of the first year, suppose we say six millions to" —
"Six millions!" gasped Danglars — "so be it."
"Then, if I should require more," continued Monte Cristo in a careless manner, "why, of course, I should draw upon you; but my present intention is not to remain in France more than a year, and during that period I scarcely think I shall exceed the sum I mentioned.
However, we shall see.
Be kind enough, then, to send me 500,000 francs to-morrow.
I shall be at home till midday, or if not, I will leave a receipt with my steward."
"The money you desire shall be at your house by ten o'clock to-morrow morning, my dear count," replied Danglars.
"How would you like to have it? in gold, silver, or notes?"
"Half in gold, and the other half in bank-notes, if you please," said the count, rising from his seat.
"I must confess to you, count," said Danglars, "that I have hitherto imagined myself acquainted with the degree of all the great fortunes of Europe, and still wealth such as yours has been wholly unknown to me.
May I presume to ask whether you have long possessed it?"
"It has been in the family a very long while," returned Monte Cristo, "a sort of treasure expressly forbidden to be touched for a certain period of years, during which the accumulated interest has doubled the capital.
The period appointed by the testator for the disposal of these riches occurred only a short time ago, and they have only been employed by me within the last few years.
Your ignorance on the subject, therefore, is easily accounted for.
However, you will be better informed as to me and my possessions ere long."
And the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them with one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor Franz d'Epinay.
"With your tastes, and means of gratifying them," continued Danglars, "you will exhibit a splendor that must effectually put us poor miserable millionaires quite in the shade.
If I mistake not you are an admirer of paintings, at least I judged so from the attention you appeared to be bestowing on mine when I entered the room.
If you will permit me, I shall be happy to show you my picture gallery, composed entirely of works by the ancient masters — warranted as such.
Not a modern picture among them.
I cannot endure the modern school of painting."
"You are perfectly right in objecting to them, for this one great fault — that they have not yet had time to become old."
"Or will you allow me to show you several fine statues by Thorwaldsen, Bartoloni, and Canova? — all foreign artists, for, as you may perceive, I think but very indifferently of our French sculptors."
"You have a right to be unjust to them, monsieur; they are your compatriots."
"But all this may come later, when we shall be better known to each other.
For the present, I will confine myself (if perfectly agreeable to you) to introducing you to the Baroness Danglars — excuse my impatience, my dear count, but a client like you is almost like a member of the family."
Monte Cristo bowed, in sign that he accepted the proffered honor; Danglars rang and was answered by a servant in a showy livery.
"Is the baroness at home?" inquired Danglars.
"Yes, my lord," answered the man.
"And alone?"
"No, my lord, madame has visitors."
"Have you any objection to meet any persons who may be with madame, or do you desire to preserve a strict incognito?"
"No, indeed," replied Monte Cristo with a smile,
"I do not arrogate to myself the right of so doing."
"And who is with madame? — M. Debray?" inquired Danglars, with an air of indulgence and good-nature that made Monte Cristo smile, acquainted as he was with the secrets of the banker's domestic life.
"Yes, my lord," replied the servant,
"M. Debray is with madame."
Danglars nodded his head; then, turning to Monte Cristo, said,
"M. Lucien Debray is an old friend of ours, and private secretary to the Minister of the Interior.
As for my wife, I must tell you, she lowered herself by marrying me, for she belongs to one of the most ancient families in France.
Her maiden name was De Servieres, and her first husband was Colonel the Marquis of Nargonne."
"I have not the honor of knowing Madame Danglars; but I have already met M. Lucien Debray."
"Ah, indeed?" said Danglars; "and where was that?"
"At the house of M. de Morcerf."
"Ah, ha, you are acquainted with the young viscount, are you?"
"We were together a good deal during the Carnival at Rome."
"True, true," cried Danglars.
"Let me see; have I not heard talk of some strange adventure with bandits or thieves hid in ruins, and of his having had a miraculous escape?
I forget how, but I know he used to amuse my wife and daughter by telling them about it after his return from Italy."
"Her ladyship is waiting to receive you, gentlemen," said the servant, who had gone to inquire the pleasure of his mistress.
"With your permission," said Danglars, bowing,
"I will precede you, to show you the way."
"By all means," replied Monte Cristo;
"I follow you."

The baron, followed by the count, traversed a long series of apartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy magnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached the boudoir of Madame Danglars — a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with pink satin, covered with white Indian muslin.
The chairs were of ancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches of shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher; and at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonizing well with the furnishings of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the great mansion in which any distinctive taste prevailed.
The truth was, it had been entirely overlooked in the plan arranged and followed out by M. Danglars and his architect, who had been selected to aid the baron in the great work of improvement solely because he was the most fashionable and celebrated decorator of the day.
The decorations of the boudoir had then been left entirely to Madame Danglars and Lucien Debray.
M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for the antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory, entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his wife's favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering in some more agreeable visitor than himself; and even then he had rather the air and manner of a person who was himself introduced, than that of being the presenter of another, his reception being cordial or frigid, in proportion as the person who accompanied him chanced to please or displease the baroness.
Madame Danglars (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still strikingly handsome) was now seated at the piano, a most elaborate piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before a small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album.
Lucien had found time, preparatory to the count's arrival, to relate many particulars respecting him to Madame Danglars.
It will be remembered that Monte Cristo had made a lively impression on the minds of all the party assembled at the breakfast given by Albert de Morcerf; and although Debray was not in the habit of yielding to such feelings, he had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in his mind by the impressive look and manner of the count, consequently the description given by Lucien to the baroness bore the highly-colored tinge of his own heated imagination.
Already excited by the wonderful stories related of the count by De Morcerf, it is no wonder that Madame Danglars eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional circumstances detailed by Debray.
This posing at the piano and over the album was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution.
A most gracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on M. Danglars; the count, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though graceful courtesy, while Lucien exchanged with the count a sort of distant recognition, and with Danglars a free and easy nod.
"Baroness," said Danglars, "give me leave to present to you the Count of Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my correspondents at Rome.
I need but mention one fact to make all the ladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take up his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes to spend six millions of money.
That means balls, dinners, and lawn parties without end, in all of which I trust the count will remember us, as he may depend upon it we shall him, in our own humble entertainments."
In spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame Danglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man capable of expending six millions in twelve months, and who had selected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance.
"And when did you arrive here?" inquired she.
"Yesterday morning, madame."
"Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe?
Pardon me — at least, such I have heard is your custom."
"Nay, madame.
This time I have merely come from Cadiz."
"You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit.
Paris is a horrible place in summer.
Balls, parties, and fetes are over; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere except in Paris.
As for the Theatre Francais, you know, of course, that it is nowhere.
The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at the Champ de Mars and Satory.
Do you propose entering any horses at either of these races, count?"
"I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good fortune to find some one who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas of amusement."
"Are you fond of horses, count?"
"I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and you are doubtless aware that the Orientals value only two things — the fine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women."
"Nay, count," said the baroness, "it would have been somewhat more gallant to have placed the ladies first."
"You see, madame, how rightly I spoke when I said I required a preceptor to guide me in all my sayings and doings here."
At this instant the favorite attendant of Madame Danglars entered the boudoir; approaching her mistress, she spoke some words in an undertone.
Madame Danglars turned very pale, then exclaimed, — "I cannot believe it; the thing is impossible."
"I assure you, madame," replied the woman, "it is as I have said."
Turning impatiently towards her husband, Madame Danglars demanded,
"Is this true?"
"Is what true, madame?" inquired Danglars, visibly agitated.
"What my maid tells me."
"But what does she tell you?"
"That when my coachman was about to harness the horses to my carriage, he discovered that they had been removed from the stables without his knowledge.
I desire to know what is the meaning of this?"
"Be kind enough, madame, to listen to me," said Danglars.
"Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I am most curious to hear what explanation you will give.
These two gentlemen shall decide between us; but, first, I will state the case to them.
Gentlemen," continued the baroness, "among the ten horses in the stables of Baron Danglars, are two that belong exclusively to me — a pair of the handsomest and most spirited creatures to be found in Paris.
But to you, at least, M. Debray, I need not give a further description, because to you my beautiful pair of dappled grays were well known.
Well, I had promised Madame de Villefort the loan of my carriage to drive to-morrow to the Bois; but when my coachman goes to fetch the grays from the stables they are gone — positively gone.
No doubt M. Danglars has sacrificed them to the selfish consideration of gaining some thousands of paltry francs.
Oh, what a detestable crew they are, these mercenary speculators!"
"Madame," replied Danglars, "the horses were not sufficiently quiet for you; they were scarcely four years old, and they made me extremely uneasy on your account."
"Nonsense," retorted the baroness; "you could not have entertained any alarm on the subject, because you are perfectly well aware that I have had for a month in my service the very best coachman in Paris.
But, perhaps, you have disposed of the coachman as well as the horses?"
"My dear love, pray do not say any more about them, and I promise you another pair exactly like them in appearance, only more quiet and steady."
The baroness shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable contempt, while her husband, affecting not to observe this unconjugal gesture, turned towards Monte Cristo and said, — "Upon my word, count, I am quite sorry not to have met you sooner.
You are setting up an establishment, of course?"
"Why, yes," replied the count.
"I should have liked to have made you the offer of these horses.
I have almost given them away, as it is; but, as I before said, I was anxious to get rid of them upon any terms.
They were only fit for a young man."
"I am much obliged by your kind intentions towards me," said Monte Cristo; "but this morning I purchased a very excellent pair of carriage-horses, and I do not think they were dear.
There they are.
Come, M. Debray, you are a connoisseur, I believe, let me have your opinion upon them."
As Debray walked towards the window, Danglars approached his wife.
"I could not tell you before others," said he in a low tone, "the reason of my parting with the horses; but a most enormous price was offered me this morning for them.
Some madman or fool, bent upon ruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to purchase them at any cost; and the fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs by the sale of them.
Come, don't look so angry, and you shall have 4,000 francs of the money to do what you like with, and Eugenie shall have 2,000.
There, what do you think now of the affair?
Wasn't I right to part with the horses?"
Madame Danglars surveyed her husband with a look of withering contempt.
"Great heavens?" suddenly exclaimed Debray.
"What is it?" asked the baroness.
"I cannot be mistaken; there are your horses!
The very animals we were speaking of, harnessed to the count's carriage!"
"My dappled grays?" demanded the baroness, springing to the window. "'Tis indeed they!" said she.
Danglars looked absolutely stupefied.
"How very singular," cried Monte Cristo with well-feigned astonishment.
"I cannot believe it," murmured the banker.
Madame Danglars whispered a few words in the ear of Debray, who approached Monte Cristo, saying,
"The baroness wishes to know what you paid her husband for the horses."
"I scarcely know," replied the count; "it was a little surprise prepared for me by my steward, and cost me — well, somewhere about 30,000 francs."
Debray conveyed the count's reply to the baroness.
Poor Danglars looked so crest-fallen and discomfited that Monte Cristo assumed a pitying air towards him.
"See," said the count, "how very ungrateful women are.
Your kind attention, in providing for the safety of the baroness by disposing of the horses, does not seem to have made the least impression on her.
But so it is; a woman will often, from mere wilfulness, prefer that which is dangerous to that which is safe.
Therefore, in my opinion, my dear baron, the best and easiest way is to leave them to their fancies, and allow them to act as they please, and then, if any mischief follows, why, at least, they have no one to blame but themselves."
Danglars made no reply; he was occupied in anticipations of the coming scene between himself and the baroness, whose frowning brow, like that of Olympic Jove, predicted a storm.
Debray, who perceived the gathering clouds, and felt no desire to witness the explosion of Madame Danglars' rage, suddenly recollected an appointment, which compelled him to take his leave; while Monte Cristo, unwilling by prolonging his stay to destroy the advantages he hoped to obtain, made a farewell bow and departed, leaving Danglars to endure the angry reproaches of his wife.
"Excellent," murmured Monte Cristo to himself, as he came away.
"All has gone according to my wishes.
The domestic peace of this family is henceforth in my hands.
Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by which I shall gain the heart of both husband and wife — delightful!
Still," added he, "amid all this, I have not yet been presented to Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars, whose acquaintance I should have been glad to make.
But," he went on with his peculiar smile,
"I am here in Paris, and have plenty of time before me — by and by will do for that."
With these reflections he entered his carriage and returned home.
Two hours afterwards, Madame Danglars received a most flattering epistle from the count, in which he entreated her to receive back her favorite "dappled grays," protesting that he could not endure the idea of making his entry into the Parisian world of fashion with the knowledge that his splendid equipage had been obtained at the price of a lovely woman's regrets.
The horses were sent back wearing the same harness she had seen on them in the morning; only, by the count's orders, in the centre of each rosette that adorned either side of their heads, had been fastened a large diamond.
To Danglars Monte Cristo also wrote, requesting him to excuse the whimsical gift of a capricious millionaire, and to beg the baroness to pardon the Eastern fashion adopted in the return of the horses.
During the evening, Monte Cristo quitted Paris for Auteuil, accompanied by Ali.
The following day, about three o'clock, a single blow struck on the gong summoned Ali to the presence of the count.
"Ali," observed his master, as the Nubian entered the chamber, "you have frequently explained to me how more than commonly skilful you are in throwing the lasso, have you not?"
Ali drew himself up proudly, and then returned a sign in the affirmative.
"I thought I did not mistake.
With your lasso you could stop an ox?"
Again Ali repeated his affirmative gesture.
"Or a tiger?"
Ali bowed his head in token of assent.
"A lion even?"
Ali sprung forwards, imitating the action of one throwing the lasso, then of a strangled lion.
"I understand," said Monte Cristo; "you wish to tell me you have hunted the lion?"
Ali smiled with triumphant pride as he signified that he had indeed both chased and captured many lions.
"But do you believe you could arrest the progress of two horses rushing forwards with ungovernable fury?"
The Nubian smiled.
"It is well," said Monte Cristo.
"Then listen to me.
Ere long a carriage will dash past here, drawn by the pair of dappled gray horses you saw me with yesterday; now, at the risk of your own life, you must manage to stop those horses before my door."
Ali descended to the street, and marked a straight line on the pavement immediately at the entrance of the house, and then pointed out the line he had traced to the count, who was watching him.
The count patted him gently on the shoulder, his usual mode of praising Ali, who, pleased and gratified with the commission assigned him, walked calmly towards a projecting stone forming the angle of the street and house, and, seating himself thereon, began to smoke his chibouque, while Monte Cristo re-entered his dwelling, perfectly assured of the success of his plan.
Still, as five o'clock approached, and the carriage was momentarily expected by the count, the indication of more than common impatience and uneasiness might be observed in his manner.
He stationed himself in a room commanding a view of the street, pacing the chamber with restless steps, stopping merely to listen from time to time for the sound of approaching wheels, then to cast an anxious glance on Ali; but the regularity with which the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his chibouque proved that he at least was wholly absorbed in the enjoyment of his favorite occupation.
Suddenly a distant sound of rapidly advancing wheels was heard, and almost immediately a carriage appeared, drawn by a pair of wild, ungovernable horses, while the terrified coachman strove in vain to restrain their furious speed.
In the vehicle was a young woman and a child of about seven or eight clasped in each other's arms.
Terror seemed to have deprived them even of the power of uttering a cry.
The carriage creaked and rattled as it flew over the rough stones, and the slightest obstacle under the wheels would have caused disaster; but it kept on in the middle of the road, and those who saw it pass uttered cries of terror.
Ali suddenly cast aside his chibouque, drew the lasso from his pocket, threw it so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of the near horse in its triple fold, and suffered himself to be dragged on for a few steps by the violence of the shock, then the animal fell over on the pole, which snapped, and therefore prevented the other horse from pursuing its way.
Gladly availing himself of this opportunity, the coachman leaped from his box; but Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse, and held them in his iron grasp, till the beast, snorting with pain, sunk beside his companion.
All this was achieved in much less time than is occupied in the recital.
The brief space had, however, been sufficient for a man, followed by a number of servants, to rush from the house before which the accident had occurred, and, as the coachman opened the door of the carriage, to take from it a lady who was convulsively grasping the cushions with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom the young boy, who had lost consciousness.
Monte Cristo carried them both to the salon, and deposited them on a sofa.
"Compose yourself, madame," said he; "all danger is over."
The woman looked up at these words, and, with a glance far more expressive than any entreaties could have been, pointed to her child, who still continued insensible.
"I understand the nature of your alarms, madame," said the count, carefully examining the child, "but I assure you there is not the slightest occasion for uneasiness; your little charge has not received the least injury; his insensibility is merely the effects of terror, and will soon pass."
"Are you quite sure you do not say so to tranquillize my fears?
See how deadly pale he is!
My child, my darling Edward; speak to your mother — open your dear eyes and look on me once again!
Oh, sir, in pity send for a physician; my whole fortune shall not be thought too much for the recovery of my boy."
With a calm smile and a gentle wave of the hand, Monte Cristo signed to the distracted mother to lay aside her apprehensions; then, opening a casket that stood near, he drew forth a phial of Bohemian glass incrusted with gold, containing a liquid of the color of blood, of which he let fall a single drop on the child's lips.
Scarcely had it reached them, ere the boy, though still pale as marble, opened his eyes, and eagerly gazed around him.
At this, the delight of the mother was almost frantic.
"Where am I?" exclaimed she; "and to whom am I indebted for so happy a termination to my late dreadful alarm?"
"Madame," answered the count, "you are under the roof of one who esteems himself most fortunate in having been able to save you from a further continuance of your sufferings."
"My wretched curiosity has brought all this about," pursued the lady.
"All Paris rung with the praises of Madame Danglars' beautiful horses, and I had the folly to desire to know whether they really merited the high praise given to them."
"Is it possible," exclaimed the count with well-feigned astonishment, "that these horses belong to the baroness?"
"They do, indeed.
May I inquire if you are acquainted with Madame Danglars?"
"I have that honor; and my happiness at your escape from the danger that threatened you is redoubled by the consciousness that I have been the unwilling and the unintentional cause of all the peril you have incurred.
I yesterday purchased these horses of the baron; but as the baroness evidently regretted parting with them, I ventured to send them back to her, with a request that she would gratify me by accepting them from my hands."
"You are, then, doubtless, the Count of Monte Cristo, of whom Hermine has talked to me so much?"
"You have rightly guessed, madame," replied the count.
"And I am Madame Heloise de Villefort."
The count bowed with the air of a person who hears a name for the first time.
"How grateful will M. de Villefort be for all your goodness; how thankfully will he acknowledge that to you alone he owes the existence of his wife and child!
Most certainly, but for the prompt assistance of your intrepid servant, this dear child and myself must both have perished."
"Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful danger you were placed in."
"I trust you will allow me to recompense worthily the devotion of your man."
"I beseech you, madame," replied Monte Cristo "not to spoil Ali, either by too great praise or rewards.
I cannot allow him to acquire the habit of expecting to be recompensed for every trifling service he may render.
Ali is my slave, and in saving your life he was but discharging his duty to me."
"Nay," interposed Madame de Villefort, on whom the authoritative style adopted by the count made a deep impression, "nay, but consider that to preserve my life he has risked his own."
"His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my having myself saved him from death."
Madame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly absorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant she saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her.
During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments.
The child was small for his age, and unnaturally pale.
A mass of straight black hair, defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness for every forbidden enjoyment.
His mouth was large, and the lips, which had not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child's face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so young.
His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without asking permission of any one, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to pull the corks out of all the bottles.
"Touch nothing, my little friend," cried the count eagerly; "some of those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale."
Madame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son's arm, drew him anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also cast a brief but expressive glance on the casket, which was not lost upon the count.
At this moment Ali entered.
At sight of him Madame de Villefort uttered an expression of pleasure, and, holding the child still closer towards her, she said,
"Edward, dearest, do you see that good man?
He has shown very great courage and resolution, for he exposed his own life to stop the horses that were running away with us, and would certainly have dashed the carriage to pieces.
Thank him, then, my child, in your very best manner; for, had he not come to our aid, neither you nor I would have been alive to speak our thanks."
The child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful manner, saying,
"He's too ugly."
The count smiled as if the child bade fair to realize his hopes, while Madame de Villefort reprimanded her son with a gentleness and moderation very far from conveying the least idea of a fault having been committed.
"This lady," said the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic language, "is desirous that her son should thank you for saving both their lives; but the boy refuses, saying you are too ugly."
Ali turned his intelligent countenance towards the boy, on whom he gazed without any apparent emotion; but the spasmodic working of the nostrils showed to the practiced eye of Monte Cristo that the Arab had been wounded to the heart.
"Will you permit me to inquire," said Madame de Villefort, as she arose to take her leave, "whether you usually reside here?"
"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo; "it is a small place I have purchased quite lately.
My place of abode is No.
30, Avenue des Champs Elysees; but I see you have quite recovered from your fright, and are, no doubt, desirous of returning home.
Anticipating your wishes, I have desired the same horses you came with to be put to one of my carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so very ugly," continued he, addressing the boy with a smiling air, "will have the honor of driving you home, while your coachman remains here to attend to the necessary repairs of your calash.
As soon as that important business is concluded, I will have a pair of my own horses harnessed to convey it direct to Madame Danglars."
"I dare not return with those dreadful horses," said Madame de Villefort.
"You will see," replied Monte Cristo, "that they will be as different as possible in the hands of Ali.
With him they will be gentle and docile as lambs."
Ali had, indeed, given proof of this; for, approaching the animals, who had been got upon their legs with considerable difficulty, he rubbed their foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar, and wiped off the sweat and foam that covered their mouths.
Then, commencing a loud whistling noise, he rubbed them well all over their bodies for several minutes; then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd collected round the broken carriage, Ali quietly harnessed the pacified animals to the count's chariot, took the reins in his hands, and mounted the box, when to the utter astonishment of those who had witnessed the ungovernable spirit and maddened speed of the same horses, he was actually compelled to apply his whip in no very gentle manner before he could induce them to start; and even then all that could be obtained from the celebrated "dappled grays," now changed into a couple of dull, sluggish, stupid brutes, was a slow, pottering pace, kept up with so much difficulty that Madame de Villefort was more than two hours returning to her residence in the Faubourg St. Honore.
Scarcely had the first congratulations upon her marvellous escape been gone through when she wrote the following letter to Madame Danglars: —
Dear Hermine, — I have just had a wonderful escape from the most imminent danger, and I owe my safety to the very Count of Monte Cristo we were talking about yesterday, but whom I little expected to see to-day.
I remember how unmercifully I laughed at what I considered your eulogistic and exaggerated praises of him; but I have now ample cause to admit that your enthusiastic description of this wonderful man fell far short of his merits.
Your horses got as far as Ranelagh, when they darted forward like mad things, and galloped away at so fearful a rate, that there seemed no other prospect for myself and my poor Edward but that of being dashed to pieces against the first object that impeded their progress, when a strange-looking man, — an Arab, a negro, or a Nubian, at least a black of some nation or other — at a signal from the count, whose domestic he is, suddenly seized and stopped the infuriated animals, even at the risk of being trampled to death himself; and certainly he must have had a most wonderful escape.
The count then hastened to us, and took us into his house, where he speedily recalled my poor Edward to life.
He sent us home in his own carriage.
Yours will be returned to you to-morrow.
You will find your horses in bad condition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly stupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man.
The count, however, has commissioned me to assure you that two or three days' rest, with plenty of barley for their sole food during that time, will bring them back to as fine, that is as terrifying, a condition as they were in yesterday.
Adieu!
I cannot return you many thanks for the drive of yesterday; but, after all, I ought not to blame you for the misconduct of your horses, more especially as it procured me the pleasure of an introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, — and certainly that illustrious personage, apart from the millions he is said to be so very anxious to dispose of, seemed to me one of those curiously interesting problems I, for one, delight in solving at any risk, even if it were to necessitate another drive to the Bois behind your horses.
Edward endured the accident with miraculous courage — he did not utter a single cry, but fell lifeless into my arms; nor did a tear fall from his eyes after it was over.
I doubt not you will consider these praises the result of blind maternal affection, but there is a soul of iron in that delicate, fragile body.
Valentine sends many affectionate remembrances to your dear Eugenie.
I embrace you with all my heart.
Heloise de Villefort.
P.S. — Do pray contrive some means for me to meet the Count of Monte Cristo at your house.
I must and will see him again.
I have just made M. de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be returned.
That night the adventure at Auteuil was talked of everywhere.
Albert related it to his mother; Chateau-Renaud recounted it at the Jockey Club, and Debray detailed it at length in the salons of the minister; even Beauchamp accorded twenty lines in his journal to the relation of the count's courage and gallantry, thereby celebrating him as the greatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the feminine members of the aristocracy.
Vast was the crowd of visitors and inquiring friends who left their names at the residence of Madame de Villefort, with the design of renewing their visit at the right moment, of hearing from her lips all the interesting circumstances of this most romantic adventure.
As for M. de Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions of Heloise to the letter, — donned his dress suit, drew on a pair of white gloves, ordered the servants to attend the carriage dressed in their full livery, and drove that same night to No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees.

If the Count of Monte Cristo had been for a long time familiar with the ways of Parisian society, he would have appreciated better the significance of the step which M. de Villefort had taken.
Standing well at court, whether the king regnant was of the older or younger branch, whether the government was doctrinaire liberal, or conservative; looked upon by all as a man of talent, since those who have never experienced a political check are generally so regarded; hated by many, but warmly supported by others, without being really liked by anybody, M. de Villefort held a high position in the magistracy, and maintained his eminence like a Harlay or a Mole.
His drawing-room, under the regenerating influence of a young wife and a daughter by his first marriage, scarcely eighteen, was still one of the well-regulated Paris salons where the worship of traditional customs and the observance of rigid etiquette were carefully maintained.
A freezing politeness, a strict fidelity to government principles, a profound contempt for theories and theorists, a deep-seated hatred of ideality, — these were the elements of private and public life displayed by M. de Villefort.
He was not only a magistrate, he was almost a diplomatist.
His relations with the former court, of which he always spoke with dignity and respect, made him respected by the new one, and he knew so many things, that not only was he always carefully considered, but sometimes consulted.
Perhaps this would not have been so had it been possible to get rid of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal barons who rebelled against their sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable fortress.
This fortress was his post as king's attorney, all the advantages of which he exploited with marvellous skill, and which he would not have resigned but to be made deputy, and thus to replace neutrality by opposition.
Ordinarily M. de Villefort made and returned very few visits.
His wife visited for him, and this was the received thing in the world, where the weighty and multifarious occupations of the magistrate were accepted as an excuse for what was really only calculated pride, a manifestation of professed superiority — in fact, the application of the axiom,
"Pretend to think well of yourself, and the world will think well of you," an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays than that of the Greeks,
"Know thyself," a knowledge for which, in our days, we have substituted the less difficult and more advantageous science of knowing others.
To his friends M. de Villefort was a powerful protector; to his enemies, he was a silent, but bitter opponent; for those who were neither the one nor the other, he was a statue of the law-made man.
He had a haughty bearing, a look either steady and impenetrable or insolently piercing and inquisitorial.
Four successive revolutions had built and cemented the pedestal upon which his fortune was based.
M. de Villefort had the reputation of being the least curious and the least wearisome man in France.
He gave a ball every year, at which he appeared for a quarter of an hour only, — that is to say, five and forty minutes less than the king is visible at his balls.
He was never seen at the theatres, at concerts, or in any place of public resort.
Occasionally, but seldom, he played at whist, and then care was taken to select partners worthy of him — sometimes they were ambassadors, sometimes archbishops, or sometimes a prince, or a president, or some dowager duchess.
Such was the man whose carriage had just now stopped before the Count of Monte Cristo's door.
The valet de chambre announced M. de Villefort at the moment when the count, leaning over a large table, was tracing on a map the route from St. Petersburg to China.
The procureur entered with the same grave and measured step he would have employed in entering a court of justice.
He was the same man, or rather the development of the same man, whom we have heretofore seen as assistant attorney at Marseilles.
Nature, according to her way, had made no deviation in the path he had marked out for himself.
From being slender he had now become meagre; once pale, he was now yellow; his deep-set eyes were hollow, and the gold spectacles shielding his eyes seemed to be an integral portion of his face.
He dressed entirely in black, with the exception of his white tie, and his funeral appearance was only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost imperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of blood traced with a delicate brush.
Although master of himself, Monte Cristo, scrutinized with irrepressible curiosity the magistrate whose salute he returned, and who, distrustful by habit, and especially incredulous as to social prodigies, was much more despised to look upon "the noble stranger," as Monte Cristo was already called, as an adventurer in search of new fields, or an escaped criminal, rather than as a prince of the Holy See, or a sultan of the Thousand and One Nights.
"Sir," said Villefort, in the squeaky tone assumed by magistrates in their oratorical periods, and of which they cannot, or will not, divest themselves in society, "sir, the signal service which you yesterday rendered to my wife and son has made it a duty for me to offer you my thanks.
I have come, therefore, to discharge this duty, and to express to you my overwhelming gratitude."
And as he said this, the "eye severe" of the magistrate had lost nothing of its habitual arrogance.
He spoke in a voice of the procureur-general, with the rigid inflexibility of neck and shoulders which caused his flatterers to say (as we have before observed) that he was the living statue of the law.
"Monsieur," replied the count, with a chilling air,
"I am very happy to have been the means of preserving a son to his mother, for they say that the sentiment of maternity is the most holy of all; and the good fortune which occurred to me, monsieur, might have enabled you to dispense with a duty which, in its discharge, confers an undoubtedly great honor; for I am aware that M. de Villefort is not usually lavish of the favor which he now bestows on me, — a favor which, however estimable, is unequal to the satisfaction which I have in my own consciousness."
Villefort, astonished at this reply, which he by no means expected, started like a soldier who feels the blow levelled at him over the armor he wears, and a curl of his disdainful lip indicated that from that moment he noted in the tablets of his brain that the Count of Monte Cristo was by no means a highly bred gentleman.
He glanced around, in order to seize on something on which the conversation might turn, and seemed to fall easily on a topic.
He saw the map which Monte Cristo had been examining when he entered, and said,
"You seem geographically engaged, sir?
It is a rich study for you, who, as I learn, have seen as many lands as are delineated on this map."
"Yes, sir," replied the count;
"I have sought to make of the human race, taken in the mass, what you practice every day on individuals — a physiological study.
I have believed it was much easier to descend from the whole to a part than to ascend from a part to the whole.
It is an algebraic axiom, which makes us proceed from a known to an unknown quantity, and not from an unknown to a known; but sit down, sir, I beg of you."
Monte Cristo pointed to a chair, which the procureur was obliged to take the trouble to move forwards himself, while the count merely fell back into his own, on which he had been kneeling when M. Villefort entered.
Thus the count was halfway turned towards his visitor, having his back towards the window, his elbow resting on the geographical chart which furnished the theme of conversation for the moment, — a conversation which assumed, as in the case of the interviews with Danglars and Morcerf, a turn analogous to the persons, if not to the situation.
"Ah, you philosophize," replied Villefort, after a moment's silence, during which, like a wrestler who encounters a powerful opponent, he took breath; "well, sir, really, if, like you, I had nothing else to do, I should seek a more amusing occupation."
"Why, in truth, sir," was Monte Cristo's reply, "man is but an ugly caterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you said, I think, that I had nothing else to do.
Now, really, let me ask, sir, have you? — do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called anything?"
Villefort's astonishment redoubled at this second thrust so forcibly made by his strange adversary.
It was a long time since the magistrate had heard a paradox so strong, or rather, to say the truth more exactly, it was the first time he had ever heard of it.
The procureur exerted himself to reply.
"Sir," he responded, "you are a stranger, and I believe you say yourself that a portion of your life has been spent in Oriental countries, so you are not aware how human justice, so expeditious in barbarous countries, takes with us a prudent and well-studied course."
"Oh, yes — yes, I do, sir; it is the pede claudo of the ancients.
I know all that, for it is with the justice of all countries especially that I have occupied myself — it is with the criminal procedure of all nations that I have compared natural justice, and I must say, sir, that it is the law of primitive nations, that is, the law of retaliation, that I have most frequently found to be according to the law of God."
"If this law were adopted, sir," said the procureur, "it would greatly simplify our legal codes, and in that case the magistrates would not (as you just observed) have much to do."
"It may, perhaps, come to this in time," observed Monte Cristo; "you know that human inventions march from the complex to the simple, and simplicity is always perfection."
"In the meanwhile," continued the magistrate, "our codes are in full force, with all their contradictory enactments derived from Gallic customs, Roman laws, and Frank usages; the knowledge of all which, you will agree, is not to be acquired without extended labor; it needs tedious study to acquire this knowledge, and, when acquired, a strong power of brain to retain it."
"I agree with you entirely, sir; but all that even you know with respect to the French code, I know, not only in reference to that code, but as regards the codes of all nations.
The English, Turkish, Japanese, Hindu laws, are as familiar to me as the French laws, and thus I was right, when I said to you, that relatively (you know that everything is relative, sir) — that relatively to what I have done, you have very little to do; but that relatively to all I have learned, you have yet a great deal to learn."
"But with what motive have you learned all this?" inquired Villefort, in astonishment.
Monte Cristo smiled.
"Really, sir," he observed,
"I see that in spite of the reputation which you have acquired as a superior man, you look at everything from the material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending with man — that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which it is possible for human understanding to embrace."
"Pray, sir, explain yourself," said Villefort, more and more astonished,
"I really do — not — understand you — perfectly."
"I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on the social organization of nations, you see only the springs of the machine, and lose sight of the sublime workman who makes them act; I say that you do not recognize before you and around you any but those office-holders whose commissions have been signed by a minister or king; and that the men whom God has put above those office-holders, ministers, and kings, by giving them a mission to follow out, instead of a post to fill — I say that they escape your narrow, limited field of observation.
It is thus that human weakness fails, from its debilitated and imperfect organs.
Tobias took the angel who restored him to light for an ordinary young man.
The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a conqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to reveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one was compelled to say,
'I am the angel of the Lord'; and the other,
'I am the hammer of God,' in order that the divine essence in both might be revealed."
"Then," said Villefort, more and more amazed, and really supposing he was speaking to a mystic or a madman, "you consider yourself as one of those extraordinary beings whom you have mentioned?"
"And why not?" said Monte Cristo coldly.
"Your pardon, sir," replied Villefort, quite astounded, "but you will excuse me if, when I presented myself to you, I was unaware that I should meet with a person whose knowledge and understanding so far surpass the usual knowledge and understanding of men.
It is not usual with us corrupted wretches of civilization to find gentlemen like yourself, possessors, as you are, of immense fortune — at least, so it is said — and I beg you to observe that I do not inquire, I merely repeat; — it is not usual, I say, for such privileged and wealthy beings to waste their time in speculations on the state of society, in philosophical reveries, intended at best to console those whom fate has disinherited from the goods of this world."
"Really, sir," retorted the count, "have you attained the eminent situation in which you are, without having admitted, or even without having met with exceptions? and do you never use your eyes, which must have acquired so much finesse and certainty, to divine, at a glance, the kind of man by whom you are confronted?
Should not a magistrate be not merely the best administrator of the law, but the most crafty expounder of the chicanery of his profession, a steel probe to search hearts, a touchstone to try the gold which in each soul is mingled with more or less of alloy?"
"Sir," said Villefort, "upon my word, you overcome me.
I really never heard a person speak as you do."
"Because you remain eternally encircled in a round of general conditions, and have never dared to raise your wings into those upper spheres which God has peopled with invisible or exceptional beings."
"And you allow then, sir, that spheres exist, and that these marked and invisible beings mingle amongst us?"
"Why should they not?
Can you see the air you breathe, and yet without which you could not for a moment exist?"
"Then we do not see those beings to whom you allude?"
"Yes, we do; you see them whenever God pleases to allow them to assume a material form.
You touch them, come in contact with them, speak to them, and they reply to you."
"Ah," said Villefort, smiling,
"I confess I should like to be warned when one of these beings is in contact with me."
"You have been served as you desire, monsieur, for you were warned just now, and I now again warn you."
"Then you yourself are one of these marked beings?"
"Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until now, no man has found himself in a position similar to mine.
The dominions of kings are limited either by mountains or rivers, or a change of manners, or an alteration of language.
My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or an American, or a Spaniard — I am a cosmopolite.
No country can say it saw my birth.
God alone knows what country will see me die.
I adopt all customs, speak all languages.
You believe me to be a Frenchman, for I speak French with the same facility and purity as yourself.
Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes me to be an Arab; Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman; Haidee, my slave, thinks me a Greek.
You may, therefore, comprehend, that being of no country, asking no protection from any government, acknowledging no man as my brother, not one of the scruples that arrest the powerful, or the obstacles which paralyze the weak, paralyzes or arrests me.
I have only two adversaries — I will not say two conquerors, for with perseverance I subdue even them, — they are time and distance.
There is a third, and the most terrible — that is my condition as a mortal being.
This alone can stop me in my onward career, before I have attained the goal at which I aim, for all the rest I have reduced to mathematical terms.
What men call the chances of fate — namely, ruin, change, circumstances — I have fully anticipated, and if any of these should overtake me, yet it will not overwhelm me.
Unless I die, I shall always be what I am, and therefore it is that I utter the things you have never heard, even from the mouths of kings — for kings have need, and other persons have fear of you.
For who is there who does not say to himself, in a society as incongruously organized as ours,
'Perhaps some day I shall have to do with the king's attorney'?"
"But can you not say that, sir?
The moment you become an inhabitant of France, you are naturally subjected to the French law."
"I know it sir," replied Monte Cristo; "but when I visit a country I begin to study, by all the means which are available, the men from whom I may have anything to hope or to fear, till I know them as well as, perhaps better than, they know themselves.
It follows from this, that the king's attorney, be he who he may, with whom I should have to deal, would assuredly be more embarrassed than I should."
"That is to say," replied Villefort with hesitation, "that human nature being weak, every man, according to your creed, has committed faults."
"Faults or crimes," responded Monte Cristo with a negligent air.
"And that you alone, amongst the men whom you do not recognize as your brothers — for you have said so," observed Villefort in a tone that faltered somewhat — "you alone are perfect."
"No, not perfect," was the count's reply; "only impenetrable, that's all.
But let us leave off this strain, sir, if the tone of it is displeasing to you; I am no more disturbed by your justice than are you by my second-sight."
"No, no, — by no means," said Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to abandon his ground.
"No; by your brilliant and almost sublime conversation you have elevated me above the ordinary level; we no longer talk, we rise to dissertation.
But you know how the theologians in their collegiate chairs, and philosophers in their controversies, occasionally say cruel truths; let us suppose for the moment that we are theologizing in a social way, or even philosophically, and I will say to you, rude as it may seem,
'My brother, you sacrifice greatly to pride; you may be above others, but above you there is God.'"
"Above us all, sir," was Monte Cristo's response, in a tone and with an emphasis so deep that Villefort involuntarily shuddered.
"I have my pride for men — serpents always ready to threaten every one who would pass without crushing them under foot.
But I lay aside that pride before God, who has taken me from nothing to make me what I am."
"Then, count, I admire you," said Villefort, who, for the first time in this strange conversation, used the aristocratic form to the unknown personage, whom, until now, he had only called monsieur.
"Yes, and I say to you, if you are really strong, really superior, really pious, or impenetrable, which you were right in saying amounts to the same thing — then be proud, sir, for that is the characteristic of predominance.
Yet you have unquestionably some ambition."
"I have, sir."
"And what may it be?"
"I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed me all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to me,
'Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?'
I reflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and then I replied,
'Listen, — I have always heard of providence, and yet I have never seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make me believe that he exists.
I wish to be providence myself, for I feel that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is to recompense and punish.'
Satan bowed his head, and groaned.
'You mistake,' he said, 'providence does exist, only you have never seen him, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent.
You have seen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs, and moves by hidden ways.
All I can do for you is to make you one of the agents of that providence.'
The bargain was concluded.
I may sacrifice my soul, but what matters it?" added Monte Cristo.
"If the thing were to do again, I would again do it."
Villefort looked at Monte Cristo with extreme amazement.
"Count," he inquired, "have you any relations?"
"No, sir, I am alone in the world."
"So much the worse."
"Why?" asked Monte Cristo.
"Because then you might witness a spectacle calculated to break down your pride.
You say you fear nothing but death?"
"I did not say that I feared it; I only said that death alone could check the execution of my plans."
"And old age?"
"My end will be achieved before I grow old."
"And madness?"
"I have been nearly mad; and you know the axiom, — non bis in idem.
It is an axiom of criminal law, and, consequently, you understand its full application."
"Sir," continued Villefort, "there is something to fear besides death, old age, and madness.
For instance, there is apoplexy — that lightning-stroke which strikes but does not destroy you, and yet which brings everything to an end.
You are still yourself as now, and yet you are yourself no longer; you who, like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are but an inert mass, which, like Caliban, verges on the brutal; and this is called in human tongues, as I tell you, neither more nor less than apoplexy.
Come, if so you will, count, and continue this conversation at my house, any day you may be willing to see an adversary capable of understanding and anxious to refute you, and I will show you my father, M. Noirtier de Villefort, one of the most fiery Jacobins of the French Revolution; that is to say, he had the most remarkable audacity, seconded by a most powerful organization — a man who has not, perhaps, like yourself seen all the kingdoms of the earth, but who has helped to overturn one of the greatest; in fact, a man who believed himself, like you, one of the envoys, not of God, but of a supreme being; not of providence, but of fate.
Well, sir, the rupture of a blood-vessel on the lobe of the brain has destroyed all this, not in a day, not in an hour, but in a second.
M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night, was the old Jacobin, the old senator, the old Carbonaro, laughing at the guillotine, the cannon, and the dagger — M. Noirtier, playing with revolutions — M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the king was checkmated — M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning 'poor M. Noirtier,' the helpless old man, at the tender mercies of the weakest creature in the household, that is, his grandchild, Valentine; a dumb and frozen carcass, in fact, living painlessly on, that time may be given for his frame to decompose without his consciousness of its decay."
"Alas, sir," said Monte Cristo "this spectacle is neither strange to my eye nor my thought.
I am something of a physician, and have, like my fellows, sought more than once for the soul in living and in dead matter; yet, like providence, it has remained invisible to my eyes, although present to my heart.
A hundred writers since Socrates, Seneca, St. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in verse and prose, the comparison you have made, and yet I can well understand that a father's sufferings may effect great changes in the mind of a son.
I will call on you, sir, since you bid me contemplate, for the advantage of my pride, this terrible spectacle, which must have been so great a source of sorrow to your family."
"It would have been so unquestionably, had not God given me so large a compensation.
In contrast with the old man, who is dragging his way to the tomb, are two children just entering into life — Valentine, the daughter by my first wife — Mademoiselle Renee de Saint-Meran — and Edward, the boy whose life you have this day saved."
"And what is your deduction from this compensation, sir?" inquired Monte Cristo.
"My deduction is," replied Villefort, "that my father, led away by his passions, has committed some fault unknown to human justice, but marked by the justice of God.
That God, desirous in his mercy to punish but one person, has visited this justice on him alone."
Monte Cristo with a smile on his lips, uttered in the depths of his soul a groan which would have made Villefort fly had he but heard it.
"Adieu, sir," said the magistrate, who had risen from his seat;
"I leave you, bearing a remembrance of you — a remembrance of esteem, which I hope will not be disagreeable to you when you know me better; for I am not a man to bore my friends, as you will learn.
Besides, you have made an eternal friend of Madame de Villefort."
The count bowed, and contented himself with seeing Villefort to the door of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage by two footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with every mark of attention.
When he had gone, Monte Cristo breathed a profound sigh, and said, — "Enough of this poison, let me now seek the antidote."
Then sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered,
"I am going to madam's chamber — have the carriage ready at one o'clock."

It will be recollected that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of the Count of Monte Cristo, residing in the Rue Meslay, were no other than Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel.
The very anticipations of delight to be enjoyed in his forthcoming visits — the bright, pure gleam of heavenly happiness it diffused over the almost deadly warfare in which he had voluntarily engaged, illumined his whole countenance with a look of ineffable joy and calmness, as, immediately after Villefort's departure, his thoughts flew back to the cheering prospect before him, of tasting, at least, a brief respite from the fierce and stormy passions of his mind.
Even Ali, who had hastened to obey the Count's summons, went forth from his master's presence in charmed amazement at the unusual animation and pleasure depicted on features ordinarily so stern and cold; while, as though dreading to put to flight the agreeable ideas hovering over his patron's meditations, whatever they were, the faithful Nubian walked on tiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound should dissipate his master's happy reverie.
It was noon, and Monte Cristo had set apart one hour to be passed in the apartments of Haidee, as though his oppressed spirit could not all at once admit the feeling of pure and unmixed joy, but required a gradual succession of calm and gentle emotions to prepare his mind to receive full and perfect happiness, in the same manner as ordinary natures demand to be inured by degrees to the reception of strong or violent sensations.
The young Greek, as we have already said, occupied apartments wholly unconnected with those of the count.
The rooms had been fitted up in strict accordance with Oriental ideas; the floors were covered with the richest carpets Turkey could produce; the walls hung with brocaded silk of the most magnificent designs and texture; while around each chamber luxurious divans were placed, with piles of soft and yielding cushions, that needed only to be arranged at the pleasure or convenience of such as sought repose.
Haidee and three French maids, and one who was a Greek.
The first three remained constantly in a small waiting-room, ready to obey the summons of a small golden bell, or to receive the orders of the Romaic slave, who knew just enough French to be able to transmit her mistress's wishes to the three other waiting-women; the latter had received most peremptory instructions from Monte Cristo to treat Haidee with all the deference they would observe to a queen.
The young girl herself generally passed her time in the chamber at the farther end of her apartments.
This was a sort of boudoir, circular, and lighted only from the roof, which consisted of rose-colored glass.
Haidee was reclining upon soft downy cushions, covered with blue satin spotted with silver; her head, supported by one of her exquisitely moulded arms, rested on the divan immediately behind her, while the other was employed in adjusting to her lips the coral tube of a rich narghile, through whose flexible pipe she drew the smoke fragrant by its passage through perfumed water.
Her attitude, though perfectly natural for an Eastern woman would, in a European, have been deemed too full of coquettish straining after effect.
Her dress, which was that of the women of Epirus, consisted of a pair of white satin trousers, embroidered with pink roses, displaying feet so exquisitely formed and so delicately fair, that they might well have been taken for Parian marble, had not the eye been undeceived by their movements as they constantly shifted in and out of a pair of little slippers with upturned toes, beautifully ornamented with gold and pearls.
She wore a blue and white-striped vest, with long open sleeves, trimmed with silver loops and buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice, which, closing only from the centre to the waist, exhibited the whole of the ivory throat and upper part of the bosom; it was fastened with three magnificent diamond clasps.
The junction of the bodice and drawers was entirely concealed by one of the many-colored scarfs, whose brilliant hues and rich silken fringe have rendered them so precious in the eyes of Parisian belles.
Tilted on one side of her head she had a small cap of gold-colored silk, embroidered with pearls; while on the other a purple rose mingled its glowing colors with the luxuriant masses of her hair, of which the blackness was so intense that it was tinged with blue.
The extreme beauty of the countenance, that shone forth in loveliness that mocked the vain attempts of dress to augment it, was peculiarly and purely Grecian; there were the large, dark, melting eyes, the finely formed nose, the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that belonged to her race and country.
And, to complete the whole, Haidee was in the very springtide and fulness of youthful charms — she had not yet numbered more than twenty summers.
Monte Cristo summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her inquire whether it would be agreeable to her mistress to receive his visit.
Haidee's only reply was to direct her servant by a sign to withdraw the tapestried curtain that hung before the door of her boudoir, the framework of the opening thus made serving as a sort of border to the graceful tableau presented by the young girl's picturesque attitude and appearance.
As Monte Cristo approached, she leaned upon the elbow of the arm that held the narghile, and extending to him her other hand, said, with a smile of captivating sweetness, in the sonorous language spoken by the women of Athens and Sparta,
"Why demand permission ere you enter?
Are you no longer my master, or have I ceased to be your slave?"
Monte Cristo returned her smile.
"Haidee," said he, "you well know."
"Why do you address me so coldly — so distantly?" asked the young Greek.
"Have I by any means displeased you?
Oh, if so, punish me as you will; but do not — do not speak to me in tones and manner so formal and constrained."
"Haidee," replied the count, "you know that you are now in France, and are free."
"Free to do what?" asked the young girl.
"Free to leave me."
"Leave you?
Why should I leave you?"
"That is not for me to say; but we are now about to mix in society — to visit and be visited."
"I don't wish to see anybody but you."
"And should you see one whom you could prefer, I would not be so unjust" —
"I have never seen any one I preferred to you, and I have never loved any one but you and my father."
"My poor child," replied Monte Cristo, "that is merely because your father and myself are the only men who have ever talked to you."
"I don't want anybody else to talk to me.
My father said I was his 'joy' — you style me your 'love,' — and both of you have called me 'my child.'"
"Do you remember your father, Haidee?"
The young Greek smiled.
"He is here, and here," said she, touching her eyes and her heart.
"And where am I?" inquired Monte Cristo laughingly.
"You?" cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness, "you are everywhere!"
Monte Cristo took the delicate hand of the young girl in his, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the simple child of nature hastily withdrew it, and presented her cheek.
"You now understand, Haidee," said the count, "that from this moment you are absolutely free; that here you exercise unlimited sway, and are at liberty to lay aside or continue the costume of your country, as it may suit your inclination.
Within this mansion you are absolute mistress of your actions, and may go abroad or remain in your apartments as may seem most agreeable to you.
A carriage waits your orders, and Ali and Myrtho will accompany you whithersoever you desire to go.
There is but one favor I would entreat of you."
"Speak."
"Guard carefully the secret of your birth.
Make no allusion to the past; nor upon any occasion be induced to pronounce the names of your illustrious father or ill-fated mother."
"I have already told you, my lord, that I shall see no one."
"It is possible, Haidee, that so perfect a seclusion, though conformable with the habits and customs of the East, may not be practicable in Paris.
Endeavor, then, to accustom yourself to our manner of living in these northern climes as you did to those of Rome, Florence, Milan, and Madrid; it may be useful to you one of these days, whether you remain here or return to the East."
The young girl raised her tearful eyes towards Monte Cristo as she said with touching earnestness,
"Whether we return to the East, you mean to say, my lord, do you not?"
"My child," returned Monte Cristo "you know full well that whenever we part, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the flower — the flower falls from the tree."
"My lord," replied Haidee,
"I never will leave you, for I am sure I could not exist without you."
"My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still young."
"My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years old, but to me he was handsomer than all the fine youths I saw."
"Then tell me, Haidee, do you believe you shall be able to accustom yourself to our present mode of life?"
"Shall I see you?"
"Every day."
"Then what do you fear, my lord?"
"You might find it dull."
"No, my lord.
In the morning, I shall rejoice in the prospect of your coming, and in the evening dwell with delight on the happiness I have enjoyed in your presence; then too, when alone, I can call forth mighty pictures of the past, see vast horizons bounded only by the towering mountains of Pindus and Olympus.
Oh, believe me, that when three great passions, such as sorrow, love, and gratitude fill the heart, ennui can find no place."
"You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haidee, and your charming and poetical ideas prove well your descent from that race of goddesses who claim your country as their birthplace.
Depend on my care to see that your youth is not blighted, or suffered to pass away in ungenial solitude; and of this be well assured, that if you love me as a father, I love you as a child."
"You are wrong, my lord.
The love I have for you is very different from the love I had for my father.
My father died, but I did not die.
If you were to die, I should die too."
The Count, with a smile of profound tenderness, extended his hand, and she carried it to her lips.
Monte Cristo, thus attuned to the interview he proposed to hold with Morrel and his family, departed, murmuring as he went these lines of Pindar,
"Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who, after having watched its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call it his own."
The carriage was prepared according to orders, and stepping lightly into it, the count drove off at his usual rapid pace.

In a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay.
The house was of white stone, and in a small court before it were two small beds full of beautiful flowers.
In the concierge that opened the gate the count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye had become somewhat dim in the course of nine years, Cocles did not recognize the count.
The carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn, to avoid a fountain that played in a basin of rockwork, — an ornament that had excited the jealousy of the whole quarter, and had gained for the place the appellation of
"The Little Versailles."
It is needless to add that there were gold and silver fish in the basin.
The house, with kitchens and cellars below, had above the ground-floor, two stories and attics.
The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop, two pavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had been purchased by Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that he could make of it a profitable speculation.
He had reserved the house and half the garden, and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had let them upon lease with the pavilions at the bottom of the garden.
So that for a trifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut out from observation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain.
The breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and the furnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and green damask.
There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a music-room for Julie, who never played.
The whole of the second story was set apart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar to his sister's apartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a billiard-room, where he received his friends.
He was superintending the grooming of his horse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the garden, when the count's carriage stopped at the gate.
Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquired whether Monsieur and Madame Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel would see his excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.
"The Count of Monte Cristo?" cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar and hastening to the carriage;
"I should think we would see him.
Ah, a thousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise."
And the young officer shook the count's hand so warmly, that Monte Cristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and he saw that he had been expected with impatience, and was received with pleasure.
"Come, come," said Maximilian,
"I will serve as your guide; such a man as you are ought not to be introduced by a servant.
My sister is in the garden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers, the Presse and the Debats, within six steps of her; for wherever you see Madame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four yards and you will find M. Emmanuel, and 'reciprocally,' as they say at the Polytechnic School."
At the sound of their steps a young woman of twenty to five and twenty, dressed in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged in plucking the dead leaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head.
This was Julie, who had become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault.
She uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.
"Don't disturb yourself, Julie," said he.
"The count has only been two or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman of the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him."
"Ah, monsieur," returned Julie, "it is treason in my brother to bring you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister.
Penelon, Penelon!"
An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek.
A few locks of gray mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who had braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics.
"I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?" said he.
Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master's daughter
"Mademoiselle Julie," and had never been able to change the name to Madame Herbault.
"Penelon," replied Julie, "go and inform M. Emmanuel of this gentleman's visit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon."
Then, turning to Monte Cristo, — "I hope you will permit me to leave you for a few minutes," continued she; and without awaiting any reply, disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a lateral alley.
"I am sorry to see," observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, "that I cause no small disturbance in your house."
"Look there," said Maximilian, laughing; "there is her husband changing his jacket for a coat.
I assure you, you are well known in the Rue Meslay."
"Your family appears to be a very happy one," said the count, as if speaking to himself.
"Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them happy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to each other, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy themselves as rich as Rothschild."
"Five and twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however," replied Monte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to Maximilian's heart like the voice of a father; "but they will not be content with that.
Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor?"
"He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of my poor father.
M. Morrel, at his death, left 500,000 francs, which were divided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children.
Her husband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his noble probity, his first-rate ability, and his spotless reputation, wished to possess as much as his wife.
He labored and toiled until he had amassed 250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object.
Oh, I assure you, sir, it was a touching spectacle to see these young creatures, destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling together, and through their unwillingness to change any of the customs of their paternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less scrupulous people would have effected in two or three.
Marseilles resounded with their well-earned praises.
At last, one day, Emmanuel came to his wife, who had just finished making up the accounts.
'Julie,' said he to her,
'Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of a hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the limits of our gains.
Can you content yourself with the small fortune which we shall possess for the future?
Listen to me.
Our house transacts business to the amount of a million a year, from which we derive an income of 40,000 francs.
We can dispose of the business, if we please, in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay, in which he offers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite with his own, for 300,000 francs.
Advise me what I had better do.' — 'Emmanuel,' returned my sister, 'the house of Morrel can only be carried on by a Morrel.
Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save our father's name from the chances of evil fortune and failure?' — 'I thought so,' replied Emmanuel; 'but I wished to have your advice.' — 'This is my counsel: — Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; all we have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office.'
This was done instantly.
It was three o'clock; at a quarter past, a merchant presented himself to insure two ships; it was a clear profit of 15,000. francs.
'Monsieur,' said Emmanuel, 'have the goodness to address yourself to M. Delaunay.
We have quitted business.' — 'How long?' inquired the astonished merchant.
'A quarter of an hour,' was the reply.
And this is the reason, monsieur," continued Maximilian, "of my sister and brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year."
Maximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count's heart had swelled within him, when Emmanuel entered wearing a hat and coat.
He saluted the count with the air of a man who is aware of the rank of his guest; then, after having led Monte Cristo around the little garden, he returned to the house.
A large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the air with their perfume, stood in the salon.
Julie, suitably dressed, and her hair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten minutes), received the count on his entrance.
The songs of the birds were heard in an aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose acacias formed an exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains.
Everything in this charming retreat, from the warble of the birds to the smile of the mistress, breathed tranquillity and repose.
The count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment he entered the house, and he remained silent and pensive, forgetting that he was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after the first salutations had been exchanged.
The silence became almost painful when, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie — "Madame," said he at length,
"I pray you to excuse my emotion, which must astonish you who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here; but contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could never be weary of looking at yourself and your husband."
"We are very happy, monsieur," replied Julie; "but we have also known unhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings than ourselves."
The Count's features displayed an expression of the most intense curiosity.
"Oh, all this is a family history, as Chateau-Renaud told you the other day," observed Maximilian.
"This humble picture would have but little interest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and the misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have experienced bitter sorrows."
"And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all who are in affliction?" said Monte Cristo inquiringly.
"Yes, count," returned Julie, "we may indeed say he has, for he has done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his angels."
The count's cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth.
"Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every wish," said Emmanuel, "know not what is the real happiness of life, just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather."
Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the apartment with a slow step.
"Our magnificence makes you smile, count," said Maximilian, who had followed him with his eyes.
"No, no," returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a crystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet cushion.
"I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse, with the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other."
"Count," replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, "those are our most precious family treasures."
"The stone seems very brilliant," answered the count.
"Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now."
"This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation, madame," replied Monte Cristo bowing.
"Pardon me, I had no intention of committing an indiscretion."
"Indiscretion, — oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for expatiating on this subject.
If we wanted to conceal the noble action this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view.
Oh, would we could relate it everywhere, and to every one, so that the emotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his presence."
"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.
"Monsieur," returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and respectfully kissing the silken purse, "this has touched the hand of a man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from shame and disgrace, — a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear every one envying our happy lot.
This letter" (as he spoke, Maximilian drew a letter from the purse and gave it to the count) — "this letter was written by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution, and this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her dowry."
Monte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an indescribable feeling of delight.
It was the letter written (as our readers know) to Julie, and signed
"Sinbad the Sailor."
"Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service — unknown to you?"
"Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand," continued Maximilian.
"We have supplicated heaven in vain to grant us this favor, but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannot comprehend — we have been guided by an invisible hand, — a hand as powerful as that of an enchanter."
"Oh," cried Julie,
"I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched.
Four years ago, Penelon was at Trieste — Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener — Penelon, when he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this letter on the fifth of September.
He felt convinced of his identity, but he did not venture to address him."
"An Englishman," said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attention with which Julie looked at him.
"An Englishman you say?"
"Yes," replied Maximilian, "an Englishman, who represented himself as the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome.
It was this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de Morcerf's, that Messrs.
Thomson & French were your bankers.
That happened, as I told you, in 1829.
For God's sake, tell me, did you know this Englishman?"
"But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have constantly denied having rendered you this service?"
"Yes."
"Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be some one who, grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation?"
"Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle."
"What was his name?" asked Monte Cristo.
"He gave no other name," answered Julie, looking earnestly at the count, "than that at the end of his letter — 'Sinbad the Sailor.'"
"Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one."
Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice, —
"Tell me," continued he, "was he not about my height, perhaps a little taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his coat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil?"
"Oh, do you then know him?" cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy.
"No," returned Monte Cristo
"I only guessed.
I knew a Lord Wilmore, who was constantly doing actions of this kind."
"Without revealing himself?"
"He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of gratitude."
"Oh, heaven," exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, "in what did he believe, then?"
"He did not credit it at the period which I knew him," said Monte Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie's voice; "but, perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist."
"And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?" inquired Emmanuel.
"Oh, if you do know him," cried Julie, "can you tell us where he is — where we can find him?
Maximilian — Emmanuel — if we do but discover him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!"
Monte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked hastily up and down the room.
"In the name of heaven," said Maximilian, "if you know anything of him, tell us what it is."
"Alas," cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, "if Lord Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him again.
I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he will never return."
"Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you," said Julie, much affected; and the young lady's eyes swam with tears.
"Madame," replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two liquid pearls that trickled down Julie's cheeks, "had Lord Wilmore seen what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you shed would reconcile him to mankind;" and he held out his hand to Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the count.
"But," continued she,
"Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must have known some one, can we not — "
"Oh, it is useless to inquire," returned the count; "perhaps, after all, he was not the man you seek for.
He was my friend: he had no secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me."
"And he told you nothing?"
"Not a word."
"Nothing that would lead you to suppose?"
"Nothing."
"And yet you spoke of him at once."
"Ah, in such a case one supposes" —
"Sister, sister," said Maximilian, coming to the count's aid, "monsieur is quite right.
Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,
'It was no Englishman that thus saved us.'" Monte Cristo started.
"What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?" said he eagerly.
"My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed — he believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us.
Oh, it was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father's faith.
How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend — a friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were,
'Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantes!'" At these words the count's paleness, which had for some time been increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian, — "Madame," said he,
"I trust you will allow me to visit you occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have thus yielded to my feelings;" and he hastily quitted the apartment.
"This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man," said Emmanuel.
"Yes," answered Maximilian, "but I feel sure he has an excellent heart, and that he likes us."
"His voice went to my heart," observed Julie; "and two or three times I fancied that I had heard it before."

About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood, where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron gate, that dated from the time of Louis XII.
This noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse.
The proprietors of the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves to the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted court-yard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to the garden shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine kitchen-garden of about an acre.
For the demon of speculation drew a line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the kitchen-garden.
The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication with the Faubourg Saint-Honore itself, one of the most important thoroughfares in the city of Paris.
In matters of speculation, however, though "man proposes," "money disposes."
From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high price for it, and being quite unable to find any one willing to take his bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners, at a yearly rental of 500 francs.
And so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers and delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a height of six feet.
True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but that a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that circumstance.
Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, pease, and melons had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucerne alone bore evidence of its being deemed worthy of cultivation.
A small, low door gave egress from the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters, and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not even the one-half per cent it had originally paid.
Towards the house the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall, without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air.
At one corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred paces off.
Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the boundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool, refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the entire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the mansion.
On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the iron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means of the openings in the planks, — the earnestness of her attitude and the fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes, proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter.
At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man appeared.
He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but his carefully arranged hair, beard and mustache, all of the richest and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire.
After casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing and securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the barrier.
At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a hasty retreat.
But the eye of love had already seen, even through the narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe, and observed the fluttering of the blue sash.
Pressing his lips close to the planks, he exclaimed,
"Don't be alarmed, Valentine — it is I!"
Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as she did so,
"And why do you come so late to-day?
It is almost dinner-time, and I had to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful mother-in-law, my too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never to get done.
So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular that at first I did not recognize you."
"Dearest Valentine," said the young man, "the difference between our respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love, but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you.
If it be but to carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to suppose), at least I was in your thoughts.
You asked me the cause of my being late, and why I come disguised.
I will candidly explain the reason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me.
I have chosen a trade."
"A trade?
Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such deep cause for uneasiness?"
"Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than life itself!
But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about it.
I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about here your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief.
That would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of the fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might well create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently, adopted the costume of my calling."
"What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!"
"Nonsense?
Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my life by such a name.
Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually screen our meetings from all suspicion or danger."
"I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you really mean."
"Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucerne.
Think of that, Valentine!
There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you.
Only imagine what happiness that would afford me.
I can scarcely contain myself at the bare idea.
Such felicity seems above all price — as a thing impossible and unattainable.
But would you believe that I purchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would cheerfully have surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of 500 francs per annum, paid quarterly?
Henceforth we have nothing to fear.
I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious character.
I may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of my fond, faithful, and unalterable affection, whenever you visit your favorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to professions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a blouse and cap."
A faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of Valentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though some envious cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart,
"Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons.
We should presume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led astray by our blind confidence in each other's prudence."
"How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear Valentine?
Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance, schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas?
And you have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor.
When you spoke to me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since, by word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you?
You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d'Epinay, and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known to change a determination once formed.
I kept in the background, as you wished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but hoping that providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and order events in our favor.
But what cared I for delays or difficulties, Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on me?
If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure anything."
"Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my mother-in-law, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these meetings, so fraught with danger to both."
"I will not admit that word," returned the young man; "it is at once cruel and unjust.
Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than myself?
You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time, Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or elsewhere — have I not obeyed?
And since I found means to enter this enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate — to be close to you without really seeing you — have I ever asked so much as to touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a trifle to one of my youth and strength?
Never has a complaint or a murmur escaped me.
I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any knight of olden times.
Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust."
"It is true," said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian to press his lips to them, "and you are a true and faithful friend; but still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an opposite spirit all would have been ended between us.
You promised to bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother.
For I have no friend but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father, harassed and persecuted by my mother-in-law, and left to the sole companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered hand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye alone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness for his poor grandchild.
Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my only friend and supporter is a living corpse!
Indeed, indeed, Maximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of pity."
"Valentine," replied the young man, deeply affected,
"I will not say you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no manner resembling what I feel for you.
When I think of you my heart beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render them available in serving or assisting you.
M. Franz is not expected to return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable and unforeseen chances may befriend us.
Let us, then, hope for the best; hope is so sweet a comforter.
Meanwhile, Valentine, while reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to me — the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus.
What promise of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience I have evinced? — none whatever.
What granted me? — scarcely more.
You tell me of M. Franz d'Epinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other sorrow in your heart?
You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life and each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours — that were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing misery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the wife of another!
Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel conscious, as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between these iron bars, and said,
'Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and believe that, living or dead, I am yours — yours only, and forever!'" The poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs and tears.
A rapid change took place in the young man's feelings.
"Dearest, dearest Valentine," exclaimed he, "forgive me if I have offended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly caused you pain."
"No, Maximilian, I am not offended," answered she, "but do you not see what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in my father's house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for, even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the subject save to yourself.
Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case.
The general remark is,
'Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do on their daughters.
What though she has lost her own mother at a tender age, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de Villefort.'
The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from utter indifference, while my mother-in-law detests me with a hatred so much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile."
"Hate you, sweet Valentine," exclaimed the young man; "how is it possible for any one to do that?"
"Alas," replied the weeping girl,
"I am obliged to own that my mother-in-law's aversion to me arises from a very natural source — her overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward."
"But why should it?"
"I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into our present conversation, I will just say this much — that her extreme dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the fortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-Meran, whose sole heiress I am.
Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for being so richly endowed.
Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of this wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father's love.
God knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me a happy and affectionate home."
"Poor Valentine!"
"I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same time am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless.
Then, too, my father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity; protected as he is by his high position and firmly established reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose him; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a word.
Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not attempt to resist my father's commands it is more on your account than my own."
"But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst, — why picture so gloomy a future?"
"Because I judge it from the past."
"Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is termed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons, not altogether so much beneath your alliance.
The days when such distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with those of the empire.
The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself with the nobility of the cannon.
Now I belong to this last-named class; and certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging as well as certain.
My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered, and the memory of my late father is respected in our country, Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the city; I say our country, because you were born not far from Marseilles."
"Don't speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word brings back my mother to my recollection — my angel mother, who died too soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven.
Oh, if my mother were still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us."
"I fear, Valentine," replied the lover, "that were she living I should never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on me."
"Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian," cried Valentine; "but there is one thing I wish to know."
"And what is that?" inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine hesitated.
"Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?"
"Not that I am aware of," replied the young man, "unless, indeed, any ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties — your father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any other difference between them.
But why do you ask?"
"I will tell you," replied the young girl, "for it is but right you should know.
Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of the Legion of honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also — you recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses ran away with my mother-in-law and little brother, and very nearly killed them?
While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know you had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy, and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before so many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly and as steadily as I could."
"Dear Valentine!"
"Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of your name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing, I was so persuaded that every one must be as much affected as myself by the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too."
"'Morrel, Morrel,' cried my father, 'stop a bit;' then knitting his brows into a deep frown, he added, 'surely this cannot be one of the Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from their violent Bonapartism — I mean about the year 1815.' — 'Yes,' replied M. Danglars,
'I believe he is the son of the old shipowner.'"
"Indeed," answered Maximilian; "and what did your father say then, Valentine?"
"Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don't dare to tell you."
"Always tell me everything," said Maximilian with a smile.
"'Ah,' continued my father, still frowning, 'their idolized emperor treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them 'food for powder,' which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain.
Though it certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that uncivilized country.'"
"Brutal politics, I must confess." said Maximilian; "but don't attach any serious importance, dear, to what your father said.
My father was not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk.
'Why,' said he, 'does not the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could maintain, and using them to save better men?'
You see, my dear, that for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much to choose between the language of either party.
But what did M. Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?"
"Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to himself — half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame.
And I suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his presence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that depreciating manner."
"The name of M. Noirtier," interposed Maximilian, "is celebrated throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the Bourbons."
"Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most strange — the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?
But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at the newspaper I had been reading.
'What is the matter, dear grandfather?' said I, 'are you pleased?'
He gave me a sign in the affirmative.
'With what my father said just now?'
He returned a sign in the negative.
'Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?'
Another sign in the negative.
'Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I didn't dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion of Honor?'
He signified assent; only think of the poor old man's being so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had been made an officer of the Legion of Honor!
Perhaps it was a mere whim on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I love him for showing so much interest in you."
"How singular," murmured Maximilian; "your father hates me, while your grandfather, on the contrary — What strange feelings are aroused by politics."
"Hush," cried Valentine, suddenly; "some one is coming!"
Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucerne, which he began to pull up in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding it.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.
"Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the drawing-room."
"A visitor?" inquired Valentine, much agitated; "who is it?"
"Some grand personage — a prince I believe they said — the Count of Monte Cristo."
"I will come directly," cried Valentine aloud.
The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine's
"I am coming" was the customary signal of farewell.
"Now, then," said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade,
"I would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort."

It was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame de Villefort's for the purpose of returning the procureur's visit, and at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in confusion.
Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count was announced, desired that her son might be brought thither instantly to renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of gratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent speeches which made his mother say, — "Oh, that naughty child!
But I can't be severe with him, he is really so bright."
After the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort.
"My husband dines with the chancellor," replied the young lady; "he has just gone, and I am sure he'll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the pleasure of seeing you before he went."
Two visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him with all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which politeness admits and curiosity requires.
"What is your sister Valentine doing?" inquired Madame de Villefort of Edward; "tell some one to bid her come here, that I may have the honor of introducing her to the count."
"You have a daughter, then, madame?" inquired the count; "very young, I presume?"
"The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage," replied the young wife, "a fine well-grown girl."
"But melancholy," interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out of the tail of a splendid parroquet that was screaming on its gilded perch, in order to make a plume for his hat.
Madame de Villefort merely cried, — "Be still, Edward!"
She then added, — "This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de Villefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of her beauty.
But what detains her?
Go, Edward, and see."
"Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found."
"And where are they looking for her?"
"With grandpapa Noirtier."
"And do you think she is not there?"
"No, no, no, no, no, she is not there," replied Edward, singing his words.
"And where is she, then?
If you know, why don't you tell?"
"She is under the big chestnut-tree," replied the spoiled brat, as he gave, in spite of his mother's commands, live flies to the parrot, which seemed keenly to relish such fare.
Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the young lady herself entered the apartment.
She appeared much dejected; and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the traces of recent tears in her eyes.
Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her mother.
Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of a swan.
She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that redoubled the count's attention.
He rose to return the salutation.
"Mademoiselle de Villefort, my daughter-in-law," said Madame de Villefort to Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards Valentine with her hand.
"And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China," said the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.
Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward; but the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy and enthusiasm.
"But, madame," replied the count, continuing the conversation, and looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, "have I not already had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before?
I could not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as mademoiselle entered the sight of her was an additional ray of light thrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark."
"I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very fond of society, and we very seldom go out," said the young lady.
"Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself, madame, or this charming little merry boy.
Besides, the Parisian world is entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in Paris but very few days.
No, — but, perhaps, you will permit me to call to mind — stay!"
The Count placed his hand on his brow as if to collect his thoughts.
"No — it was somewhere — away from here — it was — I do not know — but it appears that this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some religious fete; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the interesting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you, madame, were under the trellis of some arbor.
Pray come to my aid, madame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory?"
"No, indeed," replied Madame de Villefort; "and yet it appears to me, sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have been imprinted on my memory."
"Perhaps the count saw us in Italy," said Valentine timidly.
"Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably," replied Monte Cristo; "you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle?"
"Yes; madame and I were there two years ago.
The doctors, anxious for my lungs, had prescribed the air of Naples.
We went by Bologna, Perugia, and Rome."
"Ah, yes — true, mademoiselle," exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple explanation was sufficient to revive the recollection he sought.
"It was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the Hotel des Postes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and her son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you."
"I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the Hotel des Postes, and the festival of which you speak," said Madame de Villefort, "but in vain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really do not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you before."
"It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you," observed Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the count.
"But I remember it perfectly," interposed the darling Edward.
"I will assist your memory, madame," continued the count; "the day had been burning hot; you were waiting for horses, which were delayed in consequence of the festival.
Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of the garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock."
"And I caught it, mamma, don't you remember?" interposed Edward, "and I pulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail."
"You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while you were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you, Mademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed for a considerable time with somebody?"
"Yes, in truth, yes," answered the young lady, turning very red,
"I do remember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he was a medical man, I think."
"Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been at that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a fever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a reputation as a skilful physician.
We discoursed a long time, madame, on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raffaelle, of manners, customs, of the famous aquatofana, of which they had told you, I think you said, that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret."
"Yes, true," replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily,
"I remember now."
"I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we discoursed, madame," continued the count with perfect calmness; "but I perfectly remember that, falling into the error which others had entertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of Mademoiselle de Villefort."
"Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man," said Madame de Villefort, "since you had cured the sick."
"Moliere or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was precisely because I was not, that I had cured my patients; for myself, I am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the natural sciences somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you understand." — At this moment the clock struck six.
"It is six o'clock," said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated.
"Valentine, will you not go and see if your grandpapa will have his dinner?"
Valentine rose, and saluting the count, left the apartment without speaking.
"Oh, madame," said the count, when Valentine had left the room, "was it on my account that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away?"
"By no means," replied the young lady quickly; "but this is the hour when we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his pitiful existence.
You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of my husband's father?"
"Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me — a paralysis, I think."
"Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire.
But excuse me, sir, for talking of our domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the moment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist."
"No, madame, I did not say as much as that," replied the count with a smile; "quite the contrary.
I have studied chemistry because, having determined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of following the example of King Mithridates."
"Mithridates rex Ponticus," said the young scamp, as he tore some beautiful portraits out of a splendid album, "the individual who took cream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast."
"Edward, you naughty boy," exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the mutilated book from the urchin's grasp, "you are positively past bearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join your sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier's room."
"The album," said Edward sulkily.
"What do you mean? — the album!"
"I want the album."
"How dare you tear out the drawings?"
"Oh, it amuses me."
"Go — go at once."
"I won't go unless you give me the album," said the boy, seating himself doggedly in an arm-chair, according to his habit of never giving way.
"Take it, then, and pray disturb us no longer," said Madame de Villefort, giving the album to Edward, who then went towards the door, led by his mother.
The count followed her with his eyes.
"Let us see if she shuts the door after him," he muttered.
Madame de Villefort closed the door carefully after the child, the count appearing not to notice her; then casting a scrutinizing glance around the chamber, the young wife returned to her chair, in which she seated herself.
"Allow me to observe, madame," said the count, with that kind tone he could assume so well, "you are really very severe with that dear clever child."
"Oh, sometimes severity is quite necessary," replied Madame de Villefort, with all a mother's real firmness.
"It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master Edward was repeating when he referred to King Mithridates," continued the count, "and you interrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has by no means neglected him, for your son is really advanced for his years."
"The fact is, count," answered the mother, agreeably flattered, "he has great aptitude, and learns all that is set before him.
He has but one fault, he is somewhat wilful; but really, on referring for the moment to what he said, do you truly believe that Mithridates used these precautions, and that these precautions were efficacious?"
"I think so, madame, because I myself have made use of them, that I might not be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and at Smyrna — that is to say, on three several occasions when, but for these precautions, I must have lost my life."
"And your precautions were successful?"
"Completely so."
"Yes, I remember now your mentioning to me at Perugia something of this sort."
"Indeed?" said the count with an air of surprise, remarkably well counterfeited;
"I really did not remember."
"I inquired of you if poisons acted equally, and with the same effect, on men of the North as on men of the South; and you answered me that the cold and sluggish habits of the North did not present the same aptitude as the rich and energetic temperaments of the natives of the South."
"And that is the case," observed Monte Cristo.
"I have seen Russians devour, without being visibly inconvenienced, vegetable substances which would infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab."
"And you really believe the result would be still more sure with us than in the East, and in the midst of our fogs and rains a man would habituate himself more easily than in a warm latitude to this progressive absorption of poison?"
"Certainly; it being at the same time perfectly understood that he should have been duly fortified against the poison to which he had not been accustomed."
"Yes, I understand that; and how would you habituate yourself, for instance, or rather, how did you habituate yourself to it?"
"Oh, very easily.
Suppose you knew beforehand the poison that would be made use of against you; suppose the poison was, for instance, brucine" —
"Brucine is extracted from the false angostura [*] is it not?" inquired Madame de Villefort.
"Precisely, madame," replied Monte Cristo; "but I perceive I have not much to teach you.
Allow me to compliment you on your knowledge; such learning is very rare among ladies."
* Brucoea ferruginea.
"Oh, I am aware of that," said Madame de Villefort; "but I have a passion for the occult sciences, which speak to the imagination like poetry, and are reducible to figures, like an algebraic equation; but go on, I beg of you; what you say interests me to the greatest degree."
"Well," replied Monte Cristo "suppose, then, that this poison was brucine, and you were to take a milligramme the first day, two milligrammes the second day, and so on.
Well, at the end of ten days you would have taken a centigramme, at the end of twenty days, increasing another milligramme, you would have taken three hundred centigrammes; that is to say, a dose which you would support without inconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person who had not taken the same precautions as yourself.
Well, then, at the end of a month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would kill the person who drank with you, without your perceiving, otherwise than from slight inconvenience, that there was any poisonous substance mingled with this water."
"Do you know any other counter-poisons?"
"I do not."
"I have often read, and read again, the history of Mithridates," said Madame de Villefort in a tone of reflection, "and had always considered it a fable."
"No, madame, contrary to most history, it is true; but what you tell me, madame, what you inquire of me, is not the result of a chance query, for two years ago you asked me the same questions, and said then, that for a very long time this history of Mithridates had occupied your mind."
"True, sir.
The two favorite studies of my youth were botany and mineralogy, and subsequently, when I learned that the use of simples frequently explained the whole history of a people, and the entire life of individuals in the East, as flowers betoken and symbolize a love affair, I have regretted that I was not a man, that I might have been a Flamel, a Fontana, or a Cabanis."
"And the more, madame," said Monte Cristo, "as the Orientals do not confine themselves, as did Mithridates, to make a cuirass of his poisons, but they also made them a dagger.
Science becomes, in their hands, not only a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an offensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings, the other against all their enemies.
With opium, belladonna, brucaea, snake-wood, and the cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who stand in their way.
There is not one of those women, Egyptian, Turkish, or Greek, whom here you call 'good women,' who do not know how, by means of chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in psychology to amaze a confessor."
"Really," said Madame de Villefort, whose eyes sparkled with strange fire at this conversation.
"Oh, yes, indeed, madame," continued Monte Cristo, "the secret dramas of the East begin with a love philtre and end with a death potion — begin with paradise and end with — hell.
There are as many elixirs of every kind as there are caprices and peculiarities in the physical and moral nature of humanity; and I will say further — the art of these chemists is capable with the utmost precision to accommodate and proportion the remedy and the bane to yearnings for love or desires for vengeance."
"But, sir," remarked the young woman, "these Eastern societies, in the midst of which you have passed a portion of your existence, are as fantastic as the tales that come from their strange land.
A man can easily be put out of the way there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad and Bassora of the 'Thousand and One Nights.'
The sultans and viziers who rule over society there, and who constitute what in France we call the government, are really Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not only pardon a poisoner, but even make him a prime minister, if his crime has been an ingenious one, and who, under such circumstances, have the whole story written in letters of gold, to divert their hours of idleness and ennui."
"By no means, madame; the fanciful exists no longer in the East.
There, disguised under other names, and concealed under other costumes, are police agents, magistrates, attorneys-general, and bailiffs.
They hang, behead, and impale their criminals in the most agreeable possible manner; but some of these, like clever rogues, have contrived to escape human justice, and succeed in their fraudulent enterprises by cunning stratagems.
Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or cupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, or some near relation to dispose of, goes straight to the grocer's or druggist's, gives a false name, which leads more easily to his detection than his real one, and under the pretext that the rats prevent him from sleeping, purchases five or six grammes of arsenic — if he is really a cunning fellow, he goes to five or six different druggists or grocers, and thereby becomes only five or six times more easily traced; — then, when he has acquired his specific, he administers duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a dose of arsenic which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and which, without rhyme or reason, makes his victim utter groans which alarm the entire neighborhood.
Then arrive a crowd of policemen and constables.
They fetch a doctor, who opens the dead body, and collects from the entrails and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a spoon.
Next day a hundred newspapers relate the fact, with the names of the victim and the murderer.
The same evening the grocer or grocers, druggist or druggists, come and say,
'It was I who sold the arsenic to the gentleman;' and rather than not recognize the guilty purchaser, they will recognize twenty.
Then the foolish criminal is taken, imprisoned, interrogated, confronted, confounded, condemned, and cut off by hemp or steel; or if she be a woman of any consideration, they lock her up for life.
This is the way in which you Northerns understand chemistry, madame.
Desrues was, however, I must confess, more skilful."
"What would you have, sir?" said the lady, laughing; "we do what we can.
All the world has not the secret of the Medicis or the Borgias."
"Now," replied the count, shrugging his shoulders, "shall I tell you the cause of all these stupidities?
It is because, at your theatres, by what at least I could judge by reading the pieces they play, they see persons swallow the contents of a phial, or suck the button of a ring, and fall dead instantly.
Five minutes afterwards the curtain falls, and the spectators depart.
They are ignorant of the consequences of the murder; they see neither the police commissary with his badge of office, nor the corporal with his four men; and so the poor fools believe that the whole thing is as easy as lying.
But go a little way from France — go either to Aleppo or Cairo, or only to Naples or Rome, and you will see people passing by you in the streets — people erect, smiling, and fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you were holding on by the skirt of his mantle, would say,
'That man was poisoned three weeks ago; he will be a dead man in a month.'"
"Then," remarked Madame de Villefort, "they have again discovered the secret of the famous aquatofana that they said was lost at Perugia."
"Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose anything?
The arts change about and make a tour of the world; things take a different name, and the vulgar do not follow them — that is all; but there is always the same result.
Poisons act particularly on some organ or another — one on the stomach, another on the brain, another on the intestines.
Well, the poison brings on a cough, the cough an inflammation of the lungs, or some other complaint catalogued in the book of science, which, however, by no means precludes it from being decidedly mortal; and if it were not, would be sure to become so, thanks to the remedies applied by foolish doctors, who are generally bad chemists, and which will act in favor of or against the malady, as you please; and then there is a human being killed according to all the rules of art and skill, and of whom justice learns nothing, as was said by a terrible chemist of my acquaintance, the worthy Abbe Adelmonte of Taormina, in Sicily, who has studied these national phenomena very profoundly."
"It is quite frightful, but deeply interesting," said the young lady, motionless with attention.
"I thought, I must confess, that these tales, were inventions of the Middle Ages."
"Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by ours.
What is the use of time, rewards of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon prizes, if they do not lead society towards more complete perfection?
Yet man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and that is half the battle."
"So," added Madame de Villefort, constantly returning to her object, "the poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis, the Renes, the Ruggieris, and later, probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose story has been so misused by modern drama and romance" —
"Were objects of art, madame, and nothing more," replied the count.
"Do you suppose that the real savant addresses himself stupidly to the mere individual?
By no means.
Science loves eccentricities, leaps and bounds, trials of strength, fancies, if I may be allowed so to term them.
Thus, for instance, the excellent Abbe Adelmonte, of whom I spoke just now, made in this way some marvellous experiments."
"Really?"
"Yes; I will mention one to you.
He had a remarkably fine garden, full of vegetables, flowers, and fruit.
From amongst these vegetables he selected the most simple — a cabbage, for instance.
For three days he watered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the cabbage began to droop and turn yellow.
At that moment he cut it.
In the eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its wholesome appearance.
It was only poisoned to the Abbe Adelmonte.
He then took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits — for the Abbe Adelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as fine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit.
Well, the Abbe Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage.
The rabbit died.
What magistrate would find, or even venture to insinuate, anything against this?
What procureur has ever ventured to draw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in consequence of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed? — not one.
So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no notice.
This rabbit dead, the Abbe Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook and thrown on the dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking these intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day.
At the moment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is flying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte's country); this bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it dines off its prey.
Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has been very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy while flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond.
The pike, eels, and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows — well, they feast on the vulture.
Now suppose that next day, one of these eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at your table.
Well, then, your guest will be poisoned at the fifth remove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the intestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus.
The doctors open the body and say with an air of profound learning,
'The subject has died of a tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever!'"
"But," remarked Madame de Villefort, "all these circumstances which you link thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the vulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the fish-pond."
"Ah, that is where the art comes in.
To be a great chemist in the East, one must direct chance; and this is to be achieved." — Madame de Villefort was in deep thought, yet listened attentively.
"But," she exclaimed, suddenly, "arsenic is indelible, indestructible; in whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of the victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient quantity to cause death."
"Precisely so," cried Monte Cristo — "precisely so; and this is what I said to my worthy Adelmonte.
He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by a Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb,
'My son, the world was not made in a day — but in seven.
Return on Sunday.'
On the Sunday following I did return to him.
Instead of having watered his cabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of salts, having their basis in strychnine, strychnos colubrina, as the learned term it.
Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of disease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust; yet, five minutes afterwards, the rabbit was dead.
The fowl pecked at the rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen.
This time we were the vultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had disappeared, there were only general symptoms.
There was no peculiar indication in any organ — an excitement of the nervous system — that was it; a case of cerebral congestion — nothing more.
The fowl had not been poisoned — she had died of apoplexy.
Apoplexy is a rare disease among fowls, I believe, but very common among men."
Madame de Villefort appeared more and more thoughtful.
"It is very fortunate," she observed, "that such substances could only be prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning each other."
"By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry," said Monte Cristo carelessly.
"And then," said Madame de Villefort, endeavoring by a struggle, and with effort, to get away from her thoughts, "however skilfully it is prepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it does not escape the eye of God.
The Orientals are stronger than we are in cases of conscience, and, very prudently, have no hell — that is the point."
"Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure mind like yours, but which would easily yield before sound reasoning.
The bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of Jean Jacques Rousseau, — you remember, — the mandarin who is killed five hundred leagues off by raising the tip of the finger.
Man's whole life passes in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by reflecting on them.
You will find very few persons who will go and brutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature, or will administer to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe on which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of which we just now talked.
Such a thing is really out of rule — eccentric or stupid.
To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least, at ninety, and the feelings excited beyond the ordinary limit.
But suppose one pass, as is permissible in philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym, then, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an 'elimination;' you merely and simply remove from your path the individual who is in your way, and that without shock or violence, without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense of the word, of him who inflicts them.
Then there will be no blood, no groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid and compromising moment of accomplishing the act, — then one escapes the clutch of the human law, which says,
'Do not disturb society!'
This is the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance."
"Yet conscience remains," remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated voice, and with a stifled sigh.
"Yes," answered Monte Cristo "happily, yes, conscience does remain; and if it did not, how wretched we should be!
After every action requiring exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons, howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives.
Thus Richard III., for instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the putting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say,
'These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their juvenile propensities — these two children are impediments in my way of promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they (the children) would infallibly have caused.'
Thus was Lady Macbeth served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne.
Ah, maternal love is a great virtue, a powerful motive — so powerful that it excuses a multitude of things, even if, after Duncan's death, Lady Macbeth had been at all pricked by her conscience."
Madame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and horrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical simplicity which was peculiar to him.
After a moment's silence, the lady inquired,
"Do you know, my dear count," she said, "that you are a very terrible reasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered medium?
Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through alembics and crucibles?
For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the elixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost instantaneously" —
"Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; one drop of that elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was; ten would have destroyed him.
You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched him from those phials which he so imprudently touched?"
"Is it then so terrible a poison?"
"Oh, no.
In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not exist, because in medicine use is made of the most violent poisons, which become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies."
"What, then, is it?"
"A skilful preparation of my friend's the worthy Abbe Adelmonte, who taught me the use of it."
"Oh," observed Madame de Villefort, "it must be an admirable anti-spasmodic."
"Perfect, madame, as you have seen," replied the count; "and I frequently make use of it — with all possible prudence though, be it observed," he added with a smile of intelligence.
"Most assuredly," responded Madame de Villefort in the same tone.
"As for me, so nervous, and so subject to fainting fits, I should require a Doctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and tranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of suffocation.
In the meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to find in France, and your abbe is not probably disposed to make a journey to Paris on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche's anti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman's drops are among my favorite remedies.
Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they are compounded doubly strong."
Monte Cristo opened the tortoise-shell box, which the lady presented to him, and inhaled the odor of the lozenges with the air of an amateur who thoroughly appreciated their composition.
"They are indeed exquisite," he said; "but as they are necessarily submitted to the process of deglutition — a function which it is frequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish — I prefer my own specific."
"Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen produced; but of course it is a secret, and I am not so indiscreet as to ask it of you."
"But I," said Monte Cristo, rising as he spoke — "I am gallant enough to offer it you."
"How kind you are."
"Only remember one thing — a small dose is a remedy, a large one is poison.
One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured into a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its flavor.
But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were prescribing for you."
The clock struck half-past six, and a lady was announced, a friend of Madame de Villefort, who came to dine with her.
"If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time, count, instead of only for the second," said Madame de Villefort; "if I had had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the happiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on detaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be daunted by a first refusal."
"A thousand thanks, madame," replied Monte Cristo "but I have an engagement which I cannot break.
I have promised to escort to the Academie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your grand opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither."
"Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription."
"Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour's conversation I have had with you, which is indeed impossible."
Monte Cristo bowed, and left the house.
Madame de Villefort remained immersed in thought.
"He is a very strange man," she said, "and in my opinion is himself the Adelmonte he talks about."
As to Monte Cristo the result had surpassed his utmost expectations.
"Good," said he, as he went away; "this is a fruitful soil, and I feel certain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground."
Next morning, faithful to his promise, he sent the prescription requested.

The pretext of an opera engagement was so much the more feasible, as there chanced to be on that very night a more than ordinary attraction at the Academie Royale.
Levasseur, who had been suffering under severe illness, made his reappearance in the character of Bertrand, and, as usual, the announcement of the most admired production of the favorite composer of the day had attracted a brilliant and fashionable audience.
Morcerf, like most other young men of rank and fortune, had his orchestra stall, with the certainty of always finding a seat in at least a dozen of the principal boxes occupied by persons of his acquaintance; he had, moreover, his right of entry into the omnibus box.
Chateau-Renaud rented a stall beside his own, while Beauchamp, as a journalist, had unlimited range all over the theatre.
It happened that on this particular night the minister's box was placed at the disposal of Lucien Debray, who offered it to the Comte de Morcerf, who again, upon his mother's rejection of it, sent it to Danglars, with an intimation that he should probably do himself the honor of joining the baroness and her daughter during the evening, in the event of their accepting the box in question.
The ladies received the offer with too much pleasure to dream of a refusal.
To no class of persons is the presentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the wealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying a king's ransom in his waistcoat pocket.
Danglars had, however, protested against showing himself in a ministerial box, declaring that his political principles, and his parliamentary position as member of the opposition party would not permit him so to commit himself; the baroness had, therefore, despatched a note to Lucien Debray, bidding him call for them, it being wholly impossible for her to go alone with Eugenie to the opera.
There is no gainsaying the fact that a very unfavorable construction would have been put upon the circumstance if the two women had gone without escort, while the addition of a third, in the person of her mother's admitted lover, enabled Mademoiselle Danglars to defy malice and ill-nature.
One must take the world as one finds it.
The curtain rose, as usual, to an almost empty house, it being one of the absurdities of Parisian fashion never to appear at the opera until after the beginning of the performance, so that the first act is generally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that part of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in observing the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of opening and shutting doors, and the buzz of conversation.
"Surely," said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened, "that must be the Countess G — — ."
"And who is the Countess G — — ?" inquired Chateau-Renaud.
"What a question!
Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick a quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who the Countess G — — was."
"Ah, to be sure," replied Chateau-Renaud; "the lovely Venetian, is it not?"
"Herself."
At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned his salutation with a smile.
"You know her, it seems?" said Chateau-Renaud.
"Franz introduced me to her at Rome," replied Albert.
"Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you in Rome?"
"With pleasure."
There was a cry of
"Shut up!" from the audience.
This manifestation on the part of the spectators of their wish to be allowed to hear the music, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who continued their conversation.
"The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars," said Chateau-Renaud.
"To-day?"
"Yes."
"Bless me, I quite forgot the races.
Did you bet?"
"Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis."
"And who was the winner?"
"Nautilus.
I staked on him."
"But there were three races, were there not?"
"Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club — a gold cup, you know — and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race."
"What was it?"
"Oh, shut up!" again interposed some of the audience.
"Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course."
"Is that possible?"
"True as day.
The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist, presented themselves at the starting-post.
They were obliged to stuff at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider's pockets, to make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare, against whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths."
"And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey belonged?"
"No."
"You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?"
"Exactly; that was the title."
"Then," answered Albert,
"I am better informed than you are, and know who the owner of that horse was."
"Shut up, there!" cried the pit in chorus.
And this time the tone and manner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility that the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate was addressed to them.
Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized the various countenances around them, as though demanding some one person who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they deemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the challenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and affected to busy themselves with the stage.
At this moment the door of the minister's box opened, and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her daughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted them to their seats.
"Ha, ha," said Chateau-Renaud, "here comes some friends of yours, viscount!
What are you looking at there? don't you see they are trying to catch your eye?"
Albert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave of the fan from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eugenie, she scarcely vouchsafed to waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of the stage.
"I tell you what, my dear fellow," said Chateau-Renaud,
"I cannot imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle Danglars — that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat inferior rank, which by the way I don't think you care very much about.
Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!"
"Handsome, certainly," replied Albert, "but not to my taste, which I confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine."
"Ah, well," exclaimed Chateau-Renaud, who because he had seen his thirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of paternal air with his more youthful friend, "you young people are never satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you a bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not content."
"No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this chase-loving Diana continually surrounded by her nymphs gives me a sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actaeon."
And, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to comprehend the justness of Morcerf's remark — she was beautiful, but her beauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious taste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat rebellious; her eyes, of the same color as her hair, were surmounted by well-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost habitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of firmness and decision so little in accordance with the gentler attributes of her sex — her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have chosen for a chiselled Juno.
Her mouth, which might have been found fault with as too large, displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, rendered still more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips, contrasting vividly with her naturally pale complexion.
But that which completed the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to his taste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of nature generally are, placed just at the corner of her mouth; and the effect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that characterized her countenance.
The rest of Mademoiselle Eugenie's person was in perfect keeping with the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as Chateau-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute.
As regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was the same that a fastidious connoisseur might have found with her beauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine for so young a person.
She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote poetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to be entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance, assisted by a schoolfellow, — a young woman without fortune whose talent promised to develop into remarkable powers as a singer.
It was rumored that she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the principal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in the cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of wealth and independence.
But this counsel effectually decided Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public with one destined for a theatrical life; and acting upon this principle, the banker's daughter, though perfectly willing to allow Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly (that was the name of the young virtuosa) to practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be seen in her company.
Still, though not actually received at the Hotel Danglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated with far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a governess.
The curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame Danglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the accustomed half-hour's interval allowed between the acts, and the audience were left at liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to pay and receive visits in their respective boxes.
Morcerf and Chateau-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves of this permission.
For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that this eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his impatience to join her party, and she whispered her expectations to her daughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to them.
Mademoiselle Eugenie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of the head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her mother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the Countess G — — , and where Morcerf had just made his appearance.
"So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we?" cried the countess, extending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old acquaintance; "it was really very good of you to recognize me so quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me."
"Be assured," replied Albert, "that if I had been aware of your arrival in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to you before this.
Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de Chateau-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday."
Chateau-Renaud bowed to the countess.
"So you were at the races, baron?" inquired the countess eagerly.
"Yes, madame."
"Well, then," pursued Madame G — — with considerable animation, "you can probably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes?"
"I am sorry to say I cannot," replied the baron; "and I was just asking the same question of Albert."
"Are you very anxious to know, countess?" asked Albert.
"To know what?"
"The name of the owner of the winning horse?"
"Excessively; only imagine — but do tell me, viscount, whether you really are acquainted with it or no?"
"I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story, were you not?
You said, 'only imagine,' — and then paused.
Pray continue."
"Well, then, listen.
You must know I felt so interested in the splendid roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with joy.
Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket!
I concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments, I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and rider.
Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written these words — 'From Lord Ruthven to Countess G — — .'"
"Precisely; I was sure of it," said Morcerf.
"Sure of what?"
"That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself."
"What Lord Ruthven do you mean?"
"Why, our Lord Ruthven — the Vampire of the Salle Argentino!"
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the countess; "is he here in Paris?"
"To be sure, — why not?"
"And you visit him? — meet him at your own house and elsewhere?"
"I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Chateau-Renaud has also the honor of his acquaintance."
"But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club prize?"
"Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?"
"What of that?"
"Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I was made prisoner?"
"Oh, yes."
"And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a manner?"
"To be sure, I remember it all now."
"He called himself Vampa.
You see, it's evident where the count got the name."
"But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?"
"In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success."
"I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish remarks we used to make about him?"
"I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not.
Besides, his presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven" —
"Oh, but that is dreadful!
Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge."
"Does his action appear like that of an enemy?"
"No; certainly not."
"Well, then" —
"And so he is in Paris?"
"Yes."
"And what effect does he produce?"
"Why," said Albert, "he was talked about for a week; then the coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of Mademoiselle Mars's diamonds; and so people talked of something else."
"My good fellow," said Chateau-Renaud, "the count is your friend and you treat him accordingly.
Do not believe what Albert is telling you, countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon myself to declare that it is as strong as ever.
His first astounding act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth 32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous preservation of Madame de Villefort's life; now it seems that he has carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club.
I therefore maintain, in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which, after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence."
"Perhaps you are right," said Morcerf; "meanwhile, who is in the Russian ambassador's box?"
"Which box do you mean?" asked the countess.
"The one between the pillars on the first tier — it seems to have been fitted up entirely afresh."
"Did you observe any one during the first act?" asked Chateau-Renaud.
"Where?"
"In that box."
"No," replied the countess, "it was certainly empty during the first act;" then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she said,
"And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that gained the prize?"
"I am sure of it."
"And who afterwards sent the cup to me?"
"Undoubtedly."
"But I don't know him," said the countess;
"I have a great mind to return it."
"Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby.
It is his way, and you must take him as you find him."
At this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain for the second act.
Albert rose to return to his place.
"Shall I see you again?" asked the countess.
"At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?"
"Pray take notice," said the countess, "that my present residence is 22 Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday evening.
So now, you are both forewarned."
The young men bowed, and quitted the box.
Upon reaching their stalls, they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian ambassador.
A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed after the Eastern style.
The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her.
"Hullo," said Albert; "it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!"
The strangers were, indeed, no other than the count and Haidee.
In a few moments the young girl had attracted the attention of the whole house, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize her magnificent diamonds.
The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices — one deep whisper — intimating that some great and universally interesting event had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were occupied with the young and beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most extraordinary spectacle.
Upon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated her desire to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the second act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would permit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given.
At the close of the act he therefore went to the baroness.
Having bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray.
By the baroness he was most graciously welcomed, while Eugenie received him with her accustomed coldness.
"My dear fellow," said Debray, "you have come in the nick of time.
There is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the count; she insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and parentage, where he came from, and whither he is going.
Being no disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of getting out of the scrape, I said,
'Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole history of his beloved Monte Cristo at his fingers' ends;' whereupon the baroness signified her desire to see you."
"Is it not almost incredible," said Madame Danglars, "that a person having at least half a million of secret-service money at his command, should possess so little information?"
"Let me assure you, madame," said Lucien, "that had I really the sum you mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in troubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte Cristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich as a nabob.
However, I have turned the business over to Morcerf, so pray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own part, I care nothing about the count or his mysterious doings."
"I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth 32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000 francs each."
"He seems to have a mania for diamonds," said Morcerf, smiling, "and I verily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for the sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint stones."
"Perhaps he has discovered some mine," said Madame Danglars.
"I suppose you know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron's banking establishment?"
"I was not aware of it," replied Albert, "but I can readily believe it."
"And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only staying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six millions.
"He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling incog."
"Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien?" inquired Eugenie.
"I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms of another as yourself," responded Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his eye.
"A most lovely creature, upon my soul!" was his verdict.
"Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?" inquired Eugenie; "does anybody know?"
"Mademoiselle," said Albert, replying to this direct appeal,
"I can give you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most points relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now conversing — the young woman is a Greek."
"So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that, every one here is as well-informed as yourself."
"I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a cicerone," replied Morcerf, "but I am reluctantly obliged to confess, I have nothing further to communicate — yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely, that she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting with the count, I heard the sound of a guzla — it is impossible that it could have been touched by any other finger than her own."
"Then your count entertains visitors, does he?" asked Madame Danglars.
"Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you."
"I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner, or something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in return."
"What," said Debray, laughing; "do you really mean you would go to his house?"
"Why not? my husband could accompany me."
"But do you know this mysterious count is a bachelor?"
"You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite," said the baroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek.
"No, no!" exclaimed Debray; "that girl is not his wife: he told us himself she was his slave.
Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling us so at your breakfast?"
"Well, then," said the baroness, "if slave she be, she has all the air and manner of a princess."
"Of the
'Arabian Nights'?"
"If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes a princess.
Why, diamonds — and she is covered with them."
"To me she seems overloaded," observed Eugenie; "she would look far better if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely formed throat and wrists."
"See how the artist peeps out!" exclaimed Madame Danglars.
"My poor Eugenie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts."
"I admire all that is beautiful," returned the young lady.
"What do you think of the count?" inquired Debray; "he is not much amiss, according to my ideas of good looks."
"The count," repeated Eugenie, as though it had not occurred to her to observe him sooner; "the count? — oh, he is so dreadfully pale."
"I quite agree with you," said Morcerf; "and the secret of that very pallor is what we want to find out.
The Countess G — — insists upon it that he is a vampire."
"Then the Countess G — — has returned to Paris, has she?" inquired the baroness.
"Is that she, mamma?" asked Eugenie; "almost opposite to us, with that profusion of beautiful light hair?"
"Yes," said Madame Danglars, "that is she.
Shall I tell you what you ought to do, Morcerf?"
"Command me, madame."
"Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us."
"What for?" asked Eugenie.
"What for?
Why, to converse with him, of course.
Have you really no desire to meet him?"
"None whatever," replied Eugenie.
"Strange child," murmured the baroness.
"He will very probably come of his own accord," said Morcerf.
"There; do you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows."
The baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful manner.
"Well," said Morcerf,
"I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself away to forward your wishes.
Adieu; I will go and try if there are any means of speaking to him."
"Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan."
"But I have never been presented."
"Presented to whom?"
"To the beautiful Greek."
"You say she is only a slave?"
"While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess.
No; I hope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out."
"That is possible — go."
"I am going," said Albert, as he made his parting bow.
Just as he was passing the count's box, the door opened, and Monte Cristo came forth.
After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in the lobby, the count took Albert's arm.
Carefully closing the box door, Ali placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled round the Nubian.
"Upon my word," said Monte Cristo,
"Paris is a strange city, and the Parisians a very singular people.
See that cluster of persons collected around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one might suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld.
Now I can promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that way."
"That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste their time and attention on objects undeserving of either.
However, as far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant — you, who are at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris."
"Really? and what has procured me so fluttering a distinction?"
"What? why, yourself, to be sure!
You give away horses worth a thousand louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the name of Major Brack you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the first handsome woman you think of!"
"And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?"
"Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp's journal; and thirdly, from my own imagination.
Why, if you sought concealment, did you call your horse Vampa?"
"That was an oversight, certainly," replied the count; "but tell me, does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera?
I have been looking for him, but without success."
"He will be here to-night."
"In what part of the house?"
"In the baroness's box, I believe."
"That charming young woman with her is her daughter?"
"Yes."
"I congratulate you."
Morcerf smiled.
"We will discuss that subject at length some future time," said he.
"But what do you think of the music?"
"What music?"
"Why, the music you have been listening to."
"Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes."
"From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of paradise?"
"You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go to sleep."
"Then sleep here, my dear count.
The conditions are favorable; what else was opera invented for?"
"No, thank you.
Your orchestra is too noisy.
To sleep after the manner I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain preparation" —
"I know — the famous hashish!"
"Precisely.
So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with music come and sup with me."
"I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you," said Morcerf.
"Do you mean at Rome?"
"I do."
"Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haidee's guzla; the poor exile frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her native land."
Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into a silent reverie.
The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain.
"You will excuse my leaving you," said the count, turning in the direction of his box.
"What?
Are you going?"
"Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G — — on the part of her friend the Vampire."
"And what message shall I convey to the baroness!"
"That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my respects in the course of the evening."
The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf, according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame Danglars.
The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence, therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in which he had just seated himself.
The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight though meaning smile passed over his lips.
Haidee, whose soul seemed centred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures, delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.
The third act passed off as usual.
Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julie, and Leroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella, taking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and mantle.
After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured forth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon.
The count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and surprise.
"You are welcome, count!" she exclaimed, as he entered.
"I have been most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing can so ill express."
"Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your remembrance.
Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it."
"But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity restored to me."
"This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks.
It was Ali, my Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort."
"Was it Ali," asked the Count of Morcerf, "who rescued my son from the hands of bandits?"
"No, count," replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by the general; "in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your debt — if indeed there existed one — and I feel almost mortified to find you still reverting to the subject.
May I beg of you, baroness, to honor me with an introduction to your daughter?"
"Oh, you are no stranger — at least not by name," replied Madame Danglars, "and the last two or three days we have really talked of nothing but you.
Eugenie," continued the baroness, turning towards her daughter, "this is the Count of Monte Cristo."
The Count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly.
"You have a charming young person with you to-night, count," said Eugenie.
"Is she your daughter?"
"No, mademoiselle," said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and freedom of the question.
"She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my care."
"And what is her name?"
"Haidee," replied Monte Cristo.
"A Greek?" murmured the Count of Morcerf.
"Yes, indeed, count," said Madame Danglars; "and tell me, did you ever see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?"
"Did I hear rightly, monsieur," said Monte Cristo "that you served at Yanina?"
"I was inspector-general of the pasha's troops," replied Morcerf; "and it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality of the illustrious Albanese chief."
"But look!" exclaimed Madame Danglars.
"Where?" stammered Morcerf.
"There," said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the count, and leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haidee, whose eyes were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian, perceived his pale features close to Morcerf's face.
It was as if the young girl beheld the head of Medusa.
She bent forwards as though to assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint cry, threw herself back in her seat.
The sound was heard by the people about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door.
"Why, count," exclaimed Eugenie, "what has happened to your ward? she seems to have been taken suddenly ill."
"Very probably," answered the count.
"But do not be alarmed on her account.
Haidee's nervous system is delicately organized, and she is peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers — nay, there are some which cause her to faint if brought into her presence.
However," continued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket,
"I have an infallible remedy."
So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a parting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame Danglars' box.
Upon his return to Haidee he found her still very pale.
As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist and icy cold.
"Who was it you were talking with over there?" she asked.
"With the Count of Morcerf," answered Monte Cristo.
"He tells me he served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him."
"Wretch!" exclaimed Haidee, her eyes flashing with rage; "he sold my father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his treachery!
Did not you know that, my dear lord?"
"Something of this I heard in Epirus," said Monte Cristo; "but the particulars are still unknown to me.
You shall relate them to me, my child.
They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting."
"Yes, yes; but let us go.
I feel as though it would kill me to remain long near that dreadful man."
So saying, Haidee arose, and wrapping herself in her burnoose of white cashmire embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.
"Do you observe," said the Countess G — — to Albert, who had returned to her side, "that man does nothing like other people; he listens most devoutly to the third act of
'Robert le Diable,' and when the fourth begins, takes his departure."

Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of Monte Cristo at his house in the Champs Elysees, which had already assumed that palace-like appearance which the count's princely fortune enabled him to give even to his most temporary residences.
He came to renew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to the count through the medium of a letter, signed
"Baronne Danglars, nee Hermine de Servieux."
Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend's conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the count's talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess.
He was convinced that Lucien's visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity, the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin.
In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to give her a faithful account of the mode of life of this incomprehensible person.
But the count did not appear to suspect that there could be the slightest connection between Lucien's visit and the curiosity of the baroness.
"You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?" the count inquired of Albert de Morcerf.
"Yes, count, you know what I told you?"
"All remains the same, then, in that quarter?"
"It is more than ever a settled thing," said Lucien, — and, considering that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make, he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and the pictures.
"Ah," said Monte Cristo
"I did not expect that the affair would be so promptly concluded."
"Oh, things take their course without our assistance.
While we are forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when, again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the progress they have made towards the proposed end.
My father and M. Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M. Danglars in the commissariat department.
It was there that my father, ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes."
"Yes," said Monte Cristo
"I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit which I paid him; and," continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien, who was turning over the leaves of an album,
"Mademoiselle Eugenie is pretty — I think I remember that to be her name."
"Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful," replied Albert, "but of that style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow."
"You speak as if you were already her husband."
"Ah," returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien was doing.
"Really," said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice, "you do not appear to me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage."
"Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me," replied Morcerf, "and that frightens me."
"Bah," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "that's a fine reason to give.
Are you not rich yourself?"
"My father's income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry."
"That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris especially," said the count; "but everything does not depend on wealth, and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high station in society.
Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent; and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin; disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can shine.
As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her."
Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful.
"There is still something else," said he.
"I confess," observed Monte Cristo, "that I have some difficulty in comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and beautiful."
"Oh," said Morcerf, "this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called, is not all on my side."
"Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the marriage."
"It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union.
I cannot account for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the Danglars."
"Ah," said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, "that may be easily explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough."
"I do not know if that is her reason," said Albert, "but one thing I do know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite miserable.
There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of indisposition" —
"Real?" interrupted the count, smiling.
"Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless, — at any rate they postponed the matter for two months.
There is no hurry, you know.
I am not yet twenty-one, and Eugenie is only seventeen; but the two months expire next week.
It must be done.
My dear count, you cannot imagine how my mind is harassed.
How happy you are in being exempt from all this!"
"Well, and why should not you be free, too?
What prevents you from being so?"
"Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not marry Mademoiselle Danglars."
"Marry her then," said the count, with a significant shrug of the shoulders.
"Yes," replied Morcerf, "but that will plunge my mother into positive grief."
"Then do not marry her," said the count.
"Well, I shall see.
I will try and think over what is the best thing to be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible extricate me from my unpleasant position?
I think, rather than give pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count."
Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark.
"Ah," said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right hand and an account book in his left, "what are you doing there?
Are you making a sketch after Poussin?"
"Oh, no," was the tranquil response;
"I am too fond of art to attempt anything of that sort.
I am doing a little sum in arithmetic."
"In arithmetic?"
"Yes; I am calculating — by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you — I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must have made 300,000 livres."
"That is not his biggest scoop," said Morcerf; "did he not make a million in Spaniards this last year?"
"My dear fellow," said Lucien, "here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say to you, as the Italians do, —
"'Danaro e santita, Meta della meta.' [*]
* "Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.
"When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say nothing."
"But you were speaking of Haitians?" said Monte Cristo.
"Ah, Haitians, — that is quite another thing!
Haitians are the ecarte of French stock-jobbing.
We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always come back to ecarte — it is not only a game, it is a hors-d'oeuvre!
M. Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs.
Had he but waited till to-day, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of gaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000."
"And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?" asked Monte Cristo.
"I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing intrigues."
"Because," said Albert, laughing, "one piece of news follows another, and there is often great dissimilarity between them."
"Ah," said the count,
"I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich."
"It is not he who plays!" exclaimed Lucien; "it is Madame Danglars: she is indeed daring."
"But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it," said Morcerf, with a smile.
"How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?" asked Lucien; "you know the character of the baroness — no one has any influence with her, and she does precisely what she pleases."
"Ah, if I were in your place" — said Albert.
"Well?"
"I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future son-in-law."
"How would you set about it?"
"Ah, that would be easy enough — I would give her a lesson."
"A lesson?"
"Yes.
Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words.
Cause her to lose a hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence."
"I do not understand," stammered Lucien.
"It is very clear, notwithstanding," replied the young man, with an artlessness wholly free from affectation; "tell her some fine morning an unheard-of piece of intelligence — some telegraphic despatch, of which you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen yesterday at Gabrielle's.
That would boom the market; she will buy heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the following day, in his gazette,
'The report circulated by some usually well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle's house, is totally without foundation.
We can positively assert that his majesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf.'" Lucien half smiled.
Monte Cristo, although apparently indifferent, had not lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had even read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the secretary.
This embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien to shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease.
The count, in taking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he answered,
"Willingly, count; I accept."
The count returned to young Morcerf.
"Do you not think, on reflection," said he to him, "that you have done wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M. Debray?"
"My dear count," said Morcerf,
"I beg of you not to apply that title so prematurely."
"Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very much averse to this marriage?"
"So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my mother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole life."
"Then," said the count,
"I am emboldened to speak openly to you.
M. Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune enabled me to render him.
I predict from all this an avalanche of dinners and routs.
Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my country-house at Auteuil.
If I were to invite you and the Count and Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of being a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the honor to bring his daughter.
In that case your mother would hold me in aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to stand high in her esteem."
"Indeed, count," said Morcerf,
"I thank you sincerely for having used so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which you propose.
You say you desire my mother's good opinion; I assure you it is already yours to a very unusual extent."
"Do you think so?" said Monte Cristo, with interest.
"Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the other day.
But to return to what we were saying.
If my mother could know of this attention on your part — and I will venture to tell her — I am sure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father will be equally angry."
The count laughed.
"Well," said he to Morcerf, "but I think your father will not be the only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will think me a very ill-mannered person.
They know that I am intimate with you — that you are, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances — and they will not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why I did not invite you.
Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement which shall have a semblance of probability, and communicate the fact to me by a line in writing.
You know that with bankers nothing but a written document will be valid."
"I will do better than that," said Albert; "my mother is wishing to go to the sea-side — what day is fixed for your dinner?"
"Saturday."
"This is Tuesday — well, to-morrow evening we leave, and the day after we shall be at Treport.
Really, count, you have a delightful way of setting people at their ease."
"Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what will be agreeable to you, that is all."
"When shall you send your invitations?"
"This very day."
"Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my mother and myself must leave Paris to-morrow.
I have not seen you, consequently I know nothing of your dinner."
"How foolish you are!
Have you forgotten that M. Debray has just seen you at my house?"
"Ah, true."
"Fix it this way.
I have seen you, and invited you without any ceremony, when you instantly answered that it would be impossible for you to accept, as you were going to Treport."
"Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on my mother before to-morrow?"
"Before to-morrow? — that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides, I shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure."
"Well, you can do better.
You were only a charming man before, but, if you accede to my proposal, you will be adorable."
"What must I do to attain such sublimity?"
"You are to-day free as air — come and dine with me; we shall be a small party — only yourself, my mother, and I.
You have scarcely seen my mother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely.
She is a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist another like her, about twenty years younger; in that case, I assure you, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf.
As to my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines with the chief referendary.
We will talk over our travels; and you, who have seen the whole world, will relate your adventures — you shall tell us the history of the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night at the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet treat like a princess.
We will talk Italian and Spanish.
Come, accept my invitation, and my mother will thank you."
"A thousand thanks," said the count, "your invitation is most gracious, and I regret exceedingly that it is not in my power to accept it.
I am not so much at liberty as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most important engagement."
"Ah, take care, you were teaching me just now how, in case of an invitation to dinner, one might creditably make an excuse.
I require the proof of a pre-engagement.
I am not a banker, like M. Danglars, but I am quite as incredulous as he is."
"I am going to give you a proof," replied the count, and he rang the bell.
"Humph," said Morcerf, "this is the second time you have refused to dine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her."
Monte Cristo started.
"Oh, you do not mean that," said he; "besides, here comes the confirmation of my assertion."
Baptistin entered, and remained standing at the door.
"I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?"
"Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer for it."
"At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner."
"Probably not."
"Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I called you into my laboratory?"
"To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five," replied the valet.
"What then?"
"Ah, my dear count," said Albert.
"No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting Manfred.
I wish my life to be free and open.
Go on, Baptistin."
"Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son."
"You hear — Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti — a man who ranks amongst the most ancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth canto of
'The Inferno,' you remember it, do you not?
Then there is his son, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount, bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry into the Parisian world, aided by his father's millions.
The major will bring his son with him this evening, the contino, as we say in Italy; he confides him to my care.
If he proves himself worthy of it, I will do what I can to advance his interests.
You will assist me in the work, will you not?"
"Most undoubtedly.
This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours, then?"
"By no means.
He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and agreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of very ancient families.
I have met him several times at Florence, Bologna and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his arrival in Paris.
The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort of claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention which you once paid them by chance, as though the civilities of a passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your journey.
This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire, when he was on his way to Moscow.
I shall give him a good dinner, he will confide his son to my care, I will promise to watch over him, I shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then I shall have done my part."
"Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor," said Albert
"Good-by, we shall return on Sunday.
By the way, I have received news of Franz."
"Have you?
Is he still amusing himself in Italy?"
"I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely.
He says you were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy; I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains."
"His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?"
"No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible and mysterious of beings."
"He is a charming young man," said Monte Cristo "and I felt a lively interest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion of mine.
He is, I think, the son of General d'Epinay?"
"He is."
"The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?"
"By the Bonapartists."
"Yes.
Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial engagement contemplated for him?"
"Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort."
"Indeed?"
"And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars," said Albert, laughing.
"You smile."
"Yes."
"Why do you do so?"
"I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination for the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my own.
But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they do of us; it is unpardonable."
Albert rose.
"Are you going?"
"Really, that is a good idea! — two hours have I been boring you to death with my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if I am going.
Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world.
And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite a style about them.
Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get such a man as that.
My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see in a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit themselves in the most awkward manner possible.
Therefore, if you part with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him."
"By all means."
"That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese, Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance he should be wishing to establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her mother's side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will help you in the search."
"Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you?"
"Yes."
"Well, really, nothing is certain in this world."
"Oh, count, what a service you might render me!
I should like you a hundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain a bachelor, even were it only for ten years."
"Nothing is impossible," gravely replied Monte Cristo; and taking leave of Albert, he returned into the house, and struck the gong three times.
Bertuccio appeared.
"Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company on Saturday at Auteuil."
Bertuccio slightly started.
"I shall require your services to see that all be properly arranged.
It is a beautiful house, or at all events may be made so."
"There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your excellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old."
"Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of the sleeping-chamber which is hung with red damask; you will leave that exactly as it is."
Bertuccio bowed.
"You will not touch the garden either; as to the yard, you may do what you please with it; I should prefer that being altered beyond all recognition."
"I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your excellency.
I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency's commands concerning the dinner."
"Really, my dear M. Bertuccio," said the count, "since you have been in Paris, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your element; you no longer seem to understand me."
"But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you are expecting to receive?"
"I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do so.
'Lucullus dines with Lucullus,' that is quite sufficient."
Bertuccio bowed, and left the room.

Both the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced to Morcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served Monte Cristo as a pretext for declining Albert's invitation.
Seven o'clock had just struck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been given him, had two hours before left for Auteuil, when a cab stopped at the door, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately hurried away, as if ashamed of its employment.
The visitor was about fifty-two years of age, dressed in one of the green surtouts, ornamented with black frogs, which have so long maintained their popularity all over Europe.
He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots tolerably clean, but not of the brightest polish, and a little too thick in the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape those usually worn by the gendarmes, and a black cravat striped with white, which, if the proprietor had not worn it of his own free will, might have passed for a halter, so much did it resemble one.
Such was the picturesque costume of the person who rang at the gate, and demanded if it was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees that the Count of Monte Cristo lived, and who, being answered by the porter in the affirmative, entered, closed the gate after him, and began to ascend the steps.
The small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick gray mustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who had received an exact description of the expected visitor, and who was awaiting him in the hall.
Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time to pronounce his name before the count was apprised of his arrival.
He was ushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose to meet him with a smiling air.
"Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you."
"Indeed," said the Italian, "was your excellency then aware of my visit?"
"Yes; I had been told that I should see you to-day at seven o'clock."
"Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?"
"Of course."
"Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have been forgotten."
"What precaution?"
"That of informing you beforehand of my coming."
"Oh, no, it has not."
"But you are sure you are not mistaken."
"Very sure."
"It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o'clock this evening?"
"I will prove it to you beyond a doubt."
"Oh, no, never mind that," said the Italian; "it is not worth the trouble."
"Yes, yes," said Monte Cristo.
His visitor appeared slightly uneasy.
"Let me see," said the count; "are you not the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti?"
"Bartolomeo Cavalcanti," joyfully replied the Italian; "yes, I am really he."
"Ex-major in the Austrian service?"
"Was I a major?" timidly asked the old soldier.
"Yes," said Monte Cristo "you were a major; that is the title the French give to the post which you filled in Italy."
"Very good," said the major,
"I do not demand more, you understand" —
"Your visit here to-day is not of your own suggestion, is it?" said Monte Cristo.
"No, certainly not."
"You were sent by some other person?"
"Yes."
"By the excellent Abbe Busoni?"
"Exactly so," said the delighted major.
"And you have a letter?"
"Yes, there it is."
"Give it me, then;" and Monte Cristo took the letter, which he opened and read.
The major looked at the count with his large staring eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost immediately reverted to the proprietor of the room.
"Yes, yes, I see.
'Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a descendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,'" continued Monte Cristo, reading aloud, "'possessing an income of half a million.'" Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.
"Half a million," said he, "magnificent!"
"Half a million, is it?" said the major.
"Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbe knows correctly the amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe."
"Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea that it was so much."
"Because you are robbed by your steward.
You must make some reformation in that quarter."
"You have opened my eyes," said the Italian gravely;
"I will show the gentlemen the door."
Monte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter: —
"'And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.'"
"Yes, indeed but one!" said the major with a sigh.
"'Which is to recover a lost and adored son.'"
"A lost and adored son!"
"'Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or by the gypsies.'"
"At the age of five years!" said the major with a deep sigh, and raising his eye to heaven.
"Unhappy father," said Monte Cristo.
The count continued: —
"'I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for fifteen years.'" The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of anxiety.
"I have the power of so doing," said Monte Cristo.
The major recovered his self-possession.
"So, then," said he, "the letter was true to the end?"
"Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?"
"No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office, as does the Abbe Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a joke; but your excellency has not read all."
"Ah, true," said Monte Cristo "there is a postscript."
"Yes, yes," repeated the major, "yes — there — is — a — postscript."
"'In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which you still owe me.'" The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with great anxiety.
"Very good," said the count.
"He said 'very good,'" muttered the major, "then — sir" — replied he.
"Then what?" asked Monte Cristo.
"Then the postscript" —
"Well; what of the postscript?"
"Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the letter?"
"Certainly; the Abbe Busoni and myself have a small account open between us.
I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000. francs, which I am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference.
You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?"
"I must explain to you," said the major, "that, fully confiding in the signature of the Abbe Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris."
"Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed anywhere?" said Monte Cristo.
"Why, really I know no one," said the major.
"But then you yourself are known to others?"
"Yes, I am known, so that" —
"Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti."
"So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?"
"Certainly, at your first request."
The major's eyes dilated with pleasing astonishment.
"But sit down," said Monte Cristo; "really I do not know what I have been thinking of — I have positively kept you standing for the last quarter of an hour."
"Don't mention it."
The major drew an arm-chair towards him, and proceeded to seat himself.
"Now," said the count, "what will you take — a glass of port, sherry, or Alicante?"
"Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine."
"I have some that is very good.
You will take a biscuit with it, will you not?"
"Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging."
Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared.
The count advanced to meet him.
"Well?" said he in a low voice.
"The young man is here," said the valet de chambre in the same tone.
"Into what room did you take him?"
"Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency's orders."
"That's right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits."
Baptistin left the room.
"Really," said the major,
"I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am giving you."
"Pray don't mention such a thing," said the count.
Baptistin re-entered with glasses, wine, and biscuits.
The count filled one glass, but in the other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid.
The bottle was covered with spiders' webs, and all the other signs which indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man's face.
The major made a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit.
The count told Baptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who began by sipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction, and then delicately steeped his biscuit in the wine.
"So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you?
You were rich, noble, held in great esteem — had all that could render a man happy?"
"All," said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit, "positively all."
"And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your happiness?"
"Only one thing," said the Italian.
"And that one thing, your lost child."
"Ah," said the major, taking a second biscuit, "that consummation of my happiness was indeed wanting."
The worthy major raised his eyes to heaven and sighed.
"Let me hear, then," said the count, "who this deeply regretted son was; for I always understood you were a bachelor."
"That was the general opinion, sir," said the major, "and I" —
"Yes," replied the count, "and you confirmed the report.
A youthful indiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from the world at large?"
The major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm manner, at the same time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to compose his countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving an under-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips still announced the same polite curiosity.
"Yes," said the major,
"I did wish this fault to be hidden from every eye."
"Not on your own account, surely," replied Monte Cristo; "for a man is above that sort of thing?"
"Oh, no, certainly not on my own account," said the major with a smile and a shake of the head.
"But for the sake of the mother?" said the count.
"Yes, for the mother's sake — his poor mother!" cried the major, taking a third biscuit.
"Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti," said the count, pouring out for him a second glass of Alicante; "your emotion has quite overcome you."
"His poor mother," murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false tear.
"She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she not?"
"She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count."
"And her name was" —
"Do you desire to know her name?" —
"Oh," said Monte Cristo "it would be quite superfluous for you to tell me, for I already know it."
"The count knows everything," said the Italian, bowing.
"Oliva Corsinari, was it not?"
"Oliva Corsinari."
"A marchioness?"
"A marchioness."
"And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her family?"
"Yes, that was the way it ended."
"And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?" said Monte Cristo.
"What papers?"
"The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the register of your child's birth."
"The register of my child's birth?"
"The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti — of your son; is not his name Andrea?"
"I believe so," said the major.
"What?
You believe so?"
"I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a time."
"Well, then," said Monte Cristo "you have all the documents with you?"
"Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them."
"That is unfortunate," returned Monte Cristo.
"Were they, then, so necessary?"
"They were indispensable."
The major passed his hand across his brow.
"Ah, per Bacco, indispensable, were they?"
"Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?"
"True," said the major, "there might be doubts raised."
"In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated."
"It would be fatal to his interests."
"It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance."
"O peccato!"
"You must know that in France they are very particular on these points; it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say,
'We love each other, and want you to marry us.'
Marriage is a civil affair in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have papers which undeniably establish your identity."
"That is the misfortune!
You see I have not these necessary papers."
"Fortunately, I have them, though," said Monte Cristo.
"You?"
"Yes."
"You have them?"
"I have them."
"Ah, indeed?" said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey frustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his forgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000 francs — "ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them."
"I do not at all wonder at it — one cannot think of everything; but, happily, the Abbe Busoni thought for you."
"He is an excellent person."
"He is extremely prudent and thoughtful."
"He is an admirable man," said the major; "and he sent them to you?"
"Here they are."
The major clasped his hands in token of admiration.
"You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del Monte-Cattini; here is the priest's certificate."
"Yes indeed, there it is truly," said the Italian, looking on with astonishment.
"And here is Andrea Cavalcanti's baptismal register, given by the curate of Saravezza."
"All quite correct."
"Take these documents, then; they do not concern me.
You will give them to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them."
"I should think so, indeed!
If he were to lose them" —
"Well, and if he were to lose them?" said Monte Cristo.
"In that case," replied the major, "it would be necessary to write to the curate for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be obtained."
"It would be a difficult matter to arrange," said Monte Cristo.
"Almost an impossibility," replied the major.
"I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers."
"I regard them as invaluable."
"Now," said Monte Cristo "as to the mother of the young man" —
"As to the mother of the young man" — repeated the Italian, with anxiety.
"As regards the Marchesa Corsinari" —
"Really," said the major, "difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will she be wanted in any way?"
"No, sir," replied Monte Cristo; "besides, has she not" —
"Yes, sir," said the major, "she has" —
"Paid the last debt of nature?"
"Alas, yes," returned the Italian.
"I knew that," said Monte Cristo; "she has been dead these ten years."
"And I am still mourning her loss," exclaimed the major, drawing from his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the left and then the right eye.
"What would you have?" said Monte Cristo; "we are all mortal.
Now, you understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years.
Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed.
You sent him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world.
That is the reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived since the death of your wife.
That will be sufficient."
"You think so?"
"Certainly."
"Very well, then."
"If they should hear of the separation" —
"Ah, yes; what could I say?"
"That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family" —
"By the Corsinari?"
"Precisely.
Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might become extinct."
"That is reasonable, since he is an only son."
"Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened remembrances be forgotten.
You have, doubtless, already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?"
"An agreeable one?" asked the Italian.
"Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his heart."
"Hum!" said the major.
"Some one has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was here."
"That who was here?"
"Your child — your son — your Andrea!"
"I did guess it," replied the major with the greatest possible coolness.
"Then he is here?"
"He is," said Monte Cristo; "when the valet de chambre came in just now, he told me of his arrival."
"Ah, very well, very well," said the major, clutching the buttons of his coat at each exclamation.
"My dear sir," said Monte Cristo,
"I understand your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself.
I will, in the meantime, go and prepare the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is not less impatient for it than yourself."
"I should quite imagine that to be the case," said Cavalcanti.
"Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you."
"You will bring him, then?
You carry your goodness so far as even to present him to me yourself?"
"No; I do not wish to come between a father and son.
Your interview will be private.
But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by this door.
He is a fine young man, of fair complexion — a little too fair, perhaps — pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for yourself."
"By the way," said the major, "you know I have only the 2,000 francs which the Abbe Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling expenses, and" —
"And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti.
Well, here are 8,000 francs on account."
The major's eyes sparkled brilliantly.
"It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you," said Monte Cristo.
"Does your excellency wish for a receipt?" said the major, at the same time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat.
"For what?" said the count.
"I thought you might want it to show the Abbe Busoni."
"Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a receipt in full.
Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I think, quite unnecessary."
"Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people."
"One word more," said Monte Cristo.
"Say on."
"You will permit me to make one remark?"
"Certainly; pray do so."
"Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress."
"Indeed," said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete satisfaction.
"Yes.
It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant in itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris."
"That's unfortunate."
"Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can easily resume it when you leave Paris."
"But what shall I wear?"
"What you find in your trunks."
"In my trunks?
I have but one portmanteau."
"I dare say you have nothing else with you.
What is the use of boring one's self with so many things?
Besides an old soldier always likes to march with as little baggage as possible."
"That is just the case — precisely so."
"But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your luggage on before you.
It has arrived at the Hotel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu.
It is there you are to take up your quarters."
"Then, in these trunks" —
"I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all you are likely to need, — your plain clothes and your uniform.
On grand occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well.
Do not forget your crosses.
They still laugh at them in France, and yet always wear them, for all that."
"Very well, very well," said the major, who was in ecstasy at the attention paid him by the count.
"Now," said Monte Cristo, "that you have fortified yourself against all painful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet your lost Andrea."
Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry, leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful reception which he had received at the hands of the count.

The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin had designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of graceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab about half an hour previously.
Baptistin had not found any difficulty in recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for admittance.
He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so particularly described to him.
When the count entered the room the young man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the gold-headed cane which he held in his hand.
On perceiving the count he rose quickly.
"The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?" said he.
"Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea Cavalcanti?"
"Count Andrea Cavalcanti," repeated the young man, accompanying his words with a bow.
"You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you not?" said the count.
"I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so strange."
"The letter signed
'Sinbad the Sailor,' is it not?"
"Exactly so.
Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception of the one celebrated in the
'Thousand and One Nights'" —
"Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name is Lord Wilmore."
"Ah, indeed?
Then that explains everything that is extraordinary," said Andrea.
"He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met — at — ah — yes, indeed.
Well, monsieur, I am at your service."
"If what you say be true," replied the count, smiling, "perhaps you will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your family?"
"Certainly, I will do so," said the young man, with a quickness which gave proof of his ready invention.
"I am (as you have said) the Count Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at Florence.
Our family, although still rich (for my father's income amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my existence.
Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my own master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain.
At length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for information respecting him."
"Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting," said Monte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; "and you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you."
The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not once lost sight of the expression of the young man's countenance; he had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice; but at these words, so natural in themselves,
"Your father is indeed here, and is seeking you," young Andrea started, and exclaimed,
"My father?
Is my father here?"
"Most undoubtedly," replied Monte Cristo; "your father, Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti."
The expression of terror which, for the moment, had overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared.
"Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly.
Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.
And you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here?"
"Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company.
The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might furnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem.
At length, he one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of ransom.
Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy.
You were in the south of France, I think?"
"Yes," replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air,
"I was in the south of France."
"A carriage was to await you at Nice?"
"Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, from Turin to Chambery, from Chambery to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris."
"Indeed?
Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for it is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we have been able to trace your journey to this place."
"But," said Andrea, "if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me."
"Oh, the voice of nature," said Monte Cristo.
"True," interrupted the young man,
"I had not looked upon it in that light."
"Now," replied Monte Cristo "there is only one source of uneasiness left in your father's mind, which is this — he is anxious to know how you have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves towards you with all the deference due to your rank.
Finally, he is anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad moral influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely more to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover if the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been weakened by want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider yourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high position to which your rank entitles you."
"Sir!" exclaimed the young man, quite astounded,
"I hope no false report" —
"As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the philanthropist.
I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive.
Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been interesting.
He told me that he was anxious to restore you to the position which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until he found him.
He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is here now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave me a few other instructions relative to your future fortune.
I am quite aware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as rich as a gold-mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities without any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to his instructions.
Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I am about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your patron.
I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to you — misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degree diminish my regard for you — I would wish to know if they have not, in some measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in which your fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous figure?"
"Sir," returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner, "make your mind easy on this score.
Those who took me from my father, and who always intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my original proprietor, as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make the most of their bargain, it would be politic to leave me in possession of all my personal and hereditary worth, and even to increase the value, if possible.
I have, therefore, received a very good education, and have been treated by these kidnappers very much as the slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them grammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch a higher price in the Roman market."
Monte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if he had not expected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti.
"Besides," continued the young man, "if there did appear some defect in education, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, I suppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes which accompanied my birth, and followed me through my youth."
"Well," said Monte Cristo in an indifferent tone, "you will do as you please, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are the person most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would not divulge a word of these adventures.
Your history is quite a romance, and the world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangely mistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they be gilded like yourself.
This is the kind of difficulty which I wished to represent to you, my dear count.
You would hardly have recited your touching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemed unlikely and unnatural.
You would be no longer a lost child found, but you would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like a mushroom in the night.
You might excite a little curiosity, but it is not every one who likes to be made the centre of observation and the subject of unpleasant remark."
"I agree with you, monsieur," said the young man, turning pale, and, in spite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of his companion, "such consequences would be extremely unpleasant."
"Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil," said Monte Cristo, "for by endeavoring to avoid one fault you will fall into another.
You must resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a man of your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you must form honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudice which may attach to the obscurity of your former life."
Andrea visibly changed countenance.
"I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser," said Monte Cristo, "did I not possess a moral distrust of my best friends, and a sort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, in departing from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a part quite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of being hissed, which would be an act of folly."
"However, your excellency," said Andrea, "in consideration of Lord Wilmore, by whom I was recommended to you — "
"Yes, certainly," interrupted Monte Cristo; "but Lord Wilmore did not omit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth was rather a stormy one.
Ah," said the count, watching Andrea's countenance,
"I do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely to avoid that necessity that your father was sent for from Lucca.
You shall soon see him.
He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and he is disfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has been for eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will be pardoned.
We are not generally very severe with the Austrians.
In short, you will find your father a very presentable person, I assure you."
"Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we were separated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides, you know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers all defects."
"He is a millionaire — his income is 500,000 francs."
"Then," said the young man, with anxiety,
"I shall be sure to be placed in an agreeable position."
"One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you an income of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay in Paris."
"Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there."
"You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir; 'man proposes, and God disposes.'" Andrea sighed.
"But," said he, "so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces me to quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sum you just now mentioned to me?"
"You may."
"Shall I receive it from my father?" asked Andrea, with some uneasiness.
"Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmore will be the security for the money.
He has, at the request of your father, opened an account of 6,000. francs a month at M. Danglars', which is one of the safest banks in Paris."
"And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?" asked Andrea.
"Only a few days," replied Monte Cristo.
"His service does not allow him to absent himself more than two or three weeks together."
"Ah, my dear father!" exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea of his speedy departure.
"Therefore," said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake his meaning — "therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasure of your meeting.
Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?"
"I hope you do not doubt it."
"Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find your father awaiting you."
Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room.
Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived that it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied by Cavalcanti and Andrea.
The young man closed the door behind him, and advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps approaching him.
"Ah, my dear father!" said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the count might hear him in the next room, "is it really you?"
"How do you do, my dear son?" said the major gravely.
"After so many years of painful separation," said Andrea, in the same tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, "what a happiness it is to meet again!"
"Indeed it is, after so long a separation."
"Will you not embrace me, sir?" said Andrea.
"If you wish it, my son," said the major; and the two men embraced each other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each rested his head on the other's shoulder.
"Then we are once more reunited?" said Andrea.
"Once more," replied the major.
"Never more to be separated?"
"Why, as to that — I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so accustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country."
"The fact is," said the young man, "that I should be exceedingly grieved to leave it."
"As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca; therefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I can."
"But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in possession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my descent."
"Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much trouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands, and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few remaining years of my life."
"Where are these papers, then?"
"Here they are."
Andrea seized the certificate of his father's marriage and his own baptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness which might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a facility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and with an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the contents.
When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression of pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a most peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan, — "Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to the galleys?"
The major drew himself up to his full height.
"Why? — what do you mean by that question?"
"I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with impunity two such deeds as these.
In France, my dear sir, half such a piece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to Toulon for five years, for change of air."
"Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?" said the major, endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest majesty.
"My dear M. Cavalcanti," said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a confidential manner, "how much are you paid for being my father?"
The major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice.
"Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me 50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand that it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent."
The major looked anxiously around him.
"Make yourself easy, we are quite alone," said Andrea; "besides, we are conversing in Italian."
"Well, then," replied the major, "they paid me 50,000 francs down."
"Monsieur Cavalcanti," said Andrea, "do you believe in fairy tales?"
"I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have faith in them."
"You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some proofs of their truth?"
The major drew from his pocket a handful of gold.
"Most palpable proofs," said he, "as you may perceive."
"You think, then, that I may rely on the count's promises?"
"Certainly I do."
"You are sure he will keep his word with me?"
"To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to play our respective parts.
I, as a tender father" —
"And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from you."
"Whom do you mean by they?"
"Ma foi, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the letter; you received one, did you not?"
"Yes."
"From whom?"
"From a certain Abbe Busoni."
"Have you any knowledge of him?"
"No, I have never seen him."
"What did he say in the letter?"
"You will promise not to betray me?"
"Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same."
"Then read for yourself;" and the major gave a letter into the young man's hand.
Andrea read in a low voice —
"You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you.
Would you like to become rich, or at least independent?
Set out immediately for Paris, and demand of the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, No.
30, the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken from you at five years of age.
This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti.
In order that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this letter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in Florence, at Signor Gozzi's; also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs.
Remember to go to the count on the 26th May at seven o'clock in the evening.
(Signed)
"Abbe Busoni."
"It is the same."
"What do you mean?" said the major.
"I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same effect."
"You?"
"Yes."
"From the Abbe Busoni?"
"No."
"From whom, then?"
"From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad the Sailor."
"And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbe Busoni?"
"You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you."
"You have seen him, then?"
"Yes, once."
"Where?"
"Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you as wise as myself, which it is not my intention to do."
"And what did the letter contain?"
"Read it."
"'You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy.
Do you wish for a name? should you like to be rich, and your own master?'"
"Ma foi," said the young man; "was it possible there could be two answers to such a question?"
"Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de Genes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin.
Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, on the 26th of May, at seven o'clock in the evening, and demand of him your father.
You are the son of the Marchese Cavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari.
The marquis will give you some papers which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear under that name in the Parisian world.
As to your rank, an annual income of 50,000 livres will enable you to support it admirably.
I enclose a draft for 5,000 livres, payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice, and also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I have directed to supply all your wants.
"Sinbad the Sailor."
"Humph," said the major; "very good.
You have seen the count, you say?"
"I have only just left him."
"And has he conformed to all that the letter specified?"
"He has."
"Do you understand it?"
"Not in the least."
"There is a dupe somewhere."
"At all events, it is neither you nor I."
"Certainly not."
"Well, then" —
"Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does?"
"No; I agree with you there.
We must play the game to the end, and consent to be blindfolded."
"Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to admiration."
"I never once doubted your doing so."
Monte Cristo chose this moment for re-entering the drawing-room.
On hearing the sound of his footsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other's arms, and while they were in the midst of this embrace, the count entered.
"Well, marquis," said Monte Cristo, "you appear to be in no way disappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you."
"Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight."
"And what are your feelings?" said Monte Cristo, turning to the young man.
"As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness."
"Happy father, happy son!" said the count.
"There is only one thing which grieves me," observed the major, "and that is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon."
"Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have had the honor of presenting you to some of my friends."
"I am at your service, sir," replied the major.
"Now, sir," said Monte Cristo, addressing Andrea, "make your confession."
"To whom?"
"Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances."
"Ma foi, monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord."
"Do you hear what he says, major?"
"Certainly I do."
"But do you understand?"
"I do."
"Your son says he requires money."
"Well, what would you have me do?" said the major.
"You should furnish him with some of course," replied Monte Cristo.
"I?"
"Yes, you," said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea, and slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man's hand.
"What is this?"
"It is from your father."
"From my father?"
"Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money?
Well, then, he deputes me to give you this."
"Am I to consider this as part of my income on account?"
"No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris."
"Ah, how good my dear father is!"
"Silence," said Monte Cristo; "he does not wish you to know that it comes from him."
"I fully appreciate his delicacy," said Andrea, cramming the notes hastily into his pocket.
"And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning," said Monte Cristo.
"And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your excellency?" asked Cavalcanti.
"Ah," said Andrea, "when may we hope for that pleasure?"
"On Saturday, if you will — Yes. — Let me see — Saturday — I am to dine at my country house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.
Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your banker.
I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should know you, as he is to pay your money."
"Full dress?" said the major, half aloud.
"Oh, yes, certainly," said the count; "uniform, cross, knee-breeches."
"And how shall I be dressed?" demanded Andrea.
"Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat.
Go to Blin or Veronique for your clothes.
Baptistin will tell you where, if you do not know their address.
The less pretension there is in your attire, the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man.
If you mean to buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go to Baptiste for it."
"At what hour shall we come?" asked the young man.
"About half-past six."
"We will be with you at that time," said the major.
The two Cavalcanti bowed to the count, and left the house.
Monte Cristo went to the window, and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm.
"There go two miscreants;" said he, "it is a pity they are not really related!" — then, after an instant of gloomy reflection,
"Come, I will go to see the Morrels," said he;
"I think that disgust is even more sickening than hatred."

Our readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure surrounding M. de Villefort's house, and, behind the gate, half screened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides spread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our acquaintance.
This time Maximilian was the first to arrive.
He was intently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting with anxiety the sound of a light step on the gravel walk.
At length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure, as he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him.
The delay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eugenie, which had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was expected.
That she might not appear to fail in her promise to Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that they should take a walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was doubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect on her part.
The young man, with the intuitive perception of a lover, quickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily placed, and he was comforted.
Besides, although she avoided coming within speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could see her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed, unperceived by her companion, to cast an expressive look at the young man, which seemed to say,
"Have patience!
You see it is not my fault."
And Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally contrasting the two girls, — one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a figure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette, with a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar.
It is unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the young man, Valentine did not suffer by the contrast.
In about half an hour the girls went away, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars' visit had at last come to an end.
In a few minutes Valentine re-entered the garden alone.
For fear that any one should be observing her return, she walked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards the gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her eyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she presently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.
"Good-evening, Valentine," said a well-known voice.
"Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw the cause of my delay."
"Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars.
I was not aware that you were so intimate with her."
"Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?"
"No one, but you appeared to be so.
From the manner in which you walked and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls telling your secrets to each other."
"We were having a confidential conversation," returned Valentine; "she was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to think of marrying M. d'Epinay."
"Dear Valentine!"
"That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed between me and Eugenie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections were fixed."
"Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine!
You possess a quality which can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars.
It is that indefinable charm which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek."
"It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light."
"No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case.
I was observing you both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot understand how any man can really love her."
"The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison."
"No; but tell me — it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle Danglars" —
"I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say.
It only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex," interrupted Valentine.
"You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each other."
"If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of excitement.
But return to your question."
"Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf on account of loving another?"
"I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugenie."
"Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject.
Ah, I see you are smiling."
"If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security."
"Come, what did she say?"
"She told me that she loved no one," said Valentine; "that she disliked the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly."
"Ah, you see" —
"Well, what does that prove?" asked Valentine.
"Nothing," replied Maximilian.
"Then why did you smile?"
"Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine."
"Do you want me to go away?"
"Ah, no, no.
But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak."
"True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together."
"Ma foi," said Maximilian, in consternation.
"Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you.
What a life I cause you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness!
I bitterly reproach myself, I assure you."
"Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five minutes of your society, or two words from your lips?
And I have also a deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to separate us at last."
"Those are kind and cheering words.
You must hope for us both, Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy."
"But why must you leave me so soon?"
"I do not know particulars.
I can only tell you that Madame de Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to make on which a part of my fortune depended.
Let them take my fortune, I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will leave me in peace and quietness.
You would love me as much if I were poor, would you not, Maximilian?"
"Oh, I shall always love you.
What should I care for either riches or poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one could deprive me of her?
But do you not fear that this communication may relate to your marriage?"
"I do not think that is the case."
"However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed.
I assure you that, as long as I live, I shall never love any one else!"
"You think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian."
"Pardon me, you are right.
I am a brute.
But I was going to tell you that I met M. de Morcerf the other day."
"Well?"
"Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know."
"What then?"
"Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his immediate return."
Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against the gate.
"Ah heavens, if it were that!
But no, the communication would not come through Madame de Villefort."
"Why not?"
"Because — I scarcely know why — but it has appeared as if Madame de Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not choose openly to oppose it."
"Is it so?
Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort."
"Do not be in such a hurry to do that," said Valentine, with a sad smile.
"If she objects to your marrying M. d'Epinay, she would be all the more likely to listen to any other proposition."
"No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort objects, it is marriage itself."
"Marriage?
If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry herself?"
"You do not understand me, Maximilian.
About a year ago, I talked of retiring to a convent.
Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the project.
You can form no idea of the expression of that old man's eye when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return.
When he learned my resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his lifeless cheeks.
Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I exclaimed, — 'Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may do what they will with me, I will never leave you.'
When I had ceased speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering a word.
Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my grandfather's look at that moment would more than compensate for all."
"Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know what I — sabring right and left among the Bedouins — can have done to merit your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, heaven took into consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels.
But tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining unmarried?"
"Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian — too rich?
I possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Meran, will leave me as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir.
My brother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore, be poor in comparison with me.
Now, if I had taken the veil, all this fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his son."
"Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should be so avaricious."
"It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of maternal love."
"But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your fortune to her son?"
"How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always professes to be so entirely disinterested?"
"Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul.
No human being, not even my sister, is aware of its existence.
Valentine, will you permit me to make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?"
Valentine started.
"A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend?
I tremble to give my permission."
"Listen, Valentine.
Have you never experienced for any one that sudden and irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the first time you had ever met?
Nay, further, have you never endeavored to recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse, and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of the past?"
"Yes."
"Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first saw that extraordinary man."
"Extraordinary, did you say?"
"Yes."
"You have known him for some time, then?"
"Scarcely longer than eight or ten days."
"And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight or ten days?
Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the title of friend."
"Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession of my mind.
I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me, and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according to his own will."
"He must be a prophet, then," said Valentine, smiling.
"Indeed," said Maximilian,
"I have often been almost tempted to attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a wonderful power of foretelling any future good."
"Ah," said Valentine in a mournful tone, "do let me see this man, Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently to make amends for all I have suffered."
"My poor girl, you know him already."
"I know him?"
"Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son."
"The Count of Monte Cristo?"
"The same."
"Ah," cried Valentine, "he is too much the friend of Madame de Villefort ever to be mine."
"The friend of Madame de Villefort!
It cannot be; surely, Valentine, you are mistaken?"
"No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household is almost unlimited.
Courted by my step-mother, who regards him as the epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the count's large black eyes, runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he is sure to find some delightful present, — M. de Monte Cristo appears to exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the members of our family."
"If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt, or at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence.
He meets Albert de Morcerf in Italy — it is to rescue him from the hands of the banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars — it is that he may give her a royal present; your step-mother and her son pass before his door — it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction.
This man evidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards men and things.
I never saw more simple tastes united to greater magnificence.
His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget it ever can be bitter to others.
Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you will be happy."
"Me?" said the young girl, "he never even glances at me; on the contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid me.
Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and since, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart with one of his life-giving rays.
You say he loves you, Maximilian; how do you know that he does?
All would pay deference to an officer like you, with a fierce mustache and a long sabre, but they think they may crush a poor weeping girl with impunity."
"Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken."
"If it were otherwise — if he treated me diplomatically — that is to say, like a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its occupants — he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no attention to me whatever.
Who knows but that, in order to please Madame de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in his power?
It is not just that he should despise me so, without any reason.
Ah, forgive me," said Valentine, perceiving the effect which her words were producing on Maximilian:
"I have done wrong, for I have given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even know existed in my heart.
I do not deny the influence of which you speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has been productive of evil rather than good."
"Well, Valentine," said Morrel with a sigh, "we will not discuss the matter further.
I will not make a confidant of him."
"Alas," said Valentine,
"I see that I have given you pain.
I can only say how sincerely I ask pardon for having griefed you.
But, indeed, I am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction.
Tell me what this Count of Monte Cristo has done for you."
"I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say that the count has rendered me any ostensible service.
Still, as I have already told you I have an instinctive affection for him, the source of which I cannot explain to you.
Has the sun done anything for me?
No; he warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see you — nothing more.
Has such and such a perfume done anything for me?
No; its odor charms one of my senses — that is all I can say when I am asked why I praise it.
My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable as his for me.
A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of friendship.
In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret thoughts, I find a relation to my own.
You will perhaps smile at me when I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which has befallen me originated from him.
However, I have managed to live thirty years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a little to illustrate my meaning.
He invited me to dine with him on Saturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do.
Well, what have I learned since?
That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming to this dinner.
I shall meet them there, and who knows what future advantages may result from the interview?
This may appear to you to be no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some hidden plot in the arrangement — something, in fact, more than is apparent on a casual view of the subject.
I believe that this singular man, who appears to fathom the motives of every one, has purposely arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he was in possession of the secret of our love."
"My good friend," said Valentine,
"I should take you for a visionary, and should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk in a strain similar to this.
Is it possible that you can see anything more than the merest chance in this meeting?
Pray reflect a little.
My father, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father to accompany her.
No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian, — there is no one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my grandfather, who is little better than a corpse."
"I see that you are right, logically speaking," said Maximilian; "but the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince me to-day."
"I feel the same as regards yourself." said Valentine; "and I own that, if you have no stronger proof to give me" —
"I have another," replied Maximilian; "but I fear you will deem it even more absurd than the first."
"So much the worse," said Valentine, smiling.
"It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind.
My ten years of service have also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which directed me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side, while it left me unharmed."
"Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers for your safety?
When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but for you."
"Yes, since you have known me," said Morrel, smiling; "but that cannot apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine."
"You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd."
"Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new horse which I rode here."
"Ah, what a beautiful creature!" cried Valentine; "why did you not bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?"
"He is, as you see, a very valuable animal," said Maximilian.
"You know that my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man of moderate pretensions.
Well, I went to a horse dealer's, where I saw this magnificent horse, which I have named Medeah.
I asked the price; they told me it was 4,500 francs.
I was, therefore, obliged to give it up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy heart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with him.
The same evening some friends of mine visited me, — M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom you do not know, even by name.
They proposed a game of bouillotte.
I never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently poor to desire to gain.
But I was at my own house, you understand, so there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did.
"Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived.
He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won.
I am almost ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs.
We separated at midnight.
I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and drove to the horse dealer's.
Feverish and excited, I rang at the door.
The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed at once to the stable.
Medeah was standing at the rack, eating his hay.
I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs into the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs Elysees.
As I rode by the count's house I perceived a light in one of the windows, and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain.
Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of procuring him."
"My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love even me long.
A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common, every-day sort of attachment such as ours.
But they are calling me.
Do you hear?"
"Ah, Valentine," said Maximilian, "give me but one finger through this opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I may have the happiness of kissing it."
"Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two shadows."
"As you will, Valentine."
"Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?"
"Oh, yes!"
Valentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her whole hand through the opening.
Maximilian uttered a cry of delight, and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss.
The little hand was then immediately withdrawn, and the young man saw Valentine hurrying towards the house, as though she were almost terrified at her own sensations.

We will now relate what was passing in the house of the king's attorney after the departure of Madame Danglars and her daughter, and during the time of the conversation between Maximilian and Valentine, which we have just detailed.
M. de Villefort entered his father's room, followed by Madame de Villefort.
Both of the visitors, after saluting the old man and speaking to Barrois, a faithful servant, who had been twenty-five years in his service, took their places on either side of the paralytic.
M.
Noirtier was sitting in an arm-chair, which moved upon casters, in which he was wheeled into the room in the morning, and in the same way drawn out again at night.
He was placed before a large glass, which reflected the whole apartment, and so, without any attempt to move, which would have been impossible, he could see all who entered the room and everything which was going on around him.
M. Noirtier, although almost as immovable as a corpse, looked at the new-comers with a quick and intelligent expression, perceiving at once, by their ceremonious courtesy, that they were come on business of an unexpected and official character.
Sight and hearing were the only senses remaining, and they, like two solitary sparks, remained to animate the miserable body which seemed fit for nothing but the grave; it was only, however, by means of one of these senses that he could reveal the thoughts and feelings that still occupied his mind, and the look by which he gave expression to his inner life was like the distant gleam of a candle which a traveller sees by night across some desert place, and knows that a living being dwells beyond the silence and obscurity.
Noirtier's hair was long and white, and flowed over his shoulders; while in his eyes, shaded by thick black lashes, was concentrated, as it often happens with an organ which is used to the exclusion of the others, all the activity, address, force, and intelligence which were formerly diffused over his whole body; and so although the movement of the arm, the sound of the voice, and the agility of the body, were wanting, the speaking eye sufficed for all.
He commanded with it; it was the medium through which his thanks were conveyed.
In short, his whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the rest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the power of participation.
Three persons only could understand this language of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and the old servant of whom we have already spoken.
But as Villefort saw his father but seldom, and then only when absolutely obliged, and as he never took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all the old man's happiness was centred in his granddaughter.
Valentine, by means of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned to read in Noirtier's look all the varied feelings which were passing in his mind.
To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to others, she answered by throwing her whole soul into the expression of her countenance, and in this manner were the conversations sustained between the blooming girl and the helpless invalid, whose body could scarcely be called a living one, but who, nevertheless, possessed a fund of knowledge and penetration, united with a will as powerful as ever although clogged by a body rendered utterly incapable of obeying its impulses.
Valentine had solved the problem, and was able easily to understand his thoughts, and to convey her own in return, and, through her untiring and devoted assiduity, it was seldom that, in the ordinary transactions of every-day life, she failed to anticipate the wishes of the living, thinking mind, or the wants of the almost inanimate body.
As to the servant, he had, as we have said, been with his master for five and twenty years, therefore he knew all his habits, and it was seldom that Noirtier found it necessary to ask for anything, so prompt was he in administering to all the necessities of the invalid.
Villefort did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in order to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was about to begin.
As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man's vocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only indifference and ennui which prevented him from so doing.
He therefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois, and after having seated himself at his father's right hand, while Madame de Villefort placed herself on the left, he addressed him thus: —
"I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come with us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one which could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either.
Madame de Villefort and I have a communication to make to you."
Noirtier's face remained perfectly passive during this long preamble, while, on the contrary, Villefort's eye was endeavoring to penetrate into the inmost recesses of the old man's heart.
"This communication," continued the procureur, in that cold and decisive tone which seemed at once to preclude all discussion, "will, we are sure, meet with your approbation."
The eye of the invalid still retained that vacancy of expression which prevented his son from obtaining any knowledge of the feelings which were passing in his mind; he listened, nothing more.
"Sir," resumed Villefort, "we are thinking of marrying Valentine."
Had the old man's face been moulded in wax it could not have shown less emotion at this news than was now to be traced there.
"The marriage will take place in less than three months," said Villefort.
Noirtier's eye still retained its inanimate expression.
Madame de Villefort now took her part in the conversation and added, — "We thought this news would possess an interest for you, sir, who have always entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only now remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she is destined.
It is one of the most desirable connections which could possibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and every personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely happy, — his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you.
It is M. Franz de Quesnel, Baron d'Epinay."
While his wife was speaking, Villefort had narrowly watched the old man's countenance.
When Madame de Villefort pronounced the name of Franz, the pupil of M. Noirtier's eye began to dilate, and his eyelids trembled with the same movement that may be perceived on the lips of an individual about to speak, and he darted a lightning glance at Madame de Villefort and his son.
The procureur, who knew the political hatred which had formerly existed between M. Noirtier and the elder d'Epinay, well understood the agitation and anger which the announcement had produced; but, feigning not to perceive either, he immediately resumed the narrative begun by his wife.
"Sir," said he, "you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her nineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no time in forming a suitable alliance.
Nevertheless, you have not been forgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that Valentine's future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for that might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should live with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each other, would not be separated, and you would be able to pursue exactly the same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead of losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you two children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you."
Noirtier's look was furious; it was very evident that something desperate was passing in the old man's mind, for a cry of anger and grief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance, appeared almost to choke him, for his face and lips turned quite purple with the struggle.
Villefort quietly opened a window, saying,
"It is very warm, and the heat affects M. Noirtier."
He then returned to his place, but did not sit down.
"This marriage," added Madame de Villefort, "is quite agreeable to the wishes of M. d'Epinay and his family; besides, he had no relations nearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and his father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he was but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was permitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom acknowledged any other authority but that of his own will."
"That assassination was a mysterious affair," said Villefort, "and the perpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has fallen on the head of more than one person."
Noirtier made such an effort that his lips expanded into a smile.
"Now," continued Villefort, "those to whom the guilt really belongs, by whom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may probably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a peace-offering as Valentine on the son of him whose life they so ruthlessly destroyed."
Noirtier had succeeded in mastering his emotion more than could have been deemed possible with such an enfeebled and shattered frame.
"Yes, I understand," was the reply contained in his look; and this look expressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound contempt.
Villefort fully understood his father's meaning, and answered by a slight shrug of his shoulders.
He then motioned to his wife to take leave.
"Now sir," said Madame de Villefort,
"I must bid you farewell.
Would you like me to send Edward to you for a short time?"
It had been agreed that the old man should express his approbation by closing his eyes, his refusal by winking them several times, and if he had some desire or feeling to express, he raised them to heaven.
If he wanted Valentine, he closed his right eye only, and if Barrois, the left.
At Madame de Villefort's proposition he instantly winked his eyes.
Provoked by a complete refusal, she bit her lip and said,
"Then shall I send Valentine to you?"
The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby intimating that such was his wish.
M. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the room, giving orders that Valentine should be summoned to her grandfather's presence, and feeling sure that she would have much to do to restore calmness to the perturbed spirit of the invalid.
Valentine, with a color still heightened by emotion, entered the room just after her parents had quitted it.
One look was sufficient to tell her that her grandfather was suffering, and that there was much on his mind which he was wishing to communicate to her.
"Dear grandpapa," cried she, "what has happened?
They have vexed you, and you are angry?"
The paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent.
"Who has displeased you?
Is it my father?"
"No."
"Madame de Villefort?"
"No."
"Me?"
The former sign was repeated.
"Are you displeased with me?" cried Valentine in astonishment.
M. Noirtier again closed his eyes.
"And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with me?" cried Valentine.
There was no answer, and she continued.
"I have not seen you all day.
Has any one been speaking to you against me?"
"Yes," said the old man's look, with eagerness.
"Let me think a moment.
I do assure you, grandpapa — Ah — M. and Madame de Villefort have just left this room, have they not?"
"Yes."
"And it was they who told you something which made you angry?
What was it then?
May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of making my peace with you?"
"No, no," said Noirtier's look.
"Ah, you frighten me.
What can they have said?" and she again tried to think what it could be.
"Ah, I know," said she, lowering her voice and going close to the old man.
"They have been speaking of my marriage, — have they not?"
"Yes," replied the angry look.
"I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on the subject.
The reason of it was, that they had insisted on my keeping the matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it.
They did not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered them by chance, that is why I have been so reserved with you, dear grandpapa.
Pray forgive me."
But there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to say was,
"It is not only your reserve which afflicts me."
"What is it, then?" asked the young girl.
"Perhaps you think I shall abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when I am married?"
"No."
"They told you, then, that M. d'Epinay consented to our all living together?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still vexed and grieved?"
The old man's eyes beamed with an expression of gentle affection.
"Yes, I understand," said Valentine; "it is because you love me."
The old man assented.
"And you are afraid I shall be unhappy?"
"Yes."
"You do not like M. Franz?"
The eyes repeated several times,
"No, no, no."
"Then you are vexed with the engagement?"
"Yes."
"Well, listen," said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees, and putting her arm round her grandfather's neck,
"I am vexed, too, for I do not love M. Franz d'Epinay."
An expression of intense joy illumined the old man's eyes.
"When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you were with me?"
A tear trembled in the eye of the invalid.
"Well," continued Valentine, "the reason of my proposing it was that I might escape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair."
Noirtier's breathing came thick and short.
"Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too?
Ah, if you could but help me — if we could both together defeat their plan!
But you are unable to oppose them, — you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am myself.
Alas, you, who would have been such a powerful protector to me in the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my joys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them.
However, this is much, and calls for gratitude and heaven has not taken away all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness."
At these words there appeared in Noirtier's eye an expression of such deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words there:
"You are mistaken; I can still do much for you."
"Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?" said Valentine.
"Yes."
Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on between him and Valentine when he wanted anything.
"What is it you want, dear grandpapa?" said Valentine, and she endeavored to recall to mind all the things which he would be likely to need; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind, she repeated them aloud, then, — finding that all her efforts elicited nothing but a constant
"No," — she said,
"Come, since this plan does not answer, I will have recourse to another."
She then recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N.
When she arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she had spoken the initial letter of the thing he wanted.
"Ah," said Valentine, "the thing you desire begins with the letter N; it is with N that we have to do, then.
Well, let me see, what can you want that begins with N?
Na — Ne — Ni — No" —
"Yes, yes, yes," said the old man's eye.
"Ah, it is No, then?"
"Yes."
Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a desk before Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing that the odd man's eye was thoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly up and down the columns.
During the six years which had passed since Noirtier first fell into this sad state, Valentine's powers of invention had been too often put to the test not to render her expert in devising expedients for gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and the constant practice had so perfected her in the art that she guessed the old man's meaning as quickly as if he himself had been able to seek for what he wanted.
At the word
"Notary," Noirtier made a sign to her to stop.
"Notary," said she, "do you want a notary, dear grandpapa?"
The old man again signified that it was a notary he desired.
"You would wish a notary to be sent for then?" said Valentine.
"Yes."
"Shall my father be informed of your wish?"
"Yes."
"Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately?"
"Yes."
"Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa.
Is that all you want?"
"Yes."
Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell Monsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to M. Noirtier's room.
"Are you satisfied now?" inquired Valentine.
"Yes."
"I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that," — and the young girl smiled on her grandfather, as if he had been a child.
M. de Villefort entered, followed by Barrois.
"What do you want me for, sir?" demanded he of the paralytic.
"Sir," said Valentine, "my grandfather wishes for a notary."
At this strange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father exchanged looks.
"Yes," motioned the latter, with a firmness which seemed to declare that with the help of Valentine and his old servant, who both knew what his wishes were, he was quite prepared to maintain the contest.
"Do you wish for a notary?" asked Villefort.
"Yes."
"What to do?"
Noirtier made no answer.
"What do you want with a notary?" again repeated Villefort.
The invalid's eye remained fixed, by which expression he intended to intimate that his resolution was unalterable.
"Is it to do us some ill turn?
Do you think it is worth while?" said Villefort.
"Still," said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old servant, "if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he really wishes for a notary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one."
Barrois acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his desires in any way to be contradicted.
"Yes, I do want a notary," motioned the old man, shutting his eyes with a look of defiance, which seemed to say, "and I should like to see the person who dares to refuse my request."
"You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir," said Villefort; "but I shall explain to him your state of health, and make excuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most ridiculous one."
"Never mind that," said Barrois;
"I shall go and fetch a notary, nevertheless," — and the old servant departed triumphantly on his mission.

As soon as Barrois had left the room, Noirtier looked at Valentine with a malicious expression that said many things.
The young girl perfectly understood the look, and so did Villefort, for his countenance became clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows angrily.
He took a seat, and quietly awaited the arrival of the notary.
Noirtier saw him seat himself with an appearance of perfect indifference, at the same time giving a side look at Valentine, which made her understand that she also was to remain in the room.
Three-quarters of an hour after, Barrois returned, bringing the notary with him.
"Sir," said Villefort, after the first salutations were over, "you were sent for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here.
All his limbs have become completely paralysed, he has lost his voice also, and we ourselves find much trouble in endeavoring to catch some fragments of his meaning."
Noirtier cast an appealing look on Valentine, which look was at once so earnest and imperative, that she answered immediately.
"Sir," said she,
"I perfectly understand my grandfather's meaning at all times."
"That is quite true," said Barrois; "and that is what I told the gentleman as we walked along."
"Permit me," said the notary, turning first to Villefort and then to Valentine — "permit me to state that the case in question is just one of those in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act without thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility.
The first thing necessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should be thoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and wishes of the person dictating the act.
Now I cannot be sure of the approbation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the object of his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me, on account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite useless, and cannot be legally exercised."
The notary then prepared to retire.
An imperceptible smile of triumph was expressed on the lips of the procureur.
Noirtier looked at Valentine with an expression so full of grief, that she arrested the departure of the notary.
"Sir," said she, "the language which I speak with my grandfather may be easily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it almost as well as I can myself.
Will you tell me what you require, in order to set your conscience quite at ease on the subject?"
"In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation or disapprobation of my client.
Illness of body would not affect the validity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite."
"Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you presently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather is still in the full possession of all his mental faculties.
M. Noirtier, being deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey his meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to signify 'yes,' and to wink when he means 'no.'
You now know quite enough to enable you to converse with M. Noirtier; — try."
Noirtier gave Valentine such a look of tenderness and gratitude that it was comprehended even by the notary himself.
"You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying, sir, have you?" asked the notary.
Noirtier closed his eyes.
"And you approve of what she said — that is to say, you declare that the signs which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are accustomed to convey your thoughts?"
"Yes."
"It was you who sent for me?"
"Yes."
"To make your will?"
"Yes."
"And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original intentions?"
The old man winked violently.
"Well, sir," said the young girl, "do you understand now, and is your conscience perfectly at rest on the subject?"
But before the notary could answer, Villefort had drawn him aside.
"Sir," said he, "do you suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment to his mental faculties?"
"It is not exactly that, sir," said the notary, "which makes me uneasy, but the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so as to be able to get his answers."
"You must see that to be an utter impossibility," said Villefort.
Valentine and the old man heard this conversation, and Noirtier fixed his eye so earnestly on Valentine that she felt bound to answer to the look.
"Sir," said she, "that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it may at first sight appear to be.
I can discover and explain to you my grandfather's thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and fears on the subject.
I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a thought which he was unable to make me understand."
"No," signed the old man.
"Let us try what we can do, then," said the notary.
"You accept this young lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you wish to be drawn up?"
Valentine named all the letters of the alphabet until she came to W.
At this letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her notice that she was to stop.
"It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants," said the notary.
"Wait," said Valentine; and, turning to her grandfather, she repeated,
"Wa — We — Wi" — The old man stopped her at the last syllable.
Valentine then took the dictionary, and the notary watched her while she turned over the pages.
She passed her finger slowly down the columns, and when she came to the word
"Will," M. Noirtier's eye bade her stop.
"Will," said the notary; "it is very evident that M. Noirtier is desirous of making his will."
"Yes, yes, yes," motioned the invalid.
"Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary," said the astonished notary, turning to M. de Villefort.
"Yes," said the procureur, "and I think the will promises to be yet more extraordinary, for I cannot see how it is to be drawn up without the intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as too much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable interpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes of her grandfather."
"No, no, no," replied the eye of the paralytic.
"What?" said Villefort, "do you mean to say that Valentine is not interested in your will?"
"No."
"Sir," said the notary, whose interest had been greatly excited, and who had resolved on publishing far and wide the account of this extraordinary and picturesque scene, "what appeared so impossible to me an hour ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be a perfectly valid will, provided it be read in the presence of seven witnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the presence of the witnesses.
As to the time, it will not require very much more than the generality of wills.
There are certain forms necessary to be gone through, and which are always the same.
As to the details, the greater part will be furnished afterwards by the state in which we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having had the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the subject.
But besides all this, in order that the instrument may not be contested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity, therefore, one of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom, will assist in the dictation of the testament.
Are you satisfied, sir?" continued the notary, addressing the old man.
"Yes," looked the invalid, his eye beaming with delight at the ready interpretation of his meaning.
"What is he going to do?" thought Villefort, whose position demanded much reserve, but who was longing to know what his father's intentions were.
He left the room to give orders for another notary to be sent, but Barrois, who had heard all that passed, had guessed his master's wishes, and had already gone to fetch one.
The procureur then told his wife to come up.
In the course of a quarter of an hour every one had assembled in the chamber of the paralytic; the second notary had also arrived.
A few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between the two officers of the law.
They read to Noirtier the formal copy of a will, in order to give him an idea of the terms in which such documents are generally couched; then, in order to test the capacity of the testator, the first notary said, turning towards him, — "When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in prejudice of some person."
"Yes."
"Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune?"
"Yes."
"I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you will stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own possessions?"
"Yes."
There was a kind of solemnity in this interrogation.
Never had the struggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it was not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle.
They had formed a circle round the invalid; the second notary was sitting at a table, prepared for writing, and his colleague was standing before the testator in the act of interrogating him on the subject to which we have alluded.
"Your fortune exceeds 300,000. francs, does it not?" asked he.
Noirtier made a sign that it did.
"Do you possess 400,000 francs?" inquired the notary.
Noirtier's eye remained immovable.
"Five hundred thousand?"
The same expression continued.
"Six hundred thousand — 700,000 — 800,000 — 900,000?"
Noirtier stopped him at the last-named sum.
"You are then in possession of 900,000. francs?" asked the notary.
"Yes."
"In landed property?"
"No."
"In stock?"
"Yes."
"The stock is in your own hands?"
The look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois showed that there was something wanting which he knew where to find.
The old servant left the room, and presently returned, bringing with him a small casket.
"Do you permit us to open this casket?" asked the notary.
Noirtier gave his assent.
They opened it, and found 900,000. francs in bank scrip.
The first notary handed over each note, as he examined it, to his colleague.
The total amount was found to be as M. Noirtier had stated.
"It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the mind still retains its full force and vigor."
Then, turning towards the paralytic, he said,
"You possess, then, 900,000. francs of capital, which, according to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring in an income of about 40,000 livres?"
"Yes."
"To whom do you desire to leave this fortune?"
"Oh," said Madame de Villefort, "there is not much doubt on that subject.
M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de Villefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and has, by her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had almost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is but just that she should reap the fruit of her devotion."
The eye of Noirtier clearly showed by its expression that he was not deceived by the false assent given by Madame de Villefort's words and manner to the motives which she supposed him to entertain.
"Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave these 900,000 francs?" demanded the notary, thinking he had only to insert this clause, but waiting first for the assent of Noirtier, which it was necessary should be given before all the witnesses of this singular scene.
Valentine, when her name was made the subject of discussion, had stepped back, to escape unpleasant observation; her eyes were cast down, and she was crying.
The old man looked at her for an instant with an expression of the deepest tenderness, then, turning towards the notary, he significantly winked his eye in token of dissent.
"What," said the notary, "do you not intend making Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?"
"No."
"You are not making any mistake, are you?" said the notary; "you really mean to declare that such is not your intention?"
"No," repeated Noirtier;
"No."
Valentine raised her head, struck dumb with astonishment.
It was not so much the conviction that she was disinherited that caused her grief, but her total inability to account for the feelings which had provoked her grandfather to such an act.
But Noirtier looked at her with so much affectionate tenderness that she exclaimed,
"Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you deprive me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed."
"Ah, yes, most assuredly," said the eyes of the paralytic, for he closed them with an expression which Valentine could not mistake.
"Thank you, thank you," murmured she.
The old man's declaration that Valentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had excited the hopes of Madame de Villefort; she gradually approached the invalid, and said:
"Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to your grandson, Edward de Villefort?"
The winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and terrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.
"No?" said the notary; "then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de Villefort?"
"No."
The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and inquiry as to what were the real intentions of the testator.
Villefort and his wife both grew red, one from shame, the other from anger.
"What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa?" said Valentine; "you no longer seem to love any of us?"
The old man's eyes passed rapidly from Villefort and his wife, and rested on Valentine with a look of unutterable fondness.
"Well," said she; "if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love to bear upon your actions at this present moment.
You know me well enough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune; besides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother — too rich, even.
Explain yourself, then."
Noirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine's hand.
"My hand?" said she.
"Yes."
"Her hand!" exclaimed every one.
"Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father's mind is really impaired," said Villefort.
"Ah," cried Valentine suddenly,
"I understand.
It is my marriage you mean, is it not, dear grandpapa?"
"Yes, yes, yes," signed the paralytic, casting on Valentine a look of joyful gratitude for having guessed his meaning.
"You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?"
"Yes?"
"Really, this is too absurd," said Villefort.
"Excuse me, sir," replied the notary; "on the contrary, the meaning of M. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I can quite easily connect the train of ideas passing in his mind."
"You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d'Epinay?" observed Valentine.
"I do not wish it," said the eye of her grandfather.
"And you disinherit your granddaughter," continued the notary, "because she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?"
"Yes."
"So that, but for this marriage, she would have been your heir?"
"Yes."
There was a profound silence.
The two notaries were holding a consultation as to the best means of proceeding with the affair.
Valentine was looking at her grandfather with a smile of intense gratitude, and Villefort was biting his lips with vexation, while Madame de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an inward feeling of joy, which, in spite of herself, appeared in her whole countenance.
"But," said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence,
"I consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in question.
I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my daughter's hand.
It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz d'Epinay — and she shall marry him."
Valentine sank weeping into a chair.
"Sir," said the notary, "how do you intend disposing of your fortune in case Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz?"
The old man gave no answer.
"You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other?"
"Yes."
"In favor of some member of your family?"
"No."
"Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?" pursued the notary.
"Yes."
"But," said the notary, "you are aware that the law does not allow a son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony?"
"Yes."
"You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which the law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son?"
Noirtier made no answer.
"Do you still wish to dispose of all?"
"Yes."
"But they will contest the will after your death?"
"No."
"My father knows me," replied Villefort; "he is quite sure that his wishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that in my position I cannot plead against the poor."
The eye of Noirtier beamed with triumph.
"What do you decide on, sir?" asked the notary of Villefort.
"Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know he never alters his mind.
I am quite resigned.
These 900,000 francs will go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is ridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall, therefore, act according to my conscience."
Having said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his father at liberty to do as he pleased.
The same day the will was made, the witnesses were brought, it was approved by the old man, sealed in the presence of all and given in charge to M. Deschamps, the family notary.

M. and Madame de Villefort found on their return that the Count of Monte Cristo, who had come to visit them in their absence, had been ushered into the drawing-room, and was still awaiting them there.
Madame de Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently recovered from her late emotion to allow of her entertaining visitors so immediately, retired to her bedroom, while the procureur, who could better depend upon himself, proceeded at once to the salon.
Although M. de Villefort flattered himself that, to all outward view, he had completely masked the feelings which were passing in his mind, he did not know that the cloud was still lowering on his brow, so much so that the count, whose smile was radiant, immediately noticed his sombre and thoughtful air.
"Ma foi," said Monte Cristo, after the first compliments were over, "what is the matter with you, M. de Villefort?
Have I arrived at the moment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime?"
Villefort tried to smile.
"No, count," he replied,
"I am the only victim in this case.
It is I who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have caused it to be decided against me."
"To what do you refer?" said Monte Cristo with well-feigned interest.
"Have you really met with some great misfortune?"
"Oh, no, monsieur," said Villefort with a bitter smile; "it is only a loss of money which I have sustained — nothing worth mentioning, I assure you."
"True," said Monte Cristo, "the loss of a sum of money becomes almost immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your philosophic spirit."
"It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me," said Villefort, "though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old man relapsed into second childhood."
"What do you say?" said the count;
"900,000 francs?
It is indeed a sum which might be regretted even by a philosopher.
And who is the cause of all this annoyance?"
"My father, as I told you."
"M. Noirtier?
But I thought you told me he had become entirely paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?"
"Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak, nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described.
I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating his will to two notaries."
"But to do this he must have spoken?"
"He has done better than that — he has made himself understood."
"How was such a thing possible?"
"By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury."
"My dear," said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room, "perhaps you exaggerate the evil."
"Good-morning, madame," said the count, bowing.
Madame de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with one of her most gracious smiles.
"What is this that M. de Villefort has been telling me?" demanded Monte Cristo "and what incomprehensible misfortune" —
"Incomprehensible is not the word," interrupted the procureur, shrugging his shoulders.
"It is an old man's caprice."
"And is there no means of making him revoke his decision?"
"Yes," said Madame de Villefort; "and it is still entirely in the power of my husband to cause the will, which is now in prejudice of Valentine, to be altered in her favor."
The count, who perceived that M. and Madame de Villefort were beginning to speak in parables, appeared to pay no attention to the conversation, and feigned to be busily engaged in watching Edward, who was mischievously pouring some ink into the bird's water-glass.
"My dear," said Villefort, in answer to his wife, "you know I have never been accustomed to play the patriarch in my family, nor have I ever considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my nod.
Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in my family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained for so many years.
The Baron d'Epinay was my friend, as you know, and an alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly be arranged."
"Do you think," said Madame de Villefort, "that Valentine is in league with him?
She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should not be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing but the execution of a plan concerted between them."
"Madame," said Villefort, "believe me, a fortune of 900,000. francs is not so easily renounced."
"She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir, since it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a convent."
"Never mind," replied Villefort;
"I say that this marriage shall be consummated."
"Notwithstanding your father's wishes to the contrary?" said Madame de Villefort, selecting a new point of attack.
"That is a serious thing."
Monte Cristo, who pretended not to be listening, heard however, every word that was said.
"Madame," replied Villefort
"I can truly say that I have always entertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural feeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral superiority.
The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be reverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to obey.
But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting the wisdom of an old man who, because he hated the father, vents his anger on the son.
It would be ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct by such caprices.
I shall still continue to preserve the same respect toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary deprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in my determination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his side.
Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz d'Epinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match for her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my daughter's hand on whomever I please."
"What?" said the count, the approbation of whose eye Villefort had frequently solicited during this speech.
"What?
Do you say that M. Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry M. le Baron Franz d'Epinay?"
"Yes, sir, that is the reason," said Villefort, shrugging his shoulders.
"The apparent reason, at least," said Madame de Villefort.
"The real reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father."
"But I want to know in what way M. d'Epinay can have displeased your father more than any other person?"
"I believe I know M. Franz d'Epinay," said the count; "is he not the son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d'Epinay by Charles X.?"
"The same," said Villefort.
"Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas."
"He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier to prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in their affection," said Madame de Villefort.
"But," said Monte Cristo "do you not know any cause for this hatred?"
"Ah, ma foi, who is to know?"
"Perhaps it is some political difference?"
"My father and the Baron d'Epinay lived in the stormy times of which I only saw the ending," said Villefort.
"Was not your father a Bonapartist?" asked Monte Cristo;
"I think I remember that you told me something of that kind."
"My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else," said Villefort, carried by his emotion beyond the bounds of prudence; "and the senator's robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to disguise the old man without in any degree changing him.
When my father conspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for M. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian schemes which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities, and he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible theories of The Mountain, — theories that never shrank from any means that were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result."
"Well," said Monte Cristo, "it is just as I thought; it was politics which brought Noirtier and M. d'Epinay into personal contact.
Although General d'Epinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain royalist sentiments?
And was he not the person who was assassinated one evening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited on the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor?"
Villefort looked at the count almost with terror.
"Am I mistaken, then?" said Monte Cristo.
"No, sir, the facts were precisely what you have stated," said Madame de Villefort; "and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M. de Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the two children of these inveterate enemies."
"It was a sublime and charitable thought," said Monte Cristo, "and the whole world should applaud it.
It would be noble to see Mademoiselle Noirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d'Epinay."
Villefort shuddered and looked at Monte Cristo as if he wished to read in his countenance the real feelings which had dictated the words he had just uttered.
But the count completely baffled the procureur, and prevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile he was so constantly in the habit of assuming.
"Although," said Villefort, "it will be a serious thing for Valentine to lose her grandfather's fortune, I do not think that M. d'Epinay will be frightened at this pecuniary loss.
He will, perhaps, hold me in greater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice everything in order to keep my word with him.
Besides, he knows that Valentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all probability, inherit the fortune of M. and Madame de Saint-Meran, her mother's parents, who both love her tenderly."
"And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier," said Madame de Villefort; "besides, they are to come to Paris in about a month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not consider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut up with M. Noirtier."
The count listened with satisfaction to this tale of wounded self-love and defeated ambition.
"But it seems to me," said Monte Cristo, "and I must begin by asking your pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose father he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against this dear Edward."
"True," said Madame de Villefort, with an intonation of voice which it is impossible to describe; "is it not unjust — shamefully unjust?
Poor Edward is as much M. Noirtier's grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if she had not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left her all his money; and supposing Valentine to be disinherited by her grandfather, she will still be three times richer than he."
The count listened and said no more.
"Count," said Villefort, "we will not entertain you any longer with our family misfortunes.
It is true that my patrimony will go to endow charitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my lawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like a man of sense and feeling.
M. d'Epinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum, shall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations."
"However," said Madame de Villefort, returning to the one idea which incessantly occupied her mind, "perhaps it would be better to explain this unlucky affair to M. d'Epinay, in order to give him the opportunity of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Villefort."
"Ah, that would be a great pity," said Villefort.
"A great pity," said Monte Cristo.
"Undoubtedly," said Villefort, moderating the tones of his voice, "a marriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit on a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to put an end to, will instantly gain ground.
No, it will all go well; M. d'Epinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than ever pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a decided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible."
"I agree with M. de Villefort," said Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on Madame de Villefort; "and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to allow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told M. d'Epinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all possibility of revocation.
I will answer for the success of a project which will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort."
The procureur arose, delighted with the proposition, but his wife slightly changed color.
"Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor such as you are," said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo.
"Therefore let every one here look upon what has passed to-day as if it had not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as a change in our original plans."
"Sir," said the count, "the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased with your resolution; your friends will be proud of you, and M. d'Epinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry, which he will not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a family which could make such sacrifices in order to keep a promise and fulfil a duty."
At the conclusion of these words, the count rose to depart.
"Are you going to leave us, count?" said Madame de Villefort.
"I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of your promise for Saturday."
"Did you fear that we should forget it?"
"You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important and urgent occupations."
"My husband has given me his word, sir," said Madame de Villefort; "you have just seen him resolve to keep it when he has everything to lose, and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has everything to gain."
"And," said Villefort, "is it at your house in the Champs-Elysees that you receive your visitors?"
"No," said Monte Cristo, "which is precisely the reason which renders your kindness more meritorious, — it is in the country."
"In the country?"
"Yes."
"Where is it, then?
Near Paris, is it not?"
"Very near, only half a league from the Barriers, — it is at Auteuil."
"At Auteuil?" said Villefort; "true, Madame de Villefort told me you lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken.
And in what part of Auteuil do you reside?"
"Rue de la Fontaine."
"Rue de la Fontaine!" exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; "at what number?"
"No. 28."
"Then," cried Villefort, "was it you who bought M. de Saint-Meran's house!"
"Did it belong to M. de Saint-Meran?" demanded Monte Cristo.
"Yes," replied Madame de Villefort; "and, would you believe it, count" —
"Believe what?"
"You think this house pretty, do you not?"
"I think it charming."
"Well, my husband would never live in it."
"Indeed?" returned Monte Cristo, "that is a prejudice on your part, M. de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account."
"I do not like Auteuil, sir," said the procureur, making an evident effort to appear calm.
"But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me of the pleasure of your company, sir," said Monte Cristo.
"No, count, — I hope — I assure you I shall do my best," stammered Villefort.
"Oh," said Monte Cristo,
"I allow of no excuse.
On Saturday, at six o'clock.
I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall think — for how do I know to the contrary? — that this house, which his remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition or dreadful legend connected with it."
"I will come, count, — I will be sure to come," said Villefort eagerly.
"Thank you," said Monte Cristo; "now you must permit me to take my leave of you."
"You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur," said Madame de Villefort, "and you were about to tell us why when your attention was called to some other subject."
"Indeed madame," said Monte Cristo:
"I scarcely know if I dare tell you where I am going."
"Nonsense; say on."
"Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for hours together."
"What is it?"
"A telegraph.
So now I have told my secret."
"A telegraph?" repeated Madame de Villefort.
"Yes, a telegraph.
I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I assure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could not help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should be made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the distance of three hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting at a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at the opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of volition on the part of the sender of the message.
I began to think of genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult sciences, until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination.
Now, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these large insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find under their stone wings some little human genius fagged to death with cabals, factions, and government intrigues.
But one fine day I learned that the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for twelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler, or even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him, but all his monotonous life was passed in watching his white-bellied, black-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him.
At length I felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and to endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors when they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of string."
"And are you going there?"
"I am."
"What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or of the observatory?"
"Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand things of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to explain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not understand.
Ma foi, I should wish to keep my illusions concerning insects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I had formed of my fellow-creatures.
I shall, therefore, not visit either of these telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a good-natured simpleton, who knows no more than the machine he is employed to work."
"You are a singular man," said Villefort.
"What line would you advise me to study?"
"The one that is most in use just at this time."
"The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?"
"Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain to you" —
"No," said Monte Cristo; "since, as I told you before, I do not wish to comprehend it.
The moment I understand it there will no longer exist a telegraph for me; it will be nothing more than a sign from M. Duchatel, or from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified by two Greek words, tele, graphein.
It is the insect with black claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in all its purity and all its importance."
"Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will not be able to see anything."
"Ma foi, you frighten me.
Which is the nearest way?
Bayonne?"
"Yes; the road to Bayonne."
"And afterwards the road to Chatillon?"
"Yes."
"By the tower of Montlhery, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Thank you.
Good-by.
On Saturday I will tell you my impressions concerning the telegraph."
At the door the count was met by the two notaries, who had just completed the act which was to disinherit Valentine, and who were leaving under the conviction of having done a thing which could not fail of redounding considerably to their credit.