The Count of Monte Cristo (29 of 29)


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Transcript:
Chapter 114. Peppino.
At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgion, a man
travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed the
little town of Aquapendente. He was travelling fast enough to cover a
great deal of ground without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed
in a greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey,
but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and
brilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He might
be recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with
which he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman. Another proof that he
was a native of the universal country was apparent in the fact of his
knowing no other Italian words than the terms used in music, and
which like the "goddam" of Figaro, served all possible linguistic
requirements. "Allegro!" he called out to the postilions at every
ascent. "Moderato!" he cried as they descended. And heaven knows there
are hills enough between Rome and Florence by the way of Aquapendente!
These two words greatly amused the men to whom they were addressed. On
reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome is first visible, the
traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic curiosity which usually leads
strangers to stand up and endeavor to catch sight of the dome of
St. Peter's, which may be seen long before any other object is
distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook from his pocket, and
took from it a paper folded in four, and after having examined it in a
manner almost reverential, he said—"Good! I have it still!"
The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the left, and
stopped at the Hotel d'Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance,
received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller alighted,
ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house of Thomson
& French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one of the most
celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St.
Peter's. In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an
event. Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and
out at elbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully
curved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and the
horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the Papal
States, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high water
from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of Rome,
more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language, more
especially the French, they heard the traveller order an apartment, a
dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of Thomson & French.
The result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the cicerone,
a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and without having
been seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no attention from
the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a Parisian police
agent would have used.
The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson &
French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left
word for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him
at the bankers' door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. The
Frenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately
entered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlers
who are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses,
churches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had
followed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and
entered the first room; his shadow did the same.
"Messrs. Thomson & French?" inquired the stranger.
An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the first
desk. "Whom shall I announce?" said the attendant.
"Baron Danglars."
"Follow me," said the man. A door opened, through which the attendant
and the baron disappeared. The man who had followed Danglars sat down on
a bench. The clerk continued to write for the next five minutes; the man
preserved profound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the
pen of the clerk ceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and
appearing to be perfectly sure of privacy,—"Ah, ha," he said, "here you
are, Peppino!"
"Yes," was the laconic reply. "You have found out that there is
something worth having about this large gentleman?"
"There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it."
"You know his business here, then."
"Pardieu, he has come to draw, but I don't know how much!"
"You will know presently, my friend."
"Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other
day."
"What do you mean?—of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who
carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?"
"No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian
prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000."
"You must have searched badly."
"Luigi Vampa himself searched."
"Indeed? But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman will
transact his business without my knowing the sum." Peppino nodded, and
taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter a few prayers while
the clerk disappeared through the same door by which Danglars and the
attendant had gone out. At the expiration of ten minutes the clerk
returned with a beaming countenance. "Well?" asked Peppino of his
friend.
"Joy, joy—the sum is large!"
"Five or six millions, is it not?"
"Yes, you know the amount."
"On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?"
"Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?"
"I told you we were informed beforehand."
"Then why do you apply to me?"
"That I may be sure I have the right man."
"Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions—a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?"
"Hush—here is our man!" The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his
beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened.
Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the
door. Peppino followed Danglars.
According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door. The
guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn their
hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young man of
twenty. The cicerone reclosed the door, and sprang up by the side of the
coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.
"Will your excellency visit St. Peter's?" asked the cicerone.
"I did not come to Rome to see," said Danglars aloud; then he added
softly, with an avaricious smile, "I came to touch!" and he rapped his
pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.
"Then your excellency is going"—
"To the hotel."
"Casa Pastrini!" said the cicerone to the coachman, and the carriage
drove rapidly on. Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his
apartment, and Peppino stationed himself on the bench outside the door
of the hotel, after having whispered something in the ear of one of the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning
of the chapter, who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol
at his fullest speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went
to bed, placing his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little
spare time, so he had a game of mora with the facchini, lost three
crowns, and then to console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.
The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early; he
had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at all.
He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the beauties
of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars had not
reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of the
posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o'clock, and the cicerone
did not bring the passport till three. All these preparations had
collected a number of idlers round the door of Signor Pastrini's; the
descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were also not wanting. The baron
walked triumphantly through the crowd, who for the sake of gain styled
him "your excellency." As Danglars had hitherto contented himself
with being called a baron, he felt rather flattered at the title of
excellency, and distributed a dozen silver coins among the beggars, who
were ready, for twelve more, to call him "your highness."
"Which road?" asked the postilion in Italian. "The Ancona road," replied
the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the question and answer, and the
horses galloped off. Danglars intended travelling to Venice, where he
would receive one part of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna,
where he would find the rest, he meant to take up his residence in the
latter town, which he had been told was a city of pleasure.
He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began
to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would
have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long
it would be before they reached the next town. "Non capisco" (do not
understand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to
imply, "Very well." The carriage again moved on. "I will stop at the
first posting-house," said Danglars to himself.
He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the
previous evening, and which had procured him so good a night's rest. He
was luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double springs;
he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the relay
to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation could
present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?
Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another ten
minutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d'Armilly;
the same period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which
he intended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for
contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt
more violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he felt
that he was still being carried with great rapidity over the same
country, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like granite
giants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold, dull, and
rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to remain in the
warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to make inquiries
of a postilion whose only answer was "Non capisco."
Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he would
be sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglars
fancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his eyes
and looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the midst
of some town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what
seemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows.
Danglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demand
payment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantage
of the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but the
horses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without any
one claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened the
door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled on. The
baron was completely roused. "Eh?" he said to the postilion, "eh, mio
caro?"
This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned from
hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But mio caro
did not reply. Danglars then opened the window.
"Come, my friend," he said, thrusting his hand through the opening,
"where are we going?"
"Dentro la testa!" answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied by
a menacing gesture. Danglars thought dentro la testa meant, "Put in your
head!" He was making rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without
some uneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead
of being as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill with
ideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially
one in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality
which in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to see
distinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed. Before
we are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see double;
and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble. Danglars
observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the carriage.
"Some gendarme!" he exclaimed. "Can I have been intercepted by French
telegrams to the pontifical authorities?" He resolved to end his
anxiety. "Where are you taking me?" he asked. "Dentro la testa," replied
the same voice, with the same menacing accent.
Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping
on that side. "Decidedly," said Danglars, with the perspiration on his
forehead, "I must be under arrest." And he threw himself back in the
calash, not this time to sleep, but to think. Directly afterwards the
moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts, those stone phantoms which
he had before remarked, only then they were on the right hand, now they
were on the left. He understood that they had described a circle, and
were bringing him back to Rome. "Oh, unfortunate!" he cried, "they
must have obtained my arrest." The carriage continued to roll on with
frightful speed. An hour of terror elapsed, for every spot they passed
showed that they were on the road back. At length he saw a dark mass,
against which it seemed as if the carriage was about to dash; but the
vehicle turned to one side, leaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw
that it was one of the ramparts encircling Rome.
"Mon dieu!" cried Danglars, "we are not returning to Rome; then it
is not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea
presents itself—what if they should be"—
His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, so
little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered the
adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended that
he should marry Mademoiselle Eugenie. "They are robbers, perhaps," he
muttered. Just then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel
road. Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceived
monuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the details
Morcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he
felt sure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of
valley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla's circus.
On a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it stopped.
At the same time the door was opened. "Scendi!" exclaimed a commanding
voice. Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak
Italian, he understood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked
around him. Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion.
"Di qua," said one of the men, descending a little path leading out of
the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and
had no occasion to turn around to see whether the three others were
following him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equal
distances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about ten
minutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with his
guide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds;
three men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was the
centre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move. "Avanti!"
said the same sharp and imperative voice.
This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word
and gesture had not explained the speaker's meaning, it was clearly
expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely that
he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who
dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but
lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road. Peppino
stopped before a pit overhung by thick hedges; the pit, half open,
afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the evil
spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man who
followed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer
any doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars
acquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions,
and who is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,
certainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he
slid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he
touched the ground, he opened his eyes. The path was wide, but dark.
Peppino, who cared little for being recognized now that he was in his
own territories, struck a light and lit a torch. Two other men descended
after Danglars forming the rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he
happened to stop, they came by a gentle declivity to the intersection of
two corridors. The walls were hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the
other, and which seemed in contrast with the white stones to open their
large dark eyes, like those which we see on the faces of the dead. A
sentinel struck the rings of his carbine against his left hand. "Who
comes there?" he cried.
"A friend, a friend!" said Peppino; "but where is the captain?"
"There," said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spacious
crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into the
passage through the large arched openings. "Fine spoil, captain, fine
spoil!" said Peppino in Italian, and taking Danglars by the collar of
his coat he dragged him to an opening resembling a door, through which
they entered the apartment which the captain appeared to have made his
dwelling-place.
"Is this the man?" asked the captain, who was attentively reading
Plutarch's "Life of Alexander."
"Himself, captain—himself."
"Very well, show him to me." At this rather impertinent order, Peppino
raised his torch to the face of Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he
might not have his eyelashes burnt. His agitated features presented
the appearance of pale and hideous terror. "The man is tired," said the
captain, "conduct him to his bed."
"Oh," murmured Danglars, "that bed is probably one of the coffins
hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from one
of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness."
From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the chamber
now arose the companions of the man who had been found by Albert de
Morcerf reading "Caesar's Commentaries," and by Danglars studying the
"Life of Alexander." The banker uttered a groan and followed his guide;
he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer possessed strength,
will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led him. At length he
found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he mechanically lifted
his foot five or six times. Then a low door was opened before him, and
bending his head to avoid striking his forehead he entered a small room
cut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though empty, and dry, though
situated at an immeasurable distance under the earth. A bed of dried
grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one corner. Danglars
brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave some promise of
safety. "Oh, God be praised," he said; "it is a real bed!"
"Ecco!" said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he closed
the door upon him. A bolt grated and Danglars was a prisoner. If there
had been no bolt, it would have been impossible for him to pass through
the midst of the garrison who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian,
encamped round a master whom our readers must have recognized as the
famous Luigi Vampa. Danglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose
existence he would not believe when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in
Paris; and not only did he recognize him, but the cell in which Albert
had been confined, and which was probably kept for the accommodation
of strangers. These recollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure
by Danglars, and restored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since the
bandits had not despatched him at once, he felt that they would not kill
him at all. They had arrested him for the purpose of robbery, and as he
had only a few louis about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed.
He remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and as he
considered himself of much greater importance than Morcerf he fixed
his own price at 8,000 crowns. Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000
livres; he would then have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum he
could manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably secure in
being able to extricate himself from his position, provided he were not
rated at the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he stretched himself
on his bed, and after turning over two or three times, fell asleep with
the tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi Vampa was studying.
Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa's Bill of Fare.
We awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by Danglars. He awoke.
To a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with velvet
drapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which
diffuses itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of
the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening seemed like
the continuation of some disagreeable dream. But in such a situation
a single moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty.
"Yes, yes," he murmured, "I am in the hands of the brigands of whom
Albert de Morcerf spoke." His first idea was to breathe, that he might
know whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from "Don Quixote," the
only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered.
"No," he cried, "they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed
me!" and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were untouched; the
hundred louis he had reserved for his journey from Rome to Venice were
in his trousers pocket, and in that of his great-coat he found the
little note-case containing his letter of credit for 5,050,000 francs.
"Singular bandits!" he exclaimed; "they have left me my purse and
pocket-book. As I was saying last night, they intend me to be ransomed.
Hallo, here is my watch! Let me see what time it is." Danglars' watch,
one of Breguet's repeaters, which he had carefully wound up on the
previous night, struck half past five. Without this, Danglars would have
been quite ignorant of the time, for daylight did not reach his cell.
Should he demand an explanation from the bandits, or should he wait
patiently for them to propose it? The last alternative seemed the most
prudent, so he waited until twelve o'clock. During all this time a
sentinel, who had been relieved at eight o'clock, had been watching his
door. Danglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to see the person who
kept watch over him. He had noticed that a few rays, not of daylight,
but from a lamp, penetrated through the ill-joined planks of the door;
he approached just as the brigand was refreshing himself with a mouthful
of brandy, which, owing to the leathern bottle containing it, sent
forth an odor which was extremely unpleasant to Danglars. "Faugh!" he
exclaimed, retreating to the farther corner of his cell.
At twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and Danglars,
wishing to catch sight of his new guardian, approached the door again.
He was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and
a flat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around
his shoulders. "Ah, ha," cried Danglars, "this fellow is more like an
ogre than anything else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be
very good eating!" We see that Danglars was collected enough to jest; at
the same time, as though to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man
took some black bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he
began devouring voraciously. "May I be hanged," said Danglars, glancing
at the bandit's dinner through the crevices of the door,—"may I be
hanged if I can understand how people can eat such filth!" and he
withdrew to seat himself upon his goat-skin, which reminded him of the
smell of the brandy.
But the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there are certain
invitations contained in even the coarsest food which appeal very
irresistibly to a fasting stomach. Danglars felt his own not to be very
well supplied just then, and gradually the man appeared less ugly, the
bread less black, and the cheese more fresh, while those dreadful vulgar
onions recalled to his mind certain sauces and side-dishes, which his
cook prepared in a very superior manner whenever he said, "Monsieur
Deniseau, let me have a nice little fricassee to-day." He got up and
knocked on the door; the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew that
he was heard, so he redoubled his blows. "Che cosa?" asked the bandit.
"Come, come," said Danglars, tapping his fingers against the door, "I
think it is quite time to think of giving me something to eat!" But
whether he did not understand him, or whether he had received no orders
respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without answering,
went on with his dinner. Danglars' feelings were hurt, and not wishing
to put himself under obligations to the brute, the banker threw himself
down again on his goat-skin and did not breathe another word.
Four hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another bandit.
Danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the stomach,
arose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door, and
recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. It was, indeed,
Peppino who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as possible by
seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between his legs an
earthen pan, containing chick-pease stewed with bacon. Near the pan he
also placed a pretty little basket of Villetri grapes and a flask
of Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched these
preparations and his mouth watered. "Come," he said to himself, "let me
try if he will be more tractable than the other;" and he tapped gently
at the door. "On y va," (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting
the house of Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its
idioms.
Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called out in
such a furious manner, "Put in your head!" But this was not the time for
recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner and said with a
gracious smile,—"Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any
dinner?"
"Does your excellency happen to be hungry?"
"Happen to be hungry,—that's pretty good, when I haven't eaten for
twenty-four hours!" muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud, "Yes, sir, I
am hungry—very hungry."
"What would your excellency like?" and Peppino placed his pan on the
ground, so that the steam rose directly under the nostrils of Danglars.
"Give your orders."
"Have you kitchens here?"
"Kitchens?—of course—complete ones."
"And cooks?"
"Excellent!"
"Well, a fowl, fish, game,—it signifies little, so that I eat."
"As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?"
"Yes, a fowl." Peppino, turning around, shouted, "A fowl for his
excellency!" His voice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome,
graceful, and half-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a silver
dish on his head, without the assistance of his hands. "I could almost
believe myself at the Cafe de Paris," murmured Danglars.
"Here, your excellency," said Peppino, taking the fowl from the young
bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the stool
and the goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the cell. Danglars
asked for a knife and fork. "Here, excellency," said Peppino, offering
him a little blunt knife and a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in
one hand and the fork in the other, and was about to cut up the fowl.
"Pardon me, excellency," said Peppino, placing his hand on the banker's
shoulder; "people pay here before they eat. They might not be satisfied,
and"—
"Ah, ha," thought Danglars, "this is not so much like Paris, except that
I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I'll fix that all right. I have
always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a fowl is
worth about twelve sous at Rome.—There," he said, throwing a louis
down. Peppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve
the fowl. "Stay a moment, your excellency," said Peppino, rising; "you
still owe me something."
"I said they would skin me," thought Danglars; but resolving to resist
the extortion, he said, "Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl?"
"Your excellency has given me a louis on account."
"A louis on account for a fowl?"
"Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis." Danglars
opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke. "Come, come,
this is very droll—very amusing—I allow; but, as I am very hungry,
pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you."
"Then that will make only 4,998 louis more," said Peppino with the same
indifference. "I shall get them all in time."
"Oh, as for that," said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of the
jest,—"as for that you won't get them at all. Go to the devil! You do
not know with whom you have to deal!" Peppino made a sign, and the youth
hastily removed the fowl. Danglars threw himself upon his goat-skin,
and Peppino, reclosing the door, again began eating his pease and bacon.
Though Danglars could not see Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed
no doubt as to his occupation. He was certainly eating, and noisily too,
like an ill-bred man. "Brute!" said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to
hear him, and without even turning his head continued to eat slowly.
Danglars' stomach felt so empty, that it seemed as if it would be
impossible ever to fill it again; still he had patience for another
half-hour, which appeared to him like a century. He again arose and went
to the door. "Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but
tell me what they want."
"Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you want. Give
your orders, and we will execute them."
"Then open the door directly." Peppino obeyed. "Now look here, I want
something to eat! To eat—do you hear?"
"Are you hungry?"
"Come, you understand me."
"What would your excellency like to eat?"
"A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this
accursed place."
"Bread? Very well. Hallo, there, some bread!" he called. The youth
brought a small loaf. "How much?" asked Danglars.
"Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis," said Peppino; "You
have paid two louis in advance."
"What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?"
"One hundred thousand francs," repeated Peppino.
"But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!"
"We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing
whether you eat much or little—whether you have ten dishes or one—it
is always the same price."
"What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is perfectly
ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you intend
starving me to death."
"Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide. Pay
and eat."
"And what am I to pay with, brute?" said Danglars, enraged. "Do you
suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?"
"Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be fifty
fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000."
Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood
the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just
before. "Come," he said, "if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be
satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?"
"Certainly," said Peppino.
"But how can I pay them?"
"Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs. Thomson &
French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for 4,998 louis on these
gentlemen, and our banker shall take it." Danglars thought it as well
to comply with a good grace, so he took the pen, ink, and paper Peppino
offered him, wrote the draft, and signed it. "Here," he said, "here is a
draft at sight."
"And here is your fowl." Danglars sighed while he carved the fowl;
it appeared very thin for the price it had cost. As for Peppino, he
examined the paper attentively, put it into his pocket, and continued
eating his pease.
Chapter 116. The Pardon.
The next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of that
dungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner expected that
he would be at no expense that day, for like an economical man he had
concealed half of his fowl and a piece of the bread in the corner of his
cell. But he had no sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had forgotten
that. He struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave to the
roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called out. The
sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He thought it would be
better to transact business with his old acquaintance, so he sent for
Peppino. "Here I am, your excellency," said Peppino, with an eagerness
which Danglars thought favorable to him. "What do you want?"
"Something to drink."
"Your excellency knows that wine is beyond all price near Rome."
"Then give me water," cried Danglars, endeavoring to parry the blow.
"Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency,—there has
been such a drought."
"Come," thought Danglars, "it is the same old story." And while he
smiled as he attempted to regard the affair as a joke, he felt his
temples get moist with perspiration.
"Come, my friend," said Danglars, seeing that he made no impression on
Peppino, "you will not refuse me a glass of wine?"
"I have already told you that we do not sell at retail."
"Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive."
"They are all the same price."
"And what is that?"
"Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle."
"Tell me," cried Danglars, in a tone whose bitterness Harpagon [*] alone
has been capable of revealing—"tell me that you wish to despoil me of
all; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal."
* The miser in Moliere's comedy of "L'Avare."—Ed.
"It is possible such may be the master's intention."
"The master?—who is he?"
"The person to whom you were conducted yesterday."
"Where is he?"
"Here."
"Let me see him."
"Certainly." And the next moment Luigi Vampa appeared before Danglars.
"You sent for me?" he said to the prisoner.
"Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here?"
"Yes, your excellency. What then?"
"How much do you require for my ransom?"
"Merely the 5,000,000 you have about you." Danglars felt a dreadful
spasm dart through his heart. "But this is all I have left in the
world," he said, "out of an immense fortune. If you deprive me of that,
take away my life also."
"We are forbidden to shed your blood."
"And by whom are you forbidden?"
"By him we obey."
"You do, then, obey some one?"
"Yes, a chief."
"I thought you said you were the chief?"
"So I am of these men; but there is another over me."
"And did your superior order you to treat me in this way?"
"Yes."
"But my purse will be exhausted."
"Probably."
"Come," said Danglars, "will you take a million?"
"No."
"Two millions?—three?—four? Come, four? I will give them to you on
condition that you let me go."
"Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what is worth 5,000,000? This is a
kind of usury, banker, that I do not understand."
"Take all, then—take all, I tell you, and kill me!"
"Come, come, calm yourself. You will excite your blood, and that would
produce an appetite it would require a million a day to satisfy. Be more
economical."
"But when I have no more money left to pay you?" asked the infuriated
Danglars.
"Then you must suffer hunger."
"Suffer hunger?" said Danglars, becoming pale.
"Most likely," replied Vampa coolly.
"But you say you do not wish to kill me?"
"No."
"And yet you will let me perish with hunger?"
"Ah, that is a different thing."
"Well, then, wretches," cried Danglars, "I will defy your infamous
calculations—I would rather die at once! You may torture, torment, kill
me, but you shall not have my signature again!"
"As your excellency pleases," said Vampa, as he left the cell. Danglars,
raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. Who could these men be? Who was
the invisible chief? What could be his intentions towards him? And why,
when every one else was allowed to be ransomed, might he not also be?
Oh, yes; certainly a speedy, violent death would be a fine means of
deceiving these remorseless enemies, who appeared to pursue him with
such incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? For the first time in his
life, Danglars contemplated death with a mixture of dread and desire;
the time had come when the implacable spectre, which exists in the mind
of every human creature, arrested his attention and called out with
every pulsation of his heart, "Thou shalt die!"
Danglars resembled a timid animal excited in the chase; first it flies,
then despairs, and at last, by the very force of desperation, sometimes
succeeds in eluding its pursuers. Danglars meditated an escape; but the
walls were solid rock, a man was sitting reading at the only outlet to
the cell, and behind that man shapes armed with guns continually passed.
His resolution not to sign lasted two days, after which he offered a
million for some food. They sent him a magnificent supper, and took his
million.
From this time the prisoner resolved to suffer no longer, but to have
everything he wanted. At the end of twelve days, after having made a
splendid dinner, he reckoned his accounts, and found that he had only
50,000 francs left. Then a strange reaction took place; he who had just
abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save the 50,000 francs he had left,
and sooner than give them up he resolved to enter again upon a life of
privation—he was deluded by the hopefulness that is a premonition of
madness. He who for so long a time had forgotten God, began to
think that miracles were possible—that the accursed cavern might be
discovered by the officers of the Papal States, who would release him;
that then he would have 50,000 remaining, which would be sufficient to
save him from starvation; and finally he prayed that this sum might
be preserved to him, and as he prayed he wept. Three days passed thus,
during which his prayers were frequent, if not heartfelt. Sometimes he
was delirious, and fancied he saw an old man stretched on a pallet; he,
also, was dying of hunger.
On the fourth, he was no longer a man, but a living corpse. He had
picked up every crumb that had been left from his former meals, and was
beginning to eat the matting which covered the floor of his cell. Then
he entreated Peppino, as he would a guardian angel, to give him food;
he offered him 1,000 francs for a mouthful of bread. But Peppino did not
answer. On the fifth day he dragged himself to the door of the cell.
"Are you not a Christian?" he said, falling on his knees. "Do you wish
to assassinate a man who, in the eyes of heaven, is a brother? Oh, my
former friends, my former friends!" he murmured, and fell with his face
to the ground. Then rising in despair, he exclaimed, "The chief, the
chief!"
"Here I am," said Vampa, instantly appearing; "what do you want?"
"Take my last gold," muttered Danglars, holding out his pocket-book,
"and let me live here; I ask no more for liberty—I only ask to live!"
"Then you suffer a great deal?"
"Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!"
"Still, there have been men who suffered more than you."
"I do not think so."
"Yes; those who have died of hunger."
Danglars thought of the old man whom, in his hours of delirium, he
had seen groaning on his bed. He struck his forehead on the ground and
groaned. "Yes," he said, "there have been some who have suffered more
than I have, but then they must have been martyrs at least."
"Do you repent?" asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused Danglars' hair
to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored to distinguish objects, and
behind the bandit he saw a man enveloped in a cloak, half lost in the
shadow of a stone column.
"Of what must I repent?" stammered Danglars.
"Of the evil you have done," said the voice.
"Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent." And he struck his breast with
his emaciated fist.
"Then I forgive you," said the man, dropping his cloak, and advancing to
the light.
"The Count of Monte Cristo!" said Danglars, more pale from terror than
he had been just before from hunger and misery.
"You are mistaken—I am not the Count of Monte Cristo."
"Then who are you?"
"I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you
prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise
yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of
hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet
forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—I am Edmond Dantes!"
Danglars uttered a cry, and fell prostrate. "Rise," said the count,
"your life is safe; the same good fortune has not happened to your
accomplices—one is mad, the other dead. Keep the 50,000 francs you have
left—I give them to you. The 5,000,000 you stole from the hospitals has
been restored to them by an unknown hand. And now eat and drink; I will
entertain you to-night. Vampa, when this man is satisfied, let him be
free." Danglars remained prostrate while the count withdrew; when he
raised his head he saw disappearing down the passage nothing but
a shadow, before which the bandits bowed. According to the count's
directions, Danglars was waited on by Vampa, who brought him the best
wine and fruits of Italy; then, having conducted him to the road, and
pointed to the post-chaise, left him leaning against a tree. He remained
there all night, not knowing where he was. When daylight dawned he saw
that he was near a stream; he was thirsty, and dragged himself towards
it. As he stooped down to drink, he saw that his hair had become
entirely white.
Chapter 117. The Fifth of October.
It was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through
which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue ocean.
The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose,
seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning
siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts of
the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume of
plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.
A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the
first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to
the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a
swan with its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It
advanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch
of foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but
as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology,
its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave, as if the
god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain
endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The yacht moved
rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient wind to ruffle
the curls on the head of a young girl. Standing on the prow was a tall
man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were
approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, which rose
from the midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan. "Is that Monte
Cristo?" asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht was for the time
submitted, in a melancholy voice.
"Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached it."
"We have reached it!" repeated the traveller in an accent of
indescribable sadness. Then he added, in a low tone, "Yes; that is the
haven." And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character
of which was better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been by
tears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguished
instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms reached the
yacht.
"Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land signal, will you
answer yourself?"
"What signal?" The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of
which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as it rose. "Ah, yes," he
said, as if awaking from a dream. "Give it to me."
The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it,
and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled, and
they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor. The
gig was already lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a coxswain.
The traveller descended, and instead of sitting down at the stern of the
boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his accommodation,
stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their oars half
lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.
"Give way," said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the sea
simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, yielding
to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found themselves
in a little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat grounded on the
fine sand.
"Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of our
men, they will carry you ashore?" The young man answered this invitation
with a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat; the sea
immediately rose to his waist. "Ah, your excellency," murmured the
pilot, "you should not have done so; our master will scold us for it."
The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose
a firm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young man
stamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked around for some
one to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned,
a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder
exclaimed,—"Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!"
"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young man, in an almost joyful accent,
pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both his own.
"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear
fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus.
Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon forget
fatigue and cold." Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned
around; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought
him had left without being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound
of their oars might be heard as they returned to the yacht.
"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the sailors."
"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."
"Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte Cristo, smiling. "I have made
an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be free
of all charge. I have made a bargain." Morrel looked at the count with
surprise. "Count," he said, "you are not the same here as in Paris."
"How so?"
"Here you laugh." The count's brow became clouded. "You are right to
recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was delighted to see you
again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting."
"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's hands, "pray
laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is
endurable to sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you
affect this gayety to inspire me with courage."
"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."
"Then you forget me, so much the better."
"How so?"
"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the
arena, 'He who is about to die salutes you.'"
"Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, "do you
think it possible that I could be?"
"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my words?
You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a
vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak
to you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel,
let us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the same
feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded lion?
Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the
grave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the living to
the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the prostration
of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory
rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if this be
the case,—if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if
you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled—do
not complain."
"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice, "listen
to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though he
remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly,
there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,—I love her
husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last
moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not
bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand, and
alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more than mortal,
will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you not?"
"My friend," said the count, "I have still one doubt,—are you weak
enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"
"No, indeed,—I am calm," said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; "my
pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I have
reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and
hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month,
or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched
creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell,—something wonderful, an
absurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled
with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait—yes, I did
hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking
together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every
word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count,
I shall sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death." Morrel uttered
these words with an energy which made the count shudder. "My friend,"
continued Morrel, "you named the fifth of October as the end of the
period of waiting,—to-day is the fifth of October," he took out his
watch, "it is now nine o'clock,—I have yet three hours to live."
"Be it so," said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically followed the
count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt
a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and
a brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he
dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew him
in gently. "Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to
us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their
emperor and heir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently
glided into death, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?" Morrel
smiled. "As you please," he said; "death is always death,—that is
forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief."
He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were
in the marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had
baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had
looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.
"Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.
"Go on!"
"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and
you seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world
than ours."
"There is something true in what you say," said the count, with that
smile which made him so handsome; "I have descended from a planet called
grief."
"I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for
instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope,
and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had
experienced death, 'is it painful to die?'"
Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. "Yes,"
he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the outer
covering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger into
your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the least
shock disorders,—then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you will
repent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a price."
"Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as well
as in life; the only thing is to understand it."
"You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow upon
it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemy
who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the world
is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the destructive
powers in nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; when
mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the secrets of death,
then that death will become as sweet and voluptuous as a slumber in the
arms of your beloved."
"And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?"
"Yes."
Morrel extended his hand. "Now I understand," he said, "why you had me
brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this
subterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It
was because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet means
of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death which
allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine's name and pressing
your hand."
"Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel," said the count, "that is what I
intended."
"Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to my
heart."
"Do you then regret nothing?"
"No," replied Morrel.
"Not even me?" asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel's clear eye was
for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a large
tear rolled down his cheek.
"What," said the count, "do you still regret anything in the world, and
yet die?"
"Oh, I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, "do not speak
another word, count; do not prolong my punishment." The count fancied
that he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible doubt that
had overwhelmed him at the Chateau d'If. "I am endeavoring," he thought,
"to make this man happy; I look upon this restitution as a weight thrown
into the scale to balance the evil I have wrought. Now, supposing I
am deceived, supposing this man has not been unhappy enough to merit
happiness. Alas, what would become of me who can only atone for evil by
doing good?" Then he said aloud: "Listen, Morrel, I see your grief
is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul." Morrel smiled
sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear to you my soul is no longer my own."
"Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomed
myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son, I will
sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand
all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I
possess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a
fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is
open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad
ideas, be even criminal—but live."
"Count, I have your word," said Morrel coldly; then taking out his
watch, he added, "It is half-past eleven."
"Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?"
"Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or I shall think you did not love me
for my own sake, but for yours;" and he arose.
"It is well," said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at these
words; "you wish—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are indeed
wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait."
Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a key
suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket,
beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four
bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols
of the angels aspiring to heaven. He placed the casket on the table;
then opening it took out a little golden box, the top of which flew
open when touched by a secret spring. This box contained an unctuous
substance partly solid, of which it was impossible to discover the
color, owing to the reflection of the polished gold, sapphires, rubies,
emeralds, which ornamented the box. It was a mixed mass of blue, red,
and gold. The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon,
and offered it to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It
was then observable that the substance was greenish.
"This is what you asked for," he said, "and what I promised to give
you."
"I thank you from the depths of my heart," said the young man, taking
the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon,
and again dipped it into the golden box. "What are you going to do, my
friend?" asked Morrel, arresting his hand.
"Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life,
and since an opportunity presents itself"—
"Stay!" said the young man. "You who love, and are beloved; you, who
have faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it
would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will
go and tell Valentine what you have done for me." And slowly, though
without any hesitation, only waiting to press the count's hand
fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered by Monte
Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive, brought the
pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light of the lamps
gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held them, and
the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him,
Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw nothing but the
bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took possession of
the young man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objects in the room
gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbed vision seemed to
perceive doors and curtains open in the walls.
"Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am dying; thanks!" He made a last
effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside him. Then it
appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the strange and
fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the secrets of
his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for a child.
At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature, his form,
nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against the red
tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the attitude
of an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, turned around in the
arm-chair; a delicious torpor permeated every vein. A change of
ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on
the kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he became
unconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vague
delirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count's
hand, but his own was immovable. He wished to articulate a last
farewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like
a stone at the mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes
closed, and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to move
amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.
The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from the
next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room in
which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of
marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the
two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy
conjuring the angel of vengeance. "Is it heaven that opens before me?"
thought the dying man; "that angel resembles the one I have lost." Monte
Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced towards him
with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.
"Valentine, Valentine!" he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered
no sound, and as though all his strength were centred in that internal
emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him;
his lips again moved.
"He is calling you," said the count; "he to whom you have confided your
destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him.
Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never
again be separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find you.
Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement in the
preservation of these two existences!"
Valentine seized the count's hand, and in her irresistible impulse of
joy carried it to her lips.
"Oh, thank me again!" said the count; "tell me till you are weary, that
I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require
this assurance."
"Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart," said Valentine; "and if
you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haidee! ask my
beloved sister Haidee, who ever since our departure from France, has
caused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of
you."
"You then love Haidee?" asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vain
endeavored to dissimulate.
"Oh, yes, with all my soul."
"Well, then, listen, Valentine," said the count; "I have a favor to ask
of you."
"Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?"
"Yes; you have called Haidee your sister,—let her become so indeed,
Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me;
protect her, for" (the count's voice was thick with emotion) "henceforth
she will be alone in the world."
"Alone in the world!" repeated a voice behind the count, "and why?"
Monte Cristo turned around; Haidee was standing pale, motionless,
looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.
"Because to-morrow, Haidee, you will be free; you will then assume
your proper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to
overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and
name of your father."
Haidee became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,
exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, "Then you leave me, my lord?"
"Haidee, Haidee, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and
be happy."
"It is well," said Haidee; "your order shall be executed, my lord;
I will forget even your name, and be happy." And she stepped back to
retire.
"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of
Morrel on her shoulder, "do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see
how she suffers?"
Haidee answered with a heartrending expression, "Why should he
understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he has
the right to notice nothing."
The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost
recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he could
not bear their brilliancy. "Oh, heavens," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "can
my suspicions be correct? Haidee, would it please you not to leave me?"
"I am young," gently replied Haidee; "I love the life you have made so
sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die."
"You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haidee"—
"I should die; yes, my lord."
"Do you then love me?"
"Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love
Maximilian." The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his
arms, and Haidee, uttering a cry, sprang into them. "Oh, yes," she
cried, "I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, brother,
husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of
created beings!"
"Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my
struggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let
me end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has
pardoned me. Love me then, Haidee! Who knows? perhaps your love will
make me forget all that I do not wish to remember."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty years
of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haidee; through you
I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you
rejoice."
"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed Haidee; "he says that through me
he will suffer—through me, who would yield my life for his." The count
withdrew for a moment. "Have I discovered the truth?" he said; "but
whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come,
Haidee, come!" and throwing his arm around the young girl's waist, he
pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.
An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and
motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his
heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder,
announcing the return of life, passed through the young man's frame. At
length his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and expressionless;
then sight returned, and with it feeling and grief. "Oh," he cried, in
an accent of despair, "the count has deceived me; I am yet living;" and
extending his hand towards the table, he seized a knife.
"Dearest," exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, "awake, and
look at me!" Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful,
dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.
The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking
arm-in-arm on the sea-shore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had
appeared in her room, explained everything, revealed the crime, and,
finally, how he had saved her life by enabling her to simulate death.
They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the
azure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars. Morrel soon
perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently awaiting a sign
from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine. "Ah, it is
Jacopo," she said, "the captain of the yacht;" and she beckoned him
towards them.
"Do you wish to speak to us?" asked Morrel.
"I have a letter to give you from the count."
"From the count!" murmured the two young people.
"Yes; read it." Morrel opened the letter, and read:—
"My Dear Maximilian,—
"There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn,
where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he wishes to
bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my
friend, my house in the Champs Elysees, and my chateau at Treport, are
the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon the son of his old
master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; for
I entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to her
from her father, now a madman, and her brother who died last September
with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny,
Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who like Satan thought himself
for an instant equal to God, but who now acknowledges with Christian
humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom.
Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As
for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct towards you. There is
neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison
of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest
grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt
what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of
living.
"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never
forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future
to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—'_Wait and
hope_.'—Your friend,
"Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."
During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the
first time of the madness of her father and the death of her brother,
she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not
the less painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her
happiness cost her very dear. Morrel looked around uneasily. "But," he
said, "the count's generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will be
satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? Lead me
to him." Jacopo pointed towards the horizon. "What do you mean?" asked
Valentine. "Where is the count?—where is Haidee?"
"Look!" said Jacopo.
The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and
on the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they
perceived a large white sail. "Gone," said Morrel; "gone!—adieu, my
friend—adieu, my father!"
"Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my sweet Haidee—adieu, my sister!"
"Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" said Morrel with
tearful eyes.
"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us that all
human wisdom is summed up in two words?—'_Wait and hope_.'"
End of Chapter 117 And the end of the book
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. �