"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said Morrel, raising his head, and smiling
with a sweet expression on the count; "I shall no longer attempt my
life."
"Then we are to have no more pistols--no more despair?"
"No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or a
knife."
"Poor fellow, what is it?"
"My grief will kill me of itself."
"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal
to his own, "listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours,
since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one
day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If any
one had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to his
head--if any one had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the food I
had not tasted for three days--if anyone had said to either of us
then, 'Live--the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless
life!'--no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with
the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,--and yet how many
times has your father blessed life while embracing you--how often have I
myself"--
"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, "you had only lost
your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost
Valentine."
"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes
made him so eloquent and persuasive--"look at me. There are no tears
in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer--you,
Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you
that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to
beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in
the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your
life."
"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh, heavens--what are you saying,
count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!"
"Child!" replied the count.
"I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I attained
manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for none of
the feelings I before then experienced merit the appellation of love.
Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved her,
for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all the
virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would have
been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too divine
for this world, since it has been denied me; but without Valentine the
earth is desolate."
"I have told you to hope," said the count.
"Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you
succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again
behold Valentine." The count smiled. "My friend, my father," said Morrel
with excitement, "have a care, I again repeat, for the power you wield
over me alarms me. Weigh your words before you speak, for my eyes have
already become brighter, and my heart beats strongly; be cautious, or
you will make me believe in supernatural agencies. I must obey you,
though you bade me call forth the dead or walk upon the water."
"Hope, my friend," repeated the count.
"Ah," said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss
of despair--"ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather
selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because
their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do
not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise
it so, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my
friend, adieu!"
"On the contrary," said the count, "after this time you must live with
me--you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France
behind us."
"And you still bid me hope?"
"I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you."
"Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think
the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and
you would cure it by an ordinary remedy--change of scene." And Morrel
dropped his head with disdainful incredulity. "What can I say more?"
asked Monte Cristo. "I have confidence in the remedy I propose, and only
ask you to permit me to assure you of its efficacy."
"Count, you prolong my agony."
"Then," said the count, "your feeble spirit will not even grant me the
trial I request? Come--do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is
capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his control?
nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the miracle I
hope to accomplish, or"--
"Or?" repeated Morrel.
"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful."
"Have pity on me, count!"
"I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that--listen to me
attentively--if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very
hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you,
and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison--a poison more sure and prompt
than that which has killed Valentine."
"Will you promise me?"
"Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also
contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have
longed for the delights of an eternal sleep."
"But you are sure you will promise me this?" said Morrel, intoxicated.
"I not only promise, but swear it!" said Monte Cristo extending his
hand.
"In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let
me take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not
call me ungrateful?"
"In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date are sacred,
Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of
September; it is ten years to-day since I saved your father's life, who
wished to die." Morrel seized the count's hand and kissed it; the count
allowed him to pay the homage he felt due to him. "In a month you will
find on the table, at which we shall be then sitting, good pistols and
a delicious draught; but, on the other hand, you must promise me not to
attempt your life before that time."
"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo drew the young man towards him,
and pressed him for some time to his heart. "And now," he said,
"after to-day, you will come and live with me; you can occupy Haidee's
apartment, and my daughter will at least be replaced by my son."
"Haidee?" said Morrel, "what has become of her?"
"She departed last night."
"To leave you?"
"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the Champs
Elysees, and lead me out of this house without any one seeing my
departure." Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike
reverence.
Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds.
The apartment on the second floor of the house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where Albert de Morcerf had selected a home for
his mother, was let to a very mysterious person. This was a man whose
face the concierge himself had never seen, for in the winter his chin
was buried in one of the large red handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen's
coachmen on a cold night, and in the summer he made a point of always
blowing his nose just as he approached the door. Contrary to custom,
this gentleman had not been watched, for as the report ran that he was
a person of high rank, and one who would allow no impertinent
interference, his incognito was strictly respected.
His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he appeared
a little before or after his time, but generally, both in summer and
winter, he took possession of his apartment about four o'clock, though
he never spent the night there. At half-past three in the winter the
fire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence of
the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed on the table
at the same hour. At four o'clock, as we have already stated, the
mysterious personage arrived. Twenty minutes afterwards a carriage
stopped at the house, a lady alighted in a black or dark blue dress, and
always thickly veiled; she passed like a shadow through the lodge, and
ran up-stairs without a sound escaping under the touch of her light
foot. No one ever asked her where she was going. Her face, therefore,
like that of the gentleman, was perfectly unknown to the two concierges,
who were perhaps unequalled throughout the capital for discretion.
We need not say she stopped at the second floor. Then she tapped in a
peculiar manner at a door, which after being opened to admit her was
again fastened, and curiosity penetrated no farther. They used the same
precautions in leaving as in entering the house. The lady always left
first, and as soon as she had stepped into her carriage, it drove away,
sometimes towards the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about
twenty minutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in his
cravat or concealed by his handkerchief.
The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the mysterious
lodger entered at ten o'clock in the morning instead of four in the
afternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the usual interval of
time, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily up-stairs. The
door opened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed: "Oh,
Lucien--oh, my friend!" The concierge therefore heard for the first time
that the lodger's name was Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection
of a door-keeper, he made up his mind not to tell his wife. "Well,
what is the matter, my dear?" asked the gentleman whose name the lady's
agitation revealed; "tell me what is the matter."
"Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?"
"Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter?
Your note of this morning has completely bewildered me. This
precipitation--this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my anxiety, or
else frighten me at once."
"Lucien, a great event has happened!" said the lady, glancing
inquiringly at Lucien,--"M. Danglars left last night!"
"Left?--M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?"
"I do not know."
"What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?"
"Undoubtedly;--at ten o'clock at night his horses took him to the
barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him--he
entered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going to
Fontainebleau."
"Then what did you mean"--
"Stay--he left a letter for me."
"A letter?"
"Yes; read it." And the baroness took from her pocket a letter which she
gave to Debray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as if trying
to guess its contents, or perhaps while making up his mind how to act,
whatever it might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few
minutes, for he began reading the letter which caused so much uneasiness
in the heart of the baroness, and which ran as follows:--
"Madame and most faithful wife."
Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose face
became covered with blushes. "Read," she said.
Debray continued:--
"When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh, you
need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have lost your
daughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the thirty or
forty roads leading out of France. I owe you some explanations for my
conduct, and as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I will
give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five millions which I
paid away; almost directly afterwards another demand for the same sum
was presented to me; I put this creditor off till to-morrow and I intend
leaving to-day, to escape that to-morrow, which would be rather too
unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my most
precious wife? I say you understand this, because you are as conversant
with my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them better,
since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable portion of my
fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame, that you know
perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they can even
explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have invented;
but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing more than that
one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the rapidity of my
fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden fusion of my ingots?
I confess I have seen nothing but the fire; let us hope you have found
some gold among the ashes. With this consoling idea, I leave you,
madame, and most prudent wife, without any conscientious reproach for
abandoning you; you have friends left, and the ashes I have already
mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten to restore to you. And
here, madame, I must add another word of explanation. So long as I hoped
you were working for the good of our house and for the fortune of our
daughter, I philosophically closed my eyes; but as you have transformed
that house into a vast ruin I will not be the foundation of another
man's fortune. You were rich when I married you, but little respected.
Excuse me for speaking so very candidly, but as this is intended
only for ourselves, I do not see why I should weigh my words. I have
augmented our fortune, and it has continued to increase during the
last fifteen years, till extraordinary and unexpected catastrophes
have suddenly overturned it,--without any fault of mine, I can honestly
declare. You, madame, have only sought to increase your own, and I am
