to you all that the other day"--
"Madame," interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, "all that
you could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; the
thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors
in romances, I should have left you without seeing you again, but that
would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak
and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my
fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so far as
to say, 'Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you will never
see me again.'"
"Never see you again?" exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled
down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you again? It is not a man, then, but
some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returning
to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good."
"Say not so," quickly returned Monte Cristo--"say not so, my friends;
angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate is
not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcome
fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited
as your words are sacrilegious." And pressing his lips on the hand of
Julie, who rushed into his arms, he extended his other hand to Emmanuel;
then tearing himself from this abode of peace and happiness, he made a
sign to Maximilian, who followed him passively, with the indifference
which had been perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had
so stunned him. "Restore my brother to peace and happiness," whispered
Julie to Monte Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he
had done eleven years before on the staircase leading to Morrel's study.
"You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?" asked he, smiling.
"Oh, yes," was the ready answer.
"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in heaven." As we have
before said, the postchaise was waiting; four powerful horses were
already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali, apparently just
arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot of the steps, his
face bathed in perspiration. "Well," asked the count in Arabic, "have
you been to see the old man?" Ali made a sign in the affirmative.
"And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?"
The slave respectfully signalized that he had. "And what did he say, or
rather do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so that his master might
see him distinctly, and then imitating in his intelligent manner the
countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes, as Noirtier was in the
custom of doing when saying "Yes."
"Good; he accepts," said Monte Cristo. "Now let us go."
These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way,
and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement.
Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half
an hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had
just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali's finger.
The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door. It was
a lovely starlight night--they had just reached the top of the hill
Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its
millions of phosphoric waves into light--waves indeed more noisy, more
passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those
of the tempestuous ocean,--waves which never rest as those of the sea
sometimes do,--waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what
falls within their grasp. The count stood alone, and at a sign from his
hand, the carriage went on for a short distance. With folded arms, he
gazed for some time upon the great city. When he had fixed his piercing
look on this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation
of the religious enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,--"Great
city," murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in
prayer, "less than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy
gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he
also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my presence
within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had the power
to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee without pride
or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows that the power
confided to me has never been made subservient to my personal good or to
any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating bosom that
I have found that which I sought; like a patient miner, I have dug
deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence. Now my work is
accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst neither afford me
pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!"
His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the
night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the door
was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the other
side of the hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust.
Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.
Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer.
"Morrel," said the count to him at length, "do you repent having
followed me?"
"No, count; but to leave Paris"--
"If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have
left you there."
"Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like
losing her a second time."
"Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost do not
repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and
it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them. I
have two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one who gave
me being, and the other who conferred knowledge and intelligence on me.
Their spirits live in me. I consult them when doubtful, and if I ever do
any good, it is due to their beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice
of your heart, Morrel, and ask it whether you ought to preserve this
melancholy exterior towards me."
"My friend," said Maximilian, "the voice of my heart is very sorrowful,
and promises me nothing but misfortune."
"It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black
cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and
consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising."
"That may possibly be true," said Maximilian, and he again subsided into
his thoughtful mood.
The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the
unlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them like
shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn
seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating
as rapidly when once reached. The following morning they arrived at
Chalons, where the count's steamboat waited for them. Without the loss
of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers
embarked without delay. The boat was built for speed; her two
paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like
a bird. Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is
generally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind
which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the point
of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.
As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost
superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been
taken for an exile about to revisit his native land. Ere long Marseilles
presented herself to view,--Marseilles, white, fervid, full of life
and energy,--Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre and Carthage, the
successor to them in the empire of the Mediterranean,--Marseilles, old,
yet always young. Powerful memories were stirred within them by the
sight of the round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed
by Puget, [*] the port with its brick quays, where they had both played
in childhood, and it was with one accord that they stopped on the
Cannebiere. A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the
bustle usually attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their
relations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful
leave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the
whole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who
witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb the
current of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilian
from the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay.
* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at
Marseilles in 1622.
"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,--"here is
the spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered the port; it
was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and dishonor,
threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and
his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting
wept also." Monte Cristo gently smiled and said,--"I was there;" at the
same time pointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in the
very direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was
heard, and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the
vessel about to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that
must have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the
vessel.
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do not deceive myself--that young
man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, is
Albert de Morcerf!"
"Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized him."
"How so?--you were looking the other way." the Count smiled, as he was
in the habit of doing when he did not want to make any reply, and he
again turned towards the veiled woman, who soon disappeared at the
corner of the street. Turning to his friend,--"Dear Maximilian," said
the count, "have you nothing to do in this land?"
"I have to weep over the grave of my father," replied Morrel in a broken
voice.
"Well, then, go,--wait for me there, and I will soon join you."
"You leave me, then?"
"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to
him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he
quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte
Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he
then walked slowly towards the Allees de Meillan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of this
story. It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees,
which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,
covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened
branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the
south. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to the
door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been painted or
varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to
close again when the rains came on. The house, with all its crumbling
antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was
the same that old Dantes formerly inhabited--the only difference being
that the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house was
now placed at the command of Mercedes by the count.
The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regret
entered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her when
Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found and
lost her again almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were old
acquaintances of his; he knew better than any one else how to open that
weather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served to raise
the latch within. He entered without knocking, or giving any other
intimation of his presence, as if he had been a friend or the master
of the place. At the end of a passage paved with bricks, was a little
garden, bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this garden
Mercedes had found, at the place indicated by the count, the sum of
money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as having
been placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the garden
were easily seen from the steps of the street-door. Monte Cristo, on
stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost a deep sob; he
looked in the direction whence it came, and there under an arbor of
Virginia jessamine, [*] with its thick foliage and beautiful long purple
flowers, he saw Mercedes seated, with her head bowed, and weeping
bitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by her hands
was giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had been so long
restrained by the presence of her son. Monte Cristo advanced a few
steps, which were heard on the gravel. Mercedes raised her head, and
uttered a cry of terror on beholding a man before her.
* The Carolina--not Virginia--jessamine, gelsemium
sempervirens (properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has
yellow blossoms. The reference is no doubt to the Wistaria
frutescens.--Ed.
"Madame," said the count, "it is no longer in my power to restore you to
happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it as
coming from a friend?"
"I am, indeed, most wretched," replied Mercedes. "Alone in the world, I
had but my son, and he has left me!"
"He possesses a noble heart, madame," replied the count, "and he has
