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
