have done.
"My worthy Cocles," said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe, "do
you remain in the ante-chamber. When the gentleman who came three months
ago--the agent of Thomson & French--arrives, announce his arrival to
me." Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the
anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes
fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The
hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.
What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony
cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was
surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced
himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly
plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the
world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings, one
must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation and
its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on.
The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and
murmured his daughter's name. Then he laid it down seized his pen, and
wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient
farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock,
counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds. He took up the deadly
weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed on the clock, and then
shuddered at the click of the trigger as he cocked the pistol. At this
moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang
stronger than death clutched at his heart-strings. He heard the door of
the staircase creak on its hinges--the clock gave its warning to strike
eleven--the door of his study opened; Morrel did not turn round--he
expected these words of Cocles, "The agent of Thomson & French."
He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard
a cry--it was his daughter's voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol
fell from his hands. "My father!" cried the young girl, out of breath,
and half dead with joy--"saved, you are saved!" And she threw herself
into his arms, holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse.
"Saved, my child!" said Morrel; "what do you mean?"
"Yes, saved--saved! See, see!" said the young girl.
Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague remembrance
reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end was the
receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a diamond
as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small slip of
parchment:--Julie's Dowry.
Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream. At this
moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke of the hammer
fell upon his heart. "Explain, my child," he said, "Explain, my child,"
he said, "explain--where did you find this purse?"
"In a house in the Allees de Meillan, No. 15, on the corner of a
mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor."
"But," cried Morrel, "this purse is not yours!" Julie handed to her
father the letter she had received in the morning.
"And did you go alone?" asked Morrel, after he had read it.
"Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the
corner of the Rue de Musee, but, strange to say, he was not there when I
returned."
"Monsieur Morrel!" exclaimed a voice on the stairs.--"Monsieur Morrel!"
"It is his voice!" said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his
countenance full of animation and joy. "The Pharaon!" he cried; "the
Pharaon!"
"What--what--the Pharaon! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel is
lost."
"The Pharaon, sir--they signal the Pharaon! The Pharaon is entering the
harbor!" Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him;
his understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such
incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in. "Father,"
cried Maximilian, "how could you say the Pharaon was lost? The lookout
has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into port."
"My dear friends," said Morrel, "if this be so, it must be a miracle of
heaven! Impossible, impossible!"
But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his
hand, the acceptance receipted--the splendid diamond.
"Ah, sir," exclaimed Cocles, "what can it mean?--the Pharaon?"
"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising from his seat, "let us go and
see, and heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!" They all
went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been afraid to go
up into the study. In a moment they were at the Cannebiere. There was a
crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel. "The Pharaon,
the Pharaon!" said every voice.
And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a
ship bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters, "The
Pharaon, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles." She was the exact duplicate of
the other Pharaon, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and
indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain
Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M. Morrel.
To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of the
senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the testimony.
As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and
amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with
his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the
sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a low
tone: "Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done
and wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like
your good deeds."
And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his
hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights
of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted
"Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!" Then a launch came to shore, took him on
board, and conveyed him to a yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck
he sprung with the activity of a sailor; thence he once again looked
towards Morrel, who, weeping with joy, was shaking hands most cordially
with all the crowd around him, and thanking with a look the unknown
benefactor whom he seemed to be seeking in the skies. "And now," said
the unknown, "farewell kindness, humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to
all the feelings that expand the heart! I have been heaven's substitute
to recompense the good--now the god of vengeance yields to me his power
to punish the wicked!" At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only
awaiting this signal, the yacht instantly put out to sea.
Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor.
Towards the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging to the
first society of Paris, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf and the Baron
Franz d'Epinay, were at Florence. They had agreed to see the Carnival at
Rome that year, and that Franz, who for the last three or four years
had inhabited Italy, should act as cicerone to Albert. As it is no
inconsiderable affair to spend the Carnival at Rome, especially when
you have no great desire to sleep on the Piazza del Popolo, or the Campo
Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, the proprietor of the Hotel de
Londres, Piazza di Spagna, to reserve comfortable apartments for them.
Signor Pastrini replied that he had only two rooms and a parlor on the
third floor, which he offered at the low charge of a louis per diem.
They accepted his offer; but wishing to make the best use of the time
that was left, Albert started for Naples. As for Franz, he remained at
Florence, and after having passed a few days in exploring the paradise
of the Cascine, and spending two or three evenings at the houses of
the Florentine nobility, he took a fancy into his head (having
already visited Corsica, the cradle of Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the
waiting-place of Napoleon.
One evening he cast off the painter of a sailboat from the iron ring
that secured it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped himself in his coat and
lay down, and said to the crew,--"To the Island of Elba!" The boat shot
out of the harbor like a bird and the next morning Franz disembarked at
Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, after having followed the
traces which the footsteps of the giant have left, and re-embarked
for Marciana. Two hours after he again landed at Pianosa, where he was
assured that red partridges abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only
succeeded in killing a few partridges, and, like every unsuccessful
sportsman, he returned to the boat very much out of temper. "Ah, if your
excellency chose," said the captain, "you might have capital sport."
"Where?"
"Do you see that island?" continued the captain, pointing to a conical
pile rising from the indigo sea.
"Well, what is this island?"
"The Island of Monte Cristo."
"But I have no permission to shoot over this island."
"Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is
uninhabited."
"Ah, indeed!" said the young man. "A desert island in the midst of the
Mediterranean must be a curiosity."
"It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not
contain an acre of land capable of cultivation."
"To whom does this island belong?"
"To Tuscany."
"What game shall I find there!"
"Thousands of wild goats."
"Who live upon the stones, I suppose," said Franz with an incredulous
smile.
"No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the crevices
of the rocks."
"Where can I sleep?"
"On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if your
excellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like--we can sail as
well by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use our oars."
As Franz had sufficient time, and his apartments at Rome were not
yet available, he accepted the proposition. Upon his answer in the
affirmative, the sailors exchanged a few words together in a low tone.
"Well," asked he, "what now? Is there any difficulty in the way?"
"No." replied the captain, "but we must warn your excellency that the
island is an infected port."
"What do you mean?"
"Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a refuge
for the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica, Sardinia, and
Africa, and if it becomes known that we have been there, we shall have
to perform quarantine for six days on our return to Leghorn."
"The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days! Why,
that's as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too long a
wait--too long."
"But who will say your excellency has been to Monte Cristo?"
"Oh, I shall not," cried Franz.
"Nor I, nor I," chorused the sailors.
"Then steer for Monte Cristo."
The captain gave his orders, the helm was put up, and the boat was soon
sailing in the direction of the island. Franz waited until all was in
order, and when the sail was filled, and the four sailors had taken
their places--three forward, and one at the helm--he resumed the
conversation. "Gaetano," said he to the captain, "you tell me Monte
Cristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very
different kind of game from the goats."
"Yes, your excellency, and it is true."
"I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of
Algiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates existed only in the
romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat."
"Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the bandits who
were believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII., and who yet,
every day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has not your excellency
heard that the French charge d'affaires was robbed six months ago within
five hundred paces of Velletri?"
"Oh, yes, I heard that."
"Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you would
hear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an English
yacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita
Vecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of it, but,
doubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this rock it has
met has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or eight men, who
have surprised and plundered it, some dark and stormy night, near some
desert and gloomy island, as bandits plunder a carriage in the recesses
of a forest."
"But," asked Franz, who lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom of the
boat, "why do not those who have been plundered complain to the French,
Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?"
"Why?" said Gaetano with a smile.
"Yes, why?"
"Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to their own
boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the crew hand and
foot, they attach to every one's neck a four and twenty pound ball, a
large hole is chopped in the vessel's bottom, and then they leave her.
At the end of ten minutes the vessel begins to roll heavily and settle
down. First one gun'l goes under, then the other. Then they lift and
sink again, and both go under at once. All at once there's a noise like
a cannon--that's the air blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes
out of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last
