man of four or five and twenty, bronzed by the sun; he carried his head
erect, and seemed on the watch to see on which side his liberator
would appear. Andrea was short and fat; his visage, marked with brutal
cruelty, did not indicate age; he might be thirty. In prison he had
suffered his beard to grow; his head fell on his shoulder, his legs
bent beneath him, and his movements were apparently automatic and
unconscious.
* Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine from
witnessing an execution in Italy.
"I thought," said Franz to the count, "that you told me there would be
but one execution."
"I told you true," replied he coldly.
"And yet here are two culprits."
"Yes; but only one of these two is about to die; the other has many
years to live."
"If the pardon is to come, there is no time to lose."
"And see, here it is," said the count. At the moment when Peppino
reached the foot of the mandaia, a priest arrived in some haste,
forced his way through the soldiers, and, advancing to the chief of the
brotherhood, gave him a folded paper. The piercing eye of Peppino had
noticed all. The chief took the paper, unfolded it, and, raising his
hand, "Heaven be praised, and his holiness also," said he in a loud
voice; "here is a pardon for one of the prisoners!"
"A pardon!" cried the people with one voice--"a pardon!" At this cry
Andrea raised his head. "Pardon for whom?" cried he.
Peppino remained breathless. "A pardon for Peppino, called Rocca
Priori," said the principal friar. And he passed the paper to the
officer commanding the carbineers, who read and returned it to him.
"For Peppino!" cried Andrea, who seemed roused from the torpor in
which he had been plunged. "Why for him and not for me? We ought to die
together. I was promised he should die with me. You have no right to put
me to death alone. I will not die alone--I will not!" And he broke
from the priests struggling and raving like a wild beast, and striving
desperately to break the cords that bound his hands. The executioner
made a sign, and his two assistants leaped from the scaffold and seized
him. "What is going on?" asked Franz of the count; for, as all the talk
was in the Roman dialect, he had not perfectly understood it. "Do you
not see?" returned the count, "that this human creature who is about to
die is furious that his fellow-sufferer does not perish with him? and,
were he able, he would rather tear him to pieces with his teeth and
nails than let him enjoy the life he himself is about to be deprived
of. Oh, man, man--race of crocodiles," cried the count, extending his
clinched hands towards the crowd, "how well do I recognize you there,
and that at all times you are worthy of yourselves!" Meanwhile Andrea
and the two executioners were struggling on the ground, and he kept
exclaiming, "He ought to die!--he shall die!--I will not die alone!"
"Look, look," cried the count, seizing the young men's hands--"look, for
on my soul it is curious. Here is a man who had resigned himself to his
fate, who was going to the scaffold to die--like a coward, it is true,
but he was about to die without resistance. Do you know what gave him
strength?--do you know what consoled him? It was, that another partook
of his punishment--that another partook of his anguish--that another
was to die before him. Lead two sheep to the butcher's, two oxen to the
slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his companion will
not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will bellow with joy.
But man--man, whom God created in his own image--man, upon whom God has
laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his neighbor--man, to whom
God has given a voice to express his thoughts--what is his first cry
when he hears his fellow-man is saved? A blasphemy. Honor to man, this
masterpiece of nature, this king of the creation!" And the count burst
into a laugh; a terrible laugh, that showed he must have suffered
horribly to be able thus to laugh. However, the struggle still
continued, and it was dreadful to witness. The people all took part
against Andrea, and twenty thousand voices cried, "Put him to death! put
him to death!" Franz sprang back, but the count seized his arm, and held
him before the window. "What are you doing?" said he. "Do you pity him?
If you heard the cry of 'Mad dog!' you would take your gun--you would
unhesitatingly shoot the poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of
having been bitten by another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without
being bitten by one of his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and
who, now unable to kill any one, because his hands are bound, wishes to
see his companion in captivity perish. No, no--look, look!"
The command was needless. Franz was fascinated by the horrible
spectacle. The two assistants had borne Andrea to the scaffold, and
there, in spite of his struggles, his bites, and his cries, had forced
him to his knees. During this time the executioner had raised his mace,
and signed to them to get out of the way; the criminal strove to rise,
but, ere he had time, the mace fell on his left temple. A dull and heavy
sound was heard, and the man dropped like an ox on his face, and then
turned over on his back. The executioner let fall his mace, drew his
knife, and with one stroke opened his throat, and mounting on his
stomach, stamped violently on it with his feet. At every stroke a jet of
blood sprang from the wound.
This time Franz could contain himself no longer, but sank, half
fainting, into a seat. Albert, with his eyes closed, was standing
grasping the window-curtains. The count was erect and triumphant, like
the Avenging Angel!
Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome.
When Franz recovered his senses, he saw Albert drinking a glass of
water, of which, to judge from his pallor, he stood in great need;
and the count, who was assuming his masquerade costume. He glanced
mechanically towards the square--the scene was wholly changed; scaffold,
executioners, victims, all had disappeared; only the people remained,
full of noise and excitement. The bell of Monte Citorio, which only
sounds on the pope's decease and the opening of the Carnival, was
ringing a joyous peal. "Well," asked he of the count, "what has, then,
happened?"
"Nothing," replied the count; "only, as you see, the Carnival his
commenced. Make haste and dress yourself."
"In fact," said Franz, "this horrible scene has passed away like a
dream."
"It is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you."
"Yes, that I have suffered; but the culprit?"
"That is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have
awakened; and who knows which of you is the most fortunate?"
"But Peppino--what has become of him?"
"Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in
proportion as they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general
attention was directed towards his companion. He profited by this
distraction to slip away among the crowd, without even thanking the
worthy priests who accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and
egotistical animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you
the example." Albert was drawing on the satin pantaloon over his black
trousers and varnished boots. "Well, Albert," said Franz, "do you feel
much inclined to join the revels? Come, answer frankly."
"Ma foi, no," returned Albert. "But I am really glad to have seen such
a sight; and I understand what the count said--that when you have once
habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one that
causes you any emotion."
"Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study
character," said the count; "on the steps of the scaffold death tears
off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is
disclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the
hideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress yourselves."
Franz felt it would be ridiculous not to follow his two companions'
example. He assumed his costume, and fastened on the mask that scarcely
equalled the pallor of his own face. Their toilet finished, they
descended; the carriage awaited them at the door, filled with sweetmeats
and bouquets. They fell into the line of carriages. It is difficult to
form an idea of the perfect change that had taken place. Instead of the
spectacle of gloomy and silent death, the Piazza del Popolo presented a
spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A crowd of masks flowed
in from all sides, emerging from the doors, descending from the windows.
From every street and every corner drove carriages filled with clowns,
harlequins, dominoes, mummers, pantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and
peasants, screaming, fighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with
flour, confetti, nosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their
missiles, friends and foes, companions and strangers, indiscriminately,
and no one took offence, or did anything but laugh. Franz and Albert
were like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow, have recourse to
wine, and who, as they drink and become intoxicated, feel a thick veil
drawn between the past and the present. They saw, or rather continued
to see, the image of what they had witnessed; but little by little the
general vertigo seized them, and they felt themselves obliged to take
part in the noise and confusion. A handful of confetti that came from
a neighboring carriage, and which, while it covered Morcerf and his
two companions with dust, pricked his neck and that portion of his face
uncovered by his mask like a hundred pins, incited him to join in the
general combat, in which all the masks around him were engaged. He rose
in his turn, and seizing handfuls of confetti and sweetmeats, with which
the carriage was filled, cast them with all the force and skill he was
master of.
The strife had fairly begun, and the recollection of what they had seen
half an hour before was gradually effaced from the young men's minds,
so much were they occupied by the gay and glittering procession they now
beheld. As for the Count of Monte Cristo, he had never for an instant
shown any appearance of having been moved. Imagine the large and
splendid Corso, bordered from one end to the other with lofty palaces,
with their balconies hung with carpets, and their windows with flags. At
these balconies are three hundred thousand spectators--Romans, Italians,
strangers from all parts of the world, the united aristocracy of birth,
wealth, and genius. Lovely women, yielding to the influence of the
scene, bend over their balconies, or lean from their windows, and shower
down confetti, which are returned by bouquets; the air seems darkened
with the falling confetti and flying flowers. In the streets the lively
crowd is dressed in the most fantastic costumes--gigantic cabbages walk
gravely about, buffaloes' heads bellow from men's shoulders, dogs walk
on their hind legs; in the midst of all this a mask is lifted, and, as
in Callot's Temptation of St. Anthony, a lovely face is exhibited,
which we would fain follow, but from which we are separated by troops
of fiends. This will give a faint idea of the Carnival at Rome. At the
second turn, the count stopped the carriage, and requested permission to
withdraw, leaving the vehicle at their disposal. Franz looked up--they
were opposite the Rospoli Palace. At the centre window, the one hung
with white damask with a red cross, was a blue domino, beneath
which Franz's imagination easily pictured the beautiful Greek of the
Argentina. "Gentlemen," said the count, springing out, "when you are
tired of being actors, and wish to become spectators of this scene,
you know you have places at my windows. In the meantime, dispose of my
coachman, my carriage, and my servants." We have forgotten to mention,
that the count's coachman was attired in a bear-skin, exactly resembling
Odry's in "The Bear and the Pasha;" and the two footmen behind were
dressed up as green monkeys, with spring masks, with which they made
grimaces at every one who passed. Franz thanked the count for his
attention. As for Albert, he was busily occupied throwing bouquets at a
carriage full of Roman peasants that was passing near him. Unfortunately
for him, the line of carriages moved on again, and while he descended
the Piazza del Popolo, the other ascended towards the Palazzo di
Venezia. "Ah, my dear fellow," said he to Franz; "you did not see?"
"What?"
"There,--that calash filled with Roman peasants."
"No."
"Well, I am convinced they are all charming women."
"How unfortunate that you were masked, Albert," said Franz; "here was an
opportunity of making up for past disappointments."
"Oh," replied he, half laughing, half serious; "I hope the Carnival will
not pass without some amends in one shape or the other."
But, in spite of Albert's hope, the day passed unmarked by any incident,
excepting two or three encounters with the carriage full of Roman
peasants. At one of these encounters, accidentally or purposely,
Albert's mask fell off. He instantly rose and cast the remainder of the
bouquets into the carriage. Doubtless one of the charming females
Albert had detected beneath their coquettish disguise was touched by his
gallantry; for, as the carriage of the two friends passed her, she threw
a bunch of violets. Albert seized it, and as Franz had no reason to
suppose it was meant for him, he suffered Albert to retain it. Albert
placed it in his button-hole, and the carriage went triumphantly on.
"Well," said Franz to him; "there is the beginning of an adventure."
